Sixteen
Inotice it before Esther does. Fresh out of the shower, she gets dressed to go to work. This routine happens every morning; nothing seems out of the ordinary.
Except she keeps scratching her neck every few seconds.
I usually avert my gaze when she’s naked.
Or try to, anyway. Not looking at her takes concentrated effort.
She showers in the morning, when I’m at my most desperate to connect with her after a long night, and—added to my own hopeless, pitiful, gay ass yearning from beyond the grave—I don’t have a very long attention span.
So when she winces the third time she scratches her neck, I float around her to see what the issue is.
The flaky, red patch on the back of her neck makes my heart drop.
“No,” I whisper, wishing my eyes were deceiving me. But there’s no mistaking that perfectly-round welt below her hairline. “No, not there. Not the neck. Not her, too.”
That itchy, dry circle of skin, puffy from inflammation, can only be a herald patch.
A portent of impending weeks of misery. If it was a few inches lower and to the side, she might have been lucky.
There would be a fever, a few dozen itchy pockmarks fanning out from the herald patch, but nothing that steroid cream and acetaminophen can’t help with.
But this is on the spine, so her options are unlucky or completely fucked.
At best, she’ll suffer from a dangerous fever and flu symptoms.
And if she’s fucked?
With a trembling exhale, I shake my head, refusing to even consider the possibility that what happened to Cash. That I’ll be forced to watch her…
No. I can’t give up hope yet. The herald patch gives no hints if she’s fucked or not. It’s a matter of what direction the Pox erupts from it.
There’s still hope for Esther.
“East, look in the mirror,” I plead quietly, my voice trembling.
I don’t want her to know yet. I want her to go on pretending everything is fine.
But she’s getting dressed for work, and she can’t go to work; she’s already contagious.
I scratch my own neck with her in sympathy.
“You can’t go to campus. You have to quarantine. ”
Esther, of course, ignores me. She can’t hear me. She simply scratches her neck again.
“Stop scratching it!” I press my hand over the patch, in hopes of cooling it off enough that she’ll leave it alone. The burn of Life is barely a distraction from the panic consuming me. “You’ll make it bleed!”
Humming to herself, Esther gets ready for her day, brushing her teeth and dancing in the mirror.
I don’t want to interrupt her peace, but I have to try. “East, look in the mirror!” I call louder, hands still pressed to her neck. “Please, please, please hear me. Look in the mirror!”
Dancing her way to the closet, Esther digs in deep to find the particular shirt she’s looking for. She shrugs one of her signature button-downs over her shoulders, white with green shamrocks dotting it. It must be March; Esther loves her holidays.
“East, stop getting dressed!” I shout, my voice breaking as I add, “You have the Pox.”
With a wince of pain, Esther unbuttons the collar of her shirt. Her face drains as she tentatively touches the back of her neck.
She darts back to the bathroom.
I follow her, my heart breaking at the quiet “shit” that escapes in a sob from her mouth. She’s bent over in the mirror, craning her neck to look at the dry patch of skin, bright red and swollen from how much she’s scratched it.
“What kind of mess did you get yourself into this time, Voigt?” Esther asks, sinking to the floor. With a sigh, her head hits the cabinet with a thunk.
“You can’t blame yourself, East.” I wish for the millionth time that she could hear me, because she needs a friend right now. A mild case is disorienting and anxiety-inducing enough. On the neck… “If anything, blame Gilda for making you come to campus so often.”
Esther wipes the tears from her eyes. “Fuck, I should call Gilda.”
“Or better yet, call the reporting line!” Of course, Esther would think of work, before her own well-being.
The reporting line would send a notification to the Dean, though, so I can understand why she would want to give Gilda a heads up.
But still, Gilda isn’t going to bring her a quarantine kit with the pain relief meds that no one has been able to buy over the counter since the plague began.
People panic-bought any and all fever-reducers at the start.
And of course the shipping industry was the canary in the coal mine that was struck down first. Basic necessities were in short supply, including the ibuprofen to make me feel human when I was hungover.
I learned to appreciate the ache in the brainstem once I no longer could vanish it away with a pill.
Now, the only reliable way to find pain-relievers is through the quarantine kits the government brings when they seal off the front door.
Esther curls around her knees on the floor of the bathroom when she calls Gilda. “Good morning, Dr. Frederick.” She rubs the back of her neck again, yanking her hand away when she realizes what she’s touching. “So uh…I have some bad news.”
“Why can’t people ever call me with good news?” Gilda’s irritation is louder than her greeting, because I can hear her from a few feet away. Esther pulls the phone away from her ear with a wince.
“Sorry, but-”
“Don’t apologize. If you need to tell me bad news, you need to tell me. Don’t waste my time apologizing for it.”
Esther grimaces, catching herself about to rub her neck again. “Right. Um…”
“Well? Spit it out.”
“Damn, Gilda, if you give her a chance to talk, she will!” I snap, slipping my hand between Esther’s neck and the wall to try and soothe the irritation.
After a quiet sigh, Esther finally squeaks out, “I think I have a herald patch?”
The silence is loud on the other end.
“Dr. Frederick? Are you there?”
Gilda’s voice is so quiet this time, I have to lean in close to hear it. “How are you feeling?”
Esther and I both stiffen in surprise. That’s the nicest Gilda has sounded since…well, ever.
“I’m okay!” Esther insists. “I haven’t called it in yet, but I just wanted to let you know I’ll have to teach remotely for—”
“You are not going to teach remotely,” Gilda interrupts.
“And you’re not okay. I know I have a reputation for being a heartless bitch—and trust me, I want to keep that reputation—but we put Pox protocols in place for a reason.
Cash tried to act all tough too, and look where that got him.
” Gilda’s voice grows strained, and she clears her throat.
“I’m not letting anyone else teach until they’ve recovered.
You need to take care of yourself. No one will think less of you for taking time off while you wait to see how your case develops. ”
Esther’s blue eyes glass over and she nods, whispering out, “Okay.”
I never expected to appreciate Gilda so much as right now, but Esther needed to hear that from someone. Gilda has always acted like Cash’s death didn’t matter, but regret is palpable in her tone.
“Call it in. I’ll let your students know that classes today are canceled, and they should isolate for two weeks, but they’re still expected to complete assignments and group discussions.
” Gilda clears her throat again, her regular stern tone back as if attempting to hide her moment of humanity.
“Allan and I will be their point of contact for questions, and our TAs will grade work for the intro courses. Depending on how your case develops, we’ll start you back with remote teaching in a couple weeks until you’re no longer contagious, or get a more long-term solution if you need longer to recover. Where is your patch, anyway?”
“The back of my neck.” Esther’s voice cracks as she says it.
“Oh, honey,” Gilda coughs, muttering a curse under her breath. “We’ll make it four weeks before we visit the remote learning plan, then. There are some counselors on the resource guide the Dean will send you with your short-term disability info. Use them.”
Esther curls around herself further. “Okay.”
“And be sure to tell them that when you call in your case, that it’s on your neck. They’ll give you the good drugs. Remember how Cash was during his last department meeting?” Gilda’s laugh is thick. “High as a fucking kite. Made us do a singalong and then recorded it without telling us.”
“His wife said he used to listen to it in the hospice center.” Esther nods, a tearful chuckle escaping her. “Remember how he tried to write a limerick about Allan? It didn’t rhyme, though.”
Gilda snorts. “If you write a limerick about me, I’m terming your contract.”
“Understood. No poetry.” Esther laughs. “I’ll let you know if I need a singalong video to keep me company.”
Hand still pressed to Esther’s neck, I find myself ill at ease listening to their conversation.
Cash had called me to tell me he had the Pox, and his case wasn’t looking good.
But I didn’t answer. Over and over again, I listened to the voicemail, trying to work up the nerve to call. Every single time, I failed.
Instead of being there for him like Esther and Gilda were, I wrote him off.
I ignored his wife’s call a few days later; I only listened to her voicemail once, which was an update that he couldn’t speak anymore.
Even though he didn’t pass for another week, he was already gone, like my mom and brother.
An easy way out, so I wouldn’t have to face my own cowardice and anxiety.
Cash was my only friend, and the guilt has ached since that first phone call I watched go to voicemail. All this time, I have hated myself; I failed him when he was dying and alone. Endless nights, drowning in regret at my own stubborn determination to be lonely.
I refuse to do it again.
As guilty as I feel, Cash wasn’t alone. He had friends, like Esther and Gilda. A family who loved him. People who were there for him, in the end, even if it was in a silly video. Avoiding my grief left me more alone than him. I failed myself as much as I failed him.
With a heavy swallow, I set my jaw against the burn in my hand as I press harder against the inflamed skin on Esther’s neck.
I won’t fail again. Not this time. Not my East. Not myself.
I may not be here for her physically, but I’ll do everything in my power to see her through this, regardless of how this herald patch spreads.
Even if I can’t do anything she’ll notice, I have to try.
For my sake, and hers, even if she doesn’t know I’m here for her.
Unlike Cash, Esther is just as alone as I was.