I spent two days at the mercy of feverish hallucinations. Voices alternated between whispering and yelling gibberish. Faces loomed clownishly large and then blurred behind the spots in my vision. In my delusions the nurses’ needles morphed to guns, then transformed into my mother’s knitting needles.
I woke up yelling something, my mouth coated with desperation, but I couldn’t remember why. I’m sure there was a moment when my fever broke and danger passed, but I didn’t notice it. Awareness came back gradually—being able to differentiate day from night. Sitting up without the room tilting. Realizing the only person who’d held my hand or called all week, besides my parents and Mr. and Mrs. Russo, was Ryan. That his summer tan was fading and being replaced by dark circles under his eyes and lines on his face. Lines that seemed to get deeper every time he rubbed his forehead.
His blue eyes filled the first time I opened mine and said, “Hi, Ryan.”
He wiped them on his sleeve and climbed out of his chair so he could pull me against his chest in an urgent hug. “Hey, you. How are you feeling?”
“Tired.”
He sniffle-laughed and rocked me gently. “Tired? How’s that even possible?”
I wanted to answer him, but my eyes were sliding shut and my lips wouldn’t cooperate.
Mrs. Russo walked through the door carrying a plate of biscotti. Mr. Russo was behind her with a cardboard tray holding four cups of coffee. I didn’t care about either of those things. I cared about Gyver, and when he didn’t appear behind them, my stomach sank.
“Where is he?” I asked, still staring at the door like I could will him into appearing just by wishing hard enough.
Mrs. Russo handed the biscotti to Dad and washed her hands before answering. Then she came to stand beside me and put a warm hand on my arm. “Gyver’s at home.” There was sadness in her voice and eyes, I didn’t want to think about what it meant.
“He didn’t … He hasn’t …” Finishing those thoughts meant acknowledging his continued absence out loud and I couldn’t do it.
“Is there a message we can give him for you?”
I shook my head. Always. When he’d asked if I wanted him to come, I’d told him always. It hadn’t occurred to me that his answer might not be the same.
After four more days I was discharged and sent home, where Dr. Kevin ordered me to spend three more days resting before I attempted school. I was still borderline neutropenic—I didn’t have enough white blood cells to fight off an infection. There were rules about visitors: one at a time and I had to wear a surgical mask. Not that it mattered. Ryan was the only one who came.
I knew the lack of messages from Lauren was a bad sign. The fact that Hil hadn’t stormed my house demanding explanations was an awful omen. I wouldn’t let myself think about what Gyver’s absence meant.
I wanted numb back. I wanted the hospital drugs that had made it possible to sleep and pretend I wasn’t terrified. Instead, the skin around my eyes and nose were raw from tissues and tears. I sometimes woke up and caught Mom standing in my doorway like she was guarding my sleeping body. Dad was constantly on the phone with doctors and on the Internet. He’d started making charts of experimental treatments and new drugs in development.
“We won’t need them,” he told me. “But I feel better knowing what’s out there.”
Mom hovered now. Fingertips always reaching for my forehead, searching for a fever. She fussed with the thermostat and fretted about germs. Her manic kitchen cleaning surpassed Mrs. Russo’s; she vacuumed my room and changed my sheets daily.
That night apart had changed her—I wasn’t sure if it was our fight or my fever. She didn’t ask questions or intrude on my silence; she gave me so much space it started to feel like a barrier. Stuck in my own thoughts, or in my struggles not to think, I didn’t know how to reach out and give her the reassurance she needed. We revolved around each other in careful orbits.
“Kitten, you have a visitor.” She gave the germ masks a pointed look, patted my arm, and disappeared into the laundry room.
I was filling a glass from the dispenser on the fridge door, wishing I could convince myself it was only the metallic distortion that gave my reflection such an ethereal look.
“Hey.” Gyver’s voice was hesitant and soft. He was leaning against the kitchen door, one hand grasping the opposite elbow, his feet crossed at the ankles. It was a casual pose, but his posture was stiff and he was staring at the tile floor.
“Hi. Water?” I lifted my glass, then fumbled like an idiot putting it on the counter. “Want some?”
“No, I’m good.”
I looked at him, waiting for him to look back. He should wash his hands and I should put on a surgical mask, but those reminders seemed less important than bridging the distance between us.
“Can we?” I pointed to the family room behind him. I wanted to leave the kitchen—Mom would be bustling back in to unload the dishwasher and wipe down counters. He let me lead him through the doorway, then chose a recliner across the room from my spot on the couch. Not a good sign. I pulled my knees up to my chest and hugged them.