Love, Hate and Other Filters(23)

When we reach the foot of the bridge, Phil pauses, sweeping his hand over the vista as he talks about the vision of Taro Otsuka, Fabyan’s private gardener who designed this place. I walk up a gentle slope that leads to the bridge to get a long shot of Phil with the garden around him. I lose myself in his voice, imagining the garden in full bloom—pink cherry blossoms, burgundy leaves of the maple tree, yellow forsythia, red azaleas …

I’m not paying any attention to where my feet are. My flip-flop slips on some loose earth, and all at once I’m skidding downhill.

“Careful,” Phil says. He’s at my side in a flash. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I was still rolling, so it’ll be a good action sequence.”

Phil laughs. “Is that all you think about?”

“Not all,” I manage to whisper. I bite my tongue and look away. I don’t trust myself not to blurt something ridiculous.

“You’re bleeding … your knee.”

A drop of blood trickles down my leg. “Crap. I don’t suppose you have a tissue?”

Phil rifles through his backpack, pulls out a napkin, and holds it to my knee. For a moment I forget about the sting of the cut and the embarrassment of my awkward nerd-crash. Phil’s hand is on my knee. Separated by a questionably clean napkin, but still. “I have a first-aid kit in the cabin,” he says, blotting and squinting at the wound. “Are you okay to walk?”

I almost laugh. “I think I can make it,” I say dryly.

He helps me up and wraps his arm around my waist. The gesture is completely unnecessary, but I pretend my little injury is maybe worse than I thought. I luxuriate in the warmth of Phil’s arm holding me. When we arrive at the stone cottage, he directs me to the recliner and disappears into the small back room—a simple kitchenette—and emerges with the first-aid kit.

“You’re such a Boy Scout.”

“Always prepared.” Phil uses alcohol-dipped swabs to clean the small gash on my leg.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry. I want to make sure it won’t get infected. It’s not too deep.” Phil slathers bacitracin on the cut and covers it with a couple bandages, then uses his water bottle to rinse away the dry blood from my leg. “We shouldn’t go into the water today. The pond is pretty clean, but there’s still random stuff floating around in there, and those bandages aren’t waterproof.”

“Okay, doc. Should I take two aspirin and call you in the morning?”

“Aspirin is a blood thinner. If it hurts, take ibuprofen.”

“You really know your first aid.”

“Hope so. I want to study to be an EMT. I have ever since middle school.”

I’m taken aback. There is so much I don’t know about Phil. So much more I want to know. “Really? I had no idea.”

Phil walks toward one of the paneless windows. “My dad had a heart attack when I was in seventh grade.”

“What? Oh, my God. So glad it all turned out okay.”

“Yeah. Me, too. It’s totally because of these two EMTs. He wouldn’t have made it without them. The two of us were at home, shooting hoops in the driveway, and suddenly my dad starts clutching his arm and having these chest pains. I totally froze. But my dad told me to call 911. I did. And when they got here, they basically diagnosed it, stabilized him, and ten minutes later, they were wheeling him into the surgery.”

“That must’ve been terrifying.”

“It was. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so scared and helpless in my life. And I never want to feel that way again. All I could think was, I didn’t want my dad to die … I didn’t know what it was called then, but the EMTs basically performed an ECG—an electrocardiogram—right there, transmitted the data to the hospital, and an interventional cardiologist was waiting for us when they wheeled him in. They got a balloon to open his blocked artery in less than sixty minutes from when I called. That’s what saved his life. I’ll never forget how calm and together and fast the EMTs were. After they got my dad secured in the ambulance, the EMT who rode in the back with me made sure I was okay and explained everything to me. She didn’t talk down to me like I was some dumb kid, which is what I basically felt like. She was so kind and understanding and answered all my questions and stayed with me until my mom and brother got to the hospital.”

“She sounds amazing.”

“She was. After that, I wanted to learn everything about what happened to my dad, so I researched everything I could, and I, like, put myself in charge of his rehab at home and was on him all the time about his eating habits.”

“So that’s your origin story,” I say, brushing my hand against his shoulder.

“I guess it is,” he says, a shy smile emerging on his face, which had turned serious when talking about his dad.

“So if we’re not going swimming, do you want to head back?” I pray the answer is no.

“Not unless you want to. I’m not working till later,” he says.

“Me, neither.”

“Cool. I left our lunch cooler in the car. I’ll be right back.”

The door shuts behind him. The spare room is shadowy even with the sunlight filtering through the small windows. I notice a rolled-up sleeping bag in a corner along with an inflatable camping pillow. I get up to explore and step into the little kitchen. Cans of food line a built-in wooden shelf. There are a couple gallons of water, a thermos, and a large plastic cup filled with plastic forks and knives. The ultimate rustic bachelor pad, I think. I wonder how much time Phil spends here alone versus with Lisa.