Behind me, Noah said, “I’ll get him some water.”
Jerry closed his eyes, and I recalled not having responded to his email about the pupcakes. It was hard not to think of what I’d been doing while he’d been deteriorating—hiking with Noah, having sex with Noah, declaring to Noah that his cleared-out office was an affront to my independence.
Noah returned with two glasses of water, one with ice and one without, and held them both out to me. As I reached for the one without ice, he said, “I couldn’t find any straws, but I can go get some.” Because of how close Jerry was to the edge of the bed—unsettlingly close—I couldn’t perch beside him on the mattress. Instead, I continued kneeling on the rug and held the glass to his lips. Though some water dribbled down his chin and neck, he drank several sips.
“What about some crackers?” Noah said. “Or applesauce?”
“Maybe crackers,” I said. “I don’t think he has applesauce.”
This time when Noah left the room, I said, “That’s the friend I was visiting in L.A., Noah. He came with me to—” I paused. “Check on you.”
“Yes,” Jerry said, and his eyes shut again.
I had wondered, on entering the room, if I was smelling death, but I’d quickly realized I was smelling feces, and not from the bathroom. Tissues were scattered atop the sheet and on the floor, and there was a low scraping noise that I soon deduced was a humidifier with no water left in it. I set the glass on his nightstand, walked to the outlet, and yanked out the cord.
Noah brought in a small plastic container of vanilla pudding and a teaspoon on a plate with a few Ritz crackers. I said, “If I lift him, will you fluff his pillows so he’s more elevated?”
As I reached around Jerry with both arms, he felt shockingly frail. “How about a few bites of food?” I said. “To give yourself a little energy?”
Jerry didn’t reply, and I said, “How about some pudding?”
“Pudding,” he repeated.
I pulled the tab off the plastic cup, but before I’d peeled back the foil, I said, “Oh, we should wash our hands.”
“I did in the kitchen.” Noah nodded at the pudding. “Want me to do that?”
I passed it to him and walked into Jerry’s bathroom to use the faucet. When I came back, Noah was kneeling where I’d been before, holding the teaspoon to Jerry’s lips with the creamy glob on it. As I watched, Jerry parted his lips slightly, and Noah slid the spoon in.
Jerry swallowed then said, “That’s enough.” Once again, he closed his eyes.
“How much did he have?” I asked.
Noah held up the container, which was still mostly full. “Three or four bites.” He stood, motioning with his thumb to the doorway. “Wanna go talk?”
I led him across the hall to my room; neither of us remarked on the white wicker furniture. I instinctively sat sideways in my desk chair, and Noah sat on the bed and lowered his mask to his chin. He said, “I meant to pack the pulse oximeter Margit got when I was sick and I forgot it. I’ll go out and see if I can find one.”
“He seems horrible, right?”
“He doesn’t seem great, but it’s hard to separate what’s because he’s old, what’s lying in bed for a few days not really eating or drinking, and what’s Covid. And we don’t even know that he has Covid.”
“This isn’t what he’s like under normal circumstances. He’s not one of those elderly people who runs marathons, but he walks around and makes sense.”
“I’m going to go look for a pulse oximeter and straws. Should I call an Uber or take his car?”
“Are you comfortable driving a 2002 Buick?”
Noah smiled slightly, and I said, “That’s a serious question.”
“Where are the keys?”
“And also, no offense, but if you’re going to Target or whatever, do you know how to shop at Target? Have you ever done it before?”
“Yes,” Noah said. “I know how to shop at Target.”
We both went downstairs, and I found the keys where Jerry always left them, on a hook just inside the door that led to the garage; the key chain was a leather oval with a gold metal duck in profile, something Jerry had used for as long as I could remember.
Noah wrapped his arms around me. I hugged him back, and neither of us said anything.
* * *
—
Leah texted Noah to say that the concierge doctor was running late, and he showed up not at three o’clock but at almost seven. Dr. Fischer arrived alone, as I hadn’t expected, and wearing so much protective gear that he was barely recognizable as human, which I suspected further disoriented Jerry. I certainly couldn’t fault Dr. Fischer for it, but in addition to a white mask over his nose and mouth, he wore a hood with a clear shield in the front and, on his body, pale blue plastic coveralls. On his hands were latex gloves, and, over his shoes, white booties. He administered a Covid test via Jerry’s nostrils, the first Covid test I ever saw, and said his office would notify us of the results the following day but that we should operate on the assumption that Jerry did have it. We were to watch for Jerry’s skin or lips turning blue, an inability to catch his breath, or complaints of chest pain; if any of these symptoms occurred, we should call an ambulance or take him to the hospital immediately. In the meantime, we should encourage fluids and use the pulse oximeter on him twice a day.
I had thought that the presence of a doctor in the house would feel reassuring, and it hadn’t. And that was even before I said, “How worried should I be?” and, a little impatiently, though maybe he was just tired, Dr. Fischer said, “He’s in his eighties. It would be highly irresponsible for me to make any promises.”
* * *
—
The next few days were a blur, a sort of inverse of the fun blur after my arrival at Noah’s house. The way the pulse oximeter worked was that I affixed it to Jerry’s pointer finger and confirmed that the number showing the oxygen level in his blood was above 90; if it wasn’t, he was supposed to go to the hospital.