Chapter 14
Lily
This was a mistake. What was I thinking agreeing to this? I’m not a nurse. Hell, my grandparents back home were in excellent shape the last time I saw them, and even though Ms. Sullivan is younger, her health needs are much more.
Part of me wants to be angry with Noah. Guilt tripping me into staying here to help look after his mother when I have zero experience doing so.
The other half is impressed. Even I know, from the few interactions I’ve had with her now, that she’s beyond stubborn.
She doesn’t want help—flat out refuses it, and Noah is stressing over it.
But why he thinks me being here is a good idea, I’ll never know. Something about what I said that night on the bench resonated with him, and it is true. At least, it seems like it’d be, but I’m not qualified to take care of a woman with terminal cancer. I can barely take care of myself.
Damn it.
Noah’s childhood bed stands proud against the middle of the back wall as I stand by the threshold staring in.
It’s an old, most likely thrifted, queen oak frame with a thin navy-blue and forest-green comforter spread over the top.
There’s only one pillow propped up, leaning against the headboard, and the round metal nightstand with toothpick legs looks like one you’d find in a college dorm.
A single white alarm clock sits on it. I’m fairly certain if you put anything else on top it’d fall over.
A narrow dresser sits on another wall, a photo of his mother and him leaning in a cheap plastic frame.
They appear to be at a beach somewhere. Ms. Sullivan’s tawny hair with light highlights hangs low past her shoulders.
She’s in a two-piece purple bathing suit, her arms wrapped tightly around an eight-or nine-year-old Noah.
His green swim trunks are plain, but he has a baseball cap securely over his head, his hair flipping outward underneath.
It’s different from how he wears his hair now.
A signed baseball sits in a clear plastic cube next to the photo, and I explore the dresser drawers. It’s only fair. He poked through my bag once.
After Noah told his mom I’d be staying, she gave me the tour of the guest bathroom with instructions for how to work the shower.
Noah loaded me up with fresh towels from the linen closet and programmed his phone number into my phone.
Then he left to get back to Max with the promise he’d pick me up tomorrow afternoon to go talk to the mechanic about my car.
I couldn’t help but feel the loss after he left. Noah has a comforting, protective aura, and even though I’m on edge around him, it’s for a completely different reason.
Ms. Sullivan showed me to Noah’s old room, telling me to raid his drawers for his old clothes she still hasn’t gotten rid of.
I dig around drawers full of T-shirts and jeans until I come across a pair of gray sweatpants and a Creedence Clearwater concert tee, its colors muted.
The shirt carries a faint, musty smell like old wood and subtle traces of laundry detergent.
Despite being worn, the fabric isn’t stiff and in surprisingly good shape for having sat untouched so long.
I chew my lip, picturing Noah, in all his ranger uniform glory, wearing sweatpants and a band T-shirt. I pull my lips into a thin line, fighting the urge not to smile at the thought.
After grabbing a few personal items from my backpack, I open the door and look down the darkened hallway.
Ms. Sullivan said she was going to bed, and the door at the end of the hall is shut, the lights off, so I tiptoe into the bathroom across the cold floor.
It’s a standard guest bathroom with a shower-tub combo, a hideous floral shower curtain that must’ve been his mom’s clap back after her son moved out, an average white toilet, and an unoriginal vanity.
I eye the shower. It would feel good to take a hot one someplace other than the gym. They do the trick when I’m on the move—clean water, no questions, and cheaper than any motel.
The old shower knob is chrome, dulled and marred by tiny rust spots along the edges.
It wiggles when turned, giving a metallic squeak.
Then in a grating-to-the-ears whine that crescendos past uncomfortable there’s a hollow groan before the pipes sputter and hiss water against the tub’s bottom.
It takes a while, but after adjusting to find the right temperature, steam rises and the flow of water evens out with more pressure than I was expecting from this older home.
After climbing in, I use some of the shampoo to lather my hair, dirty from my hike, and massage my scalp. The hot water soothes my aching muscles, and the tension from the gas station and my broken car dissolves away.
Moving on to washing myself, I use a bar of orange soap, new but dried out, and lather the washcloth I was given, allowing the sudsy terry cloth to glide over my thighs and over the contours of my stomach.
It’s luxurious against my skin, the texture slowly scrubbing away the sweat and stench of the day.
Gently, I scrub my hands, lingering the pliable fabric over where Noah’s thumb brushed so mildly across my knuckles, and my eyes close, relishing the feeling, pretending I hadn’t ripped my hand away.
“Lil.”
I jolt, spinning around and yank the curtain back. Condensation has covered the mirror, but the door is closed, and as I squint, I realize it’s locked even.
I blink.
Lil.
Noah’s voice rings in my ear, and my jaw clenches. Furiously, I ball up the washcloth and attack my hand, scrubbing so hard my skin turns red under the scalding water.
Lil.
The fabric I thought was indulgent seconds ago turns into rough bristles with each bite against the top of my knuckles, but I don’t stop.
Get it off. Get it off!
No matter how hard I scrub—I can’t. My breath comes in sharp bursts, the frustration twisting in my chest. The soap has bubbled into a frothy mess, but I bear down harder.
Lil.
Lil. Noah’s voice morphs to his, and a sob bursts from me.
Lil. You like that, don’t you. Your body is invigorating.
Scrub, scrub, scrub. My hand stings, raw and tender, and I sink to the floor then grip my hand to stare at the spot.
I’m dirty. Used.
Noah’s affection. He could never—
I throw the cloth against the side tub where it thumps, then slides down in a blob near the drain. My breaths come in faster and faster, my chest heaving as I suck in steamy air. I can’t breathe. I let out a whimper.
You like that, don’t you.
You want this.
“No,” I whisper.
I jerk my head back, and my hair lands with a wet slap. Water cascades into my mouth that’s open in a silent cry.
The water is hot, but I can’t stop shivering.
I can’t breathe. I can’t …
Exhausted, I curl my legs up, wrapping my arms around them, and allow the water to lull me into surrender.
Sun trickles in around the closed curtains, warming my face and the tip of my chilled nose. The light presses against my closed eyelids, dotting a kaleidoscope of muted reds and oranges while a shadow shifts. I peek an eye open.
It’s only the curtains swaying from the return air vent on the floor. They’re navy to match the comforter on the bed, and I groan, rolling over to shove my head under the single pillow. I slept like shit. I haven’t slept so badly since those first couple of years on the road.
My break down in the shower didn’t help.
I stayed there, huddled under the spray well past when it went cold.
It was only after I could take long solid breaths that I finished up and got out.
Mentally drained, I barely towel dried my hair and got dressed before crawling into bed, cocooning myself in Noah’s covers, and praying I’d drift off to sleep instantly. Sleep didn’t come that easy.
I glance at the clock on the rickety nightstand.
No …
Why is it so early?
I will myself back to sleep, but it’s no use. I glare at the clock, wishing the six was actually a nine, and I’d gotten more than four hours of sleep.
Despite the lack of rest, I have concluded that Noah’s bed is comfortable. The mattress is a tad lumpy, but I found the wide dip on the left-hand side where his body must’ve slept repeatedly over the years and buried myself in it.
Resigned to the fact I won’t be falling back to sleep, I kick the covers off me, roll out of bed, and walk over to my backpack propped up near the dresser.
After tossing it on the bed, I dig around for the extra leggings I keep stashed away and select an old community college T-shirt from the drawer.
Mostly, Noah has a selection of baseball T-shirts, teams that are utterly unfamiliar to me, and random logo shirts from businesses around town.
There’s nothing here that screams style, but I’m not one to talk.
Although somewhat curious, I investigate the different ones in the drawer.
Was he just really fond of supporting the local businesses, or were these free?
Perhaps they were from a secondhand shop.
The thrift store back home, Double Lucky’s, used to get boxes of donated shirts from businesses left over from the promotions they ran. They were like twenty-five cents most days. Maybe that’s what why he has so many.
A knot twists in my stomach as I glance toward the door, wondering about Ms. Sullivan.
I step into my pants, that admittedly smell like the blueberry protein bar crushed in my backpack, and slip the shirt over my head, tucking the front up and into the waistband so it doesn’t drape to my knees.
Then, doing my best, I make the bed before leaving the bedroom in favor of the bathroom.
Quickly, I use the restroom, brush my teeth, and twist my hair up into a relaxed bun.
When I venture out, the quiet hum of the television is on, and I follow the sound, noting the local early morning news on in the background. Ms. Sullivan sits in her recliner, still dressed in what I’d call a muumuu.
“Good morning,” I say.