Julia received the reports about her brother with a combination of relief and cautious optimism.
She hadn’t told her family about her fibroids or about Gabriel’s vasectomy reversal. His family didn’t know that he’d had the procedure in the first place. And she didn’t want to worry anyone about her own health issues, especially since Dr. Rubio assured her that fibroids were common and, at least at this point, not serious.
The Emersons bore one another’s health burdens, sharing only some of the information with Rebecca. But Julia seemed to bear the burden of her graduate career alone.
(Or so she thought.)
Late one November evening, Gabriel awoke with a start. He was instantly alert, straining his ears for the slightest sound. In the distance, he heard a woman crying.
He reached for Julia in the darkness, but she was gone.
Without even bothering to switch on the light or to grab his bathrobe, he sprang to his feet, naked, and exited the bedroom.
A shaft of light shone from underneath the study door.
He quickly walked toward it, the sound of crying growing louder.
Behind the door, he found Julia, her head on her desk. Her shoulders were shaking, her glasses discarded on her open laptop. A large pile of books was scattered across the desk and down on the floor.
“Darling.” He placed his hand on her head. “What’s the matter?”
“I can’t do it.”
“You can’t do what?” He crouched beside her.
“I can’t catch up. I’m behind in my reading for all my classes. I should be working on my seminar papers, but I’ve been trying to read. I should have started the revisions on my lecture, but I haven’t had time. And I’m just so tired.” Her voice cracked.
Gabriel eyed her sympathetically. “Come to bed.”
“I can’t!” she wailed, throwing her hands up. “I need to stay up all night and finish my reading. Then tomorrow, I need to spend the day in the library working on my papers. I don’t know when I’m going to revise my lecture for publication.”
“You can’t do anything more tonight. Even if you stayed up, you’re too tired to focus. Come to bed now and you can get up early. You can tell me about your readings over breakfast and I’ll see if I can give you the CliffsNotes version of them.” He gestured to her with his hand.
She shook her head. “CliffsNotes won’t cut it.”
“Julianne, it’s two o’clock in the morning. Come to bed.” His tone grew commanding.
“I have to stay up.”
“Sleep now and I’ll help you. I can go with you to the library and help you with your research. That should save you some time.”
“You’d do that?” She wiped her nose with a tissue.
He frowned. “Of course. I’ve been volunteering to help you all semester. You wouldn’t let me.”
“You’re busy with your own stuff. And then you had surgery.” She wiped her eyes hastily.
“You’re going to get sick if you don’t take care of yourself. Come on.” He placed a hand on her elbow and helped her to her feet before closing her laptop firmly.
He followed her down the hall to their bedroom.
“I’m so tired,” she sniffled, resting her head on the pillow. She was even too tired to spoon.
“All you have to do is ask. I’d do anything for you. You know that.”
“I’m supposed to do this by myself.”
“Bullshit.” He placed an arm around her waist. “The program is designed to be grueling. Everyone else is probably getting help from someone.”
“You didn’t need help when you did it.”
“Think about what you’re saying. I was doing coke when I was in grad school. And I had P—someone to look after me.”
He sighed, lowering his voice. “You looked after me when I came home from the hospital. That’s probably when you fell behind. Let me help you catch up. But the first thing you need is a good night’s sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
She was too weary to argue. Within minutes, her breathing deepened and Gabriel knew that she’d fallen asleep.
Chapter Fifty-five
That Saturday, Julia and Gabriel planned to spend most of the day in the library, researching her seminar papers. As a way of showing her appreciation, she prepared pancakes while he sat at the kitchen table, clad in his pajama pants and glasses, reading The Boston Globe.
She poured the batter onto a hot griddle before turning to him.
“There’s something I’ve been wondering.”
“And what’s that?”
“Will you tell me what you wrote in the card that you left at my apartment, back in Toronto?”
He lowered his newspaper.
“What card?”
“The one that didn’t survive my loss of temper.”
He pretended to search his memory.
“Oh, that card.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, that card.”
He folded the newspaper and put it aside. “Do you really want to know?”
“Of course.”
“But you tore it up.”
She gave him a look.
“I thought you forgave me.”
“I did.” He smiled ruefully. “It was a simple card. I apologized for being an ass.”