Chapter 25
Ike
If anyone is looking for definitive proof that Diana is a witch, they need only listen to the sounds that are coming from our bathroom.
Diana bolted upstairs, totally abandoning her Yankees. I followed her up here, and now it sounds like an exorcism is happening on the other side of the door. I want to give her privacy, but I’m wondering if I should call a doctor or burn some sage.
“Di?” I call through the door.
The third act of the exorcism is happening, and I can't leave her like this. She clearly needs help.
I tap my knuckle on the bathroom door, fully aware that she doesn’t want my help. She’s made that clear enough. “Di?”
She moans. The sound echoes off of porcelain.
Oof.
“What can I do?”
Just more moaning.
I drag my phone out of my jeans and dial my brother's cell. Diana will hate this, but my only other option is a Catholic priest.
“Ike?” my brother answers.
I wander toward the stairs, lowering my voice so I don’t embarrass Diana. “August. Something's wrong with Diana.” I describe the sounds I've heard as quietly as possible.
“It could be a virus, or it’s some kind of food poisoning. She'll work through whatever it is. Keep her hydrated. Lots of fluid and electrolytes. Want me to bring something up?”
This is all stuff I knew. I was hoping he had a secret trick that only doctors know.
What's the point of having a doctor in the family if he doesn't have secret tricks?
I drag my hand down my face. I hate how miserable Diana sounds, and I wanted some magic for her.
It looks like my only option is magical Gatorade.
“No, I’ll grab something. Thanks, Aug.” I end the call and make my way back through Diana’s room.
“Diana?” I call through the door.
Her only response is an unintelligible, pitiful sound followed by, “Leave me alone, Ike.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say, even though it stings that she doesn’t want my help. I sit on the hardwood floor outside the bathroom Googling solutions for food poisoning until the game ends, and my friends leave. The Red Sox won, and I can’t even enjoy it.
The past few weeks of marriage to Diana have been dream-like. We fit each other. She’s letting me in and allowing me to treat her the way she deserves to be treated. We were making progress. Or so I thought.
Sometimes it’s like Diana’s a rare bird that landed on my shoulder.
She’s too beautiful for words and startles easily.
But if I go about my life, quietly appreciating her presence without drawing attention to the fact that we’re legally married, she doesn’t flap her wings.
She even seems to enjoy being with me. There are perks to being married to Ike Wentworth, after all.
I grin, remembering how she curled into my lap so easily downstairs.
There are perks to being married to Diana, too.
∞∞∞
Everything hurts.
Last night I passed a tall glass of ice water through the bathroom door for Diana.
I checked on her periodically, frustrated that I couldn’t do more.
Around two in the morning I heard soft snoring.
I crept through the door, scooped her up, and carried her to bed.
I smoothed her hair and tucked her blankets over the top of her.
Then I laid on the wood floor beside her and tried to sleep.
It didn’t happen. Now there’s yellow light coming through the window, and I feel like I’m ninety years old.
“Argh,” Diana groans, scrambling out of bed and running for the bathroom.
Oh, man. What is this? Round forty-seven? Poor Diana.
A few minutes later she emerges looking rough. She’s wearing yesterday’s Yankees T-shirt and jeans. Her hair is smashed on one side of her head. She’s pale and clammy-looking as she stumbles past me, face-planting on her bed with a whimper.
I sit on the edge of her bed, pressing the back of my hand against the barely-exposed skin of her forehead. “You’re hot, Diana.”
She mumbles into her starfish quilt, “You want me. I knew it.” Then she moans like those six words used the last of her energy reserves.
I chuckle. She's not as near death as I thought. “I don’t want to leave you.” I hate this. We need reinforcements, but I can’t leave her here.
“Go to work. Don't worry about me.” Her words don't match her tone at all. “I'll be fine,” she says as she curls into the fetal position.
Yeah, right. “You need electrolytes. Do you think you could sip on something?” I ask, texting a shopping list to Stevie.
If she meets me at the shore it'll save me twenty minutes, and that's twenty minutes Diana won’t have to be alone in her misery.
Luckily, Stevie is pro-Wentworth marriage. She agrees quickly.
My question to Diana is met with soft snoring.
I watch her for a minute, because it’s not creepy when you’re legally wed, right?
I’ll be the first to admit that I’m incapable of saying no.
It’s a flaw that gets me into trouble. But this woman with the matted hair and the wrinkled T-shirt that’s going in the fireplace the minute she’s not looking?
I’d do any dang thing for her—including making a big pot of my cure-all chicken soup.
That broth is the closest thing to magic I have for Diana.
So I row over and meet Stevie, who passes me a few plastic bags from the market with minimal razzing.
“It’s cute that you’re taking care of Diana, you know,” she says as I arrange the bags into our little blue rowboat. “Are you making your soup?” Stevie has been the recipient of a Tupperware full of magic soup a time or two.
“Yeah. Whatever Diana’s got is pretty awful.” I cringe, letting my face fill in the gaps in my description.
“Wait, did she have any pineapple?” Stevie squints. The fall sun is extra bright today. “I’ve only ever seen her get bad like that when she’s accidentally eaten pineapple. That stuff messes her up.”
I think back on the prior evening. “I don’t think so. She had her crab, and the cucumbers and dip, I guess…” I trail off. I was distracted by the Red Sox fighting for their lives. In the end they barely skidded past the Yankees. I haven’t broken the news to Diana yet. It might finish her off.
Stevie breaks into my thoughts. “Oh, and she had a bunch of shrimp.”
Then it registers. The dip. “Aw, crap. August’s stupid shrimp dip. It has pureed pineapple in it.” I would know. I gave him the recipe. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it.
Stevie winces. “Well, it’ll pass. It’s not the first time this has happened. She’s lucky she has you this time around.” My friend waves, backing up the shore toward her car. “I need to get going. I gotta get over to Marlow’s and let the townspeople know that Dr. Wentworth poisoned your wife.”
I chuckle. August will love that. “Thanks, Stevie.”
∞∞∞
A few hours later, my big pot of magic soup is almost ready, but Diana is still asleep. I step lightly up the stairs to check on her, a Gatorade in one hand and a big mug of steaming broth in the other. I don’t bother knocking this time. I know she’s still face down on her bed.
Except she’s not. There’s a Diana imprint on the unmade bed, but no Diana.
Then the bathroom door opens before I have a chance to sneak to the stairs.
She emerges in a cloud of steam, a white towel twisted on top of her head and wrapped in a thick, loosely tied, white robe.
Huh. That’s new. My mouth might be hanging open.
I clamp it shut. Turns out I’m a big fan of bathrobes.
“Oh.” She pulls the terry cloth tight around herself. “What’s that?” I can’t tell if her pink cheeks are from the hot shower, the loose robe, or from what she knows I heard last night. And this morning.
“I brought you—I brought some soup and some Gatorade for you.” And I’m not looking at the edges of your robe.
“I didn’t mean to catch you in your—not that I saw anything.
You pulled it together just in time.” What is happening with my mouth?
I’m so focused on monitoring the direction of my eyes that my tongue is totally unsupervised.
Diana drops on the corner of her bed, slumping in a way that reminds me I didn’t come up here to ogle her. She’s sick, and I hate that.
“Okay, scooch.” I gesture to her pillow. “Get back in there.”
“Ike, I need to feel human.” The words slur out of her mouth. “I need to get out of this bed.” She starts to stand, but wobbles.
My hands are full, but I do my best to wrap an arm around her shoulder to keep her upright. “Okay. Get some clothes on, and I’ll help you downstairs.”
She yanks the tie on her robe in one swift movement, and the front flies open.
“Aaack!” I look at the ceiling. “What are you doing?”
“I’m not naked under this thing.” She snorts. “Did you think I was naked?” She sways into me.
I catch her. “No. Of course not.” Only now do I dare look. She’s wearing those pink pajama shorts again. She’s going to freeze in those.
“You thought I was buck nekked.” She snorts again. Is she delirious?
I scoff. “Okay, let’s get you downstairs.” I leave the drinks on her nightstand and curl my arm back around her shoulder.
She leans into me easily. “Aww, you’re not going to carry me?” She snickers. “What a shame. That was fun last time.”
I ease her down the stairs. “You liked that?” I was under the impression she hated it.
“Oh, yes I did. It was sexy. Carried through the water by a hot fireman, are you kidding me? Woo.” She fans herself.
Okay, her walls have never been down like this. She’s either severely dehydrated, or August put some magic mushrooms in that dip along with the pineapple. Either way, I like this version of Diana compared to the one last night who wouldn't let me near her.
I duck to kiss her temple. “Okay, sweetheart. Let’s get you downstairs so you can feel human.”
A few minutes later, Diana is tucked against my side on the couch, sipping from a mug full of broth while I scroll every streaming app ever invented in search of something we can agree on.
This has become our evening ritual—we take an hour to decide on something, then one of us falls asleep within minutes.
The afternoon light is pouring in through the wide windows this time, though, and Diana doesn’t usually snuggle quite so close. I am fully awake and alert.
I can’t remember the last time I spent a day doing nothing. I shove away the nagging guilt, reminding myself that I’m taking care of my wife. If Cape Georgeana is currently burning down I can’t be held responsible.
“Ooo, Captain America.” She sighs the words.
I scroll past it. “You have a thing for Chris Evans?” I never understood the appeal.
“I have a thing for men who save the world.” She nudges me. “Like you, Mr. Everything. That would be your superhero name, by the way. Mr. Everything.” She sighs again.
“Okay, you are not yourself right now. I’m picking the movie.”
I scroll for another minute or so until I find the perfect show. Somehow I manage to press play with a straight face. She’s going to love this.
“Quigley Down Under?” She laughs weakly into her mug. “A bold choice. You think you can handle the competition?”
I relax against the back of the couch, and she curls up beside me. She fits perfectly. “I can take him.”