Jocelyn
The nightmares are your reminder to wake up.
—My Therapist
I have this fantasy where I stand on a hill with nothing and no one visible all around me. At the top of the hill is a giant
oak, and at the base of the oak is a book open for reading.
I’m utterly alone. Safe.
The fantasy appeared in the aftermath of Katrina when my sister, brother and I discovered we were orphans. Even after the
immediate tragedy, the number of well-wishers barely diminished. We were bombarded—overloaded—with love.
Perhaps my siblings found solace in the company, but I was overwhelmed. I retreated into the solitude in my mind, and sometimes,
I still go there for peace.
There’s security in loneliness. The greatest pain in life is loss. Loss of control. Loss of self. Loss of love. At the end of my happiest days—days like today, when my friends surround me and laughter abounds—the knowledge that it’s all temporary cuts deep into my chest.
Today was amazing. Pool Party Saturday is always fun, but bonding with Yayoi, teasing Geoff for his boring taste in burgers—Meat
and cheese only? What even is that?—and digging deeper into Asher’s wants and needs has left me . . . content. Cheerful. At
peace.
I’ve lost so much, and I know I’ll lose more. It’s part of being human. But losing this—this happiness so bright it always temporarily blinds me—I’m not sure I could survive it.
What’s worse is that I sense something changing inside me. Growing. Right at the center of all this warmth is Asher. That
tiny morsel of vulnerability he showed me at the restaurant sprouted a seedling in my heart. He’s so good. So comfortable.
He’s like the cozy blanket I use on my coldest nights.
But comfort leads to complacency, and I cannot let myself grow careless. I raised walls for a reason . . .
They keep out the floods.
These people I’m growing to love, this life I’m coming to adore—even Asher, steady as he is—it’s all temporary.
Nothing lasts forever.
Every single thing I touch drowns in one way or another. I can’t control death. But I can control this, and I will not lose myself again when this all falls apart.
This growing thing inside me can be eradicated. I can care for them and still keep myself protected. I’ll just have to backpedal
a bit. The others will be easy, but Asher’s already too close. I thought he’d be easy to keep at a distance, so I didn’t protect
myself as deftly as I should have at the beginning. He snuck inside, and I need to extract him before those tendrils grow
thorns. Before ripping him out grows painful. Before it makes me bleed.
I’m alone on my hill. Enclosed in a glass box that keeps me safe.
“Joss?”
My head snaps up. Asher stands in the doorway to my room at his house. I came here to change into sweats, but once dressed,
I perched myself at the foot of the bed to wallow. Time must have slipped while I reburied the feelings my fear had savagely
ripped open and exposed.
“Everyone’s gone,” he says. “You on your hill?”
A smile tugs past my ravaged insides. The man knows me . . .
He breaks out in a rendition of “The Fool on the Hill” by The Beatles, and I laugh.
“Come on, rubber duckie.” He holds his hand out. “Get out of your head. I made popcorn.”
“Rubber duckie?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, they’re cute and small like you.”
The divinely blessed scent effervescing from his clean skin ripples over me when I follow in his wake. On Movie Saturday,
we enjoy a mutually agreed upon film, usually in the company of Geoff and Yayoi, who are not currently present because they’re
at home, banging.
Movie Saturday has rules.
Mine: 1) No sad movies. 2) No animal deaths.
His: 1) No horror flicks. 2) Never even speak of The Ring.
Asher’s couch is cozy. His screen is big. I crawl into my usual spot while he brings in the popcorn, then stretches out in
the L portion of the sofa at the other end. Here, in the serenity of his home, I stuff myself with popcorn and shove my fears
down deep.
It’s natural to be comfortable here.
Normal.
I’m not complacent. My walls are intact.
Sometime later, Asher wakes me with a soft touch to my shoulder. “Time for bed, sweetheart.”
Without opening my eyes, I whine in protest, earning a chuckle.
“Yeah, I knew that would be your answer.” His arms slide under my knees and back, and he carries me toward my bedroom. “You’re
the most spoiled woman I know.”
“My hero,” I say in my best Olive Oyl voice, keeping my eyes closed.
I’m rewarded with a not-so-gentle toss into my bed. “Sweet dreams, moocher.”
I curl up at once into the pillows, and he flips off the light.
Blackness takes me.
I wake alone in a strange room with antique wood furnishings—a bureau, a rocking chair, a china hutch. Windows along two walls
show a stormy sky, the trees bending in the wind. Rain pours like the Great Flood.
A bolt of terror locks my legs in place. Where am I?
Someone’s here. I need to get them before it’s too late. I spin around, but the room’s empty.
“Hello?” I scream.
A door across the way won’t open. I jiggle and yank on the knob, but nothing. Outside, the rain pours on, flooding the grass,
creeping up the porch steps.
“Jocelyn!” screams a voice behind me.
I whirl in place. Another door has appeared. The water surges, and I’m wading through it, bumping into floating furniture.
The door opens, but it’s jammed.
“Hello?” I call.
“Joss, please, help!”
My lungs seize, and my heart pounds against shards of splintered fear. I recognize that voice.
Asher.
I force my arm through the crack in the door, reaching blindly for him. Fingers graze mine, and I grasp the tips before the
flood rises and sweeps him away. I scream his name.
Jerking upright, I struggle to catch my breath as the dream fades. I peer into the surrounding darkness, making out the vague
shapes of the dresser and chair beside it. My heart pounds like it was real, and I shove the blankets off my sweaty limbs,
waiting for the rush of cortisol to subside.
Good thing the thermostat’s so low, or I’d be drenched.
My shaky legs slide off the side of the bed before I’ve fully recovered, and I tiptoe through the hallway toward Asher’s room.
I just need to verify he’s okay. Hands trembling, I open his door on soundless hinges and peek my head in. He’s in his usual
position—on his side with the pillow crushed beneath his head. His brown hair is mussed, and his chest rises and falls with
the slow breaths of the deeply asleep.
Something behind my ribs that was pinched tight suddenly releases. Ridiculous, really—it was only a dream, after all—but I
can’t deny the relief that rushes through me at the proof he’s safe. Alive.
These nightmares are insufferable.
I step back to close the door, but those soundless hinges aren’t so silent anymore.
He sits up at the squeak. “What the—”
“Sorry!” I whisper.
He blinks in my direction, squinting, and his voice is rusty when he says, “Are you—watching me sleep?”
I swing the door open fully. “What? Of course not, weirdo. I had a nightmare. I was just checking on you.”
“Oh.” His shoulders fall. “Who was it this time?”
I hesitate, then touch my still-trembling hands to my mouth. Should I tell him the truth?
“Joss? You okay?”
“Yeah.” I shake myself and decide to lie. “I can’t remember who it was.”
He curses under his breath. “I’m sorry.” He throws the covers off his legs. “You need a nightcap?”
I force my face into a sassy expression and throw up a stop gesture. “Don’t be extra. I’m fine.”
And yet, I don’t want to leave.
“Then get back to bed, angel duck. We have a workout tomorrow.”
Three seconds of silence pass while I dillydally in the doorway, looking for any excuse not to walk away. “Did you see the
protein powder I bought you for tomorrow?”
“You mean the birthday cake flavored one in the pink packaging that will help me optimize my curvy figure.”
I smother my laugh behind my hand. I am diabolical.
“You think I won’t use that? Twenty-five grams per scoop and it’s probably delicious.”
“I hope the powder is pink.”
He hums and points at the door. “Sleep well, cupcake. No more nightmares.”
I turn to leave.
“Oh, Joss?”
“Yeah?”
“There’s a rubber snake in your toilet. Thought it would be funny, but you’ve had enough scares tonight.”
The OR physician lounge usually has snacks, the most notable being a daily basket of fruit, mainly comprised of mealy apples.
The hospital supplies us with two oranges.
Two.
I’m willing to remove other people’s fingers to snag one of these oranges in the morning. Especially when that morning is
a Monday. A Monday following a Sunday in which Asher decided leg day needed to include four zillion crunches since his abs
aren’t perfectly sculpted. I reminded him a thousand times that he’s hot, and I was just teasing him on Saturday about the
softness. The man has zero softness unless one counts the mushy, romantic insides. Alas, he wouldn’t let us leave until my
entire abdomen was burning and fatigued.
My body feels like he beat it with a stick. It will only be worse tomorrow . . . because I’m in my thirties now, and for some
reason, my body has learned to draw out its punishments.
All I want is a frickin’ orange, and on this particular Monday, I reach the basket of fruit in time to watch Cassie Hersl
take the only remaining orange for herself.
My feet skid to a stop, hackles rising.
She meets my eyes without smiling. She never smiles. “Good morning.”
I eye the fruit in her hand. “Morning. Nice weekend?”
Pleasantries with this woman breach the contract I have with myself to avoid assholes, but sometimes evil attacks and I must
parry.
“Mmm.” She lifts one shoulder an inch. “I heard you had another get-together at Asher’s.”
“I didn’t. Asher did. It’s his house.”
With another skeptical hum, she moves toward the couch, where two older general surgeons stare unblinkingly at the TV. It
is a truth universally acknowledged that if a group of old, white doctors congregates in one place, they must turn the TV
to Fox News.