Chapter 19
The wordsI threw out haunt me. They were honest—too honest—but Emma and I pretend they didn’t happen.
For my part, it was a totally inappropriate thing to say to a student.
Emma, though, is hard to read, but I suspect she doesn’t believe me—or believe in herself.
She’s out of town once again over the weekend, and so are Eva and Oliver, so I have a weekend playing football, working, and jacking off while having inappropriate thoughts about one of my students. But I’m also waiting, anticipating her return home, and wondering if she’ll take up my offer.
She does not come by Sunday after she returns.
Monday, I don’t see her until my lecture, and I’m sidelined afterward by another student’s questions.
My disappointment grows. I had half-hoped that she would return eager to take me up on my offer. That doesn’t seem to be happening.
The next week, Emma doesn’t show up on Wednesday. After the session is over, I check my email, expecting a note from her explaining why she skipped my lecture, but there’s nothing there. On Thursday she doesn’t show up either, and I haven’t seen her around the apartment building.
I’m getting concerned.
On Friday morning, I knock on Emma’s door and don’t get an answer. I knock on Eva’s door and ask if she’s seen Emma. She hasn’t. I check in with the other professors throughout the day; same story.
I return to the building Friday afternoon and knock more insistently. While I wait, I pace the hallway. I call the landlord, and he hasn’t heard anything.
What if something is wrong? What if she ran into that guy again, the one that followed her? I’m flooded with images of him being a sophisticated stalker who moves to kidnapping and serial killing, though the more logical side of my brain tells me that’s highly unlikely.
I bang so hard on Emma’s door that Eva comes out to check on me. She leaves Oliver inside, and we’re discussing calling the police when there’s a noise on the other side of the door, and I shush her.
A few excruciating moments later, the door opens, and I sag in relief when I see Emma. It’s short-lived, though, because she looks awful. Her hair is a mess that possibly used to be a bun and what’s come out of it is sticking to her sweaty neck and face. She’s wearing a damp tank top with nothing underneath, cotton underwear, and a blanket like a cape.
Eva and I exchange a glance, and Emma blinks at us. “Emma,” I say. “Are you okay?”
She blinks again. “Sick.” She turns and stumbles toward the bedroom but then diverts course and crawls over the arm of the loveseat to lie face down on it.
Eva and I both step inside. I take off my blazer and crouch next to the couch. “Emma, piccola, what’s wrong?” I place the back of my hand on her forehead. She’s burning up.
“Sick,” she repeats, her voice hoarse.
“I’ll go get a thermometer,” Eva says from behind me, and she disappears.
“Chills?”
Her head moves in the barest of nods.
“Body ache?”
Another infinitesimal movement.
I check her lymph nodes—swollen—and when Eva returns with the thermometer, I take her temperature—thirty-nine degrees. High, but not too high.
“What can I do to help?” Eva says after hovering over my shoulder for a few minutes.
“Can you check her fridge for some orange juice or a sports drink? She needs to hydrate. I’m going to call a doctor.”
A moment later, Eva confirms that there is neither in the refrigerator. “Can you run to the store, then?”
Eva disappears. Oliver barks when she goes into her apartment and then when she leaves. I call my doctor and friend, Chiara, to see if she can make a house call. When I explain Emma’s symptoms, she says she can swing by in a few hours, but until then, she should drink lots of fluids, have some tea with honey, and—if possible—a hot shower.
When I get off the phone, Emma’s fallen asleep, and I decide not to wake her until Eva gets back. I open the window a crack to get some fresh December air in and roam around, picking up used tissues and taking a few dirty plates back to the kitchen.
Eva returns, and I thank her for running the errand.
“I bought some tissues, too, and medicine for cold and flu.”
“Thank you,” I repeat.
“Do you have this?” she asks, peering back at Emma. “I’m so sorry, but I have to walk Oliver and then I have a date.”
“Yes, I have her. The doctor is on the way.”
Satisfied, Eva disappears, and I close the door behind her.
I crouch down next to Emma’s head. “Piccola, wake up.” I touch her shoulder, and she opens her eyes groggily. “Sit up. You need to drink something.”
She sits up with my help, throwing off the cape-slash-blanket. I crack open a bottle of sports drink, the kind with electrolytes, and don’t let her stop until it’s empty.
This time, when she lays back down, she splays out on the couch. A new sheen of sweat has slicked her skin, but she falls asleep easily again.
I wait for Chiara impatiently. Emma’s phone is on the coffee table and won’t turn on when I tap the screen, so I find the plug and set it to charge. Then I take the sheets off Emma’s bed and, when I can’t find another set, set them to wash and make the bed with sheets of my own. Emma’s phone chirps repeatedly when it turns on; I suspect she has a few people other than me worried about her.
Guilt stops me for a moment, but I know Emma has friends and family who would worry about her and who knows how long it’s been since her phone had a charge. She never even let the university know she was sick.
It all becomes a moot point when I tap the screen and it asks for a face ID. It’s not worth waking her up over another hour or so of her friends’ worry.
I sit on the floor against the wall with my phone, waiting. Emma coughs occasionally, a wet sound that makes me worry.
Finally, Chiara messages that she’s here. I kiss her cheek at the building entrance and lead her up.
“How long has she been sick?” Chiara asks when she sees Emma, setting her bag on the coffee table.
“She was in lectures Monday and Tuesday, so maybe it started that night or Wednesday morning?” I guess.
Chiara gently wakes Emma and gets her sitting up. She checks her throat, her neck, takes her temperature again, and asks a few questions about how she’s feeling. Pulling a stethoscope from her bag, she listens to Emma’s breathing, and then taps on her back in a few places. Finally, Chiara sits back on her heels. I finally notice she’s wearing pumps and pressed slacks, with full makeup and a nice blouse. I might have interrupted a date night.
“Emma,” the doctor says. “You have pneumonia. Do you have someone that can take care of you?”
“I can,” I offer. Well, I insist, but I keep my tone pleasant.
Chiara smiles back at me before returning to Emma. “Is there someone else you’d rather call?”
Emma hums, her eyes closed and I worry she might have fallen back asleep. “What day is it?” she finally asks.
“Friday night.”
“Maybe Tessa?”
Disappointed, I pull out Emma’s phone. Chiara moves to give me room so I can hold Emma’s phone up to her face to unlock it. There are a ton of WhatsApp notifications, and I click on them to find missed calls from several people. There are new messages in chats, too, but I ignore them and click on the missed call from Tessa.
“Emma!” a friendly but sedate voice answers. “We were getting worried.”
“Actually, it’s Santo. Ah, Professor Offredi.”
The tone immediately shifts to concern. “Is Emma okay?”
“She has pneumonia, unfortunately.” I explain the scenario to Tessa, who makes all kinds of noises over Emma’s welfare. “The doctor asked if she had anyone who could take care of her, and she asked for you.” I’m pleased with how neutral the statement comes out instead of desperate for Emma to want my help.
“Oh god. We were just in Zurich together—did she tell you that?”
“No.”
“We were all in Zurich together—that’s Emma, me, Jade, and Sara, the same women there the night you, uh…met Emma. Anyway, we spent a lot of time outside, going to the Christmas market and stuff. It was pretty cold, and with all the people and traveling, I guess we passed something around.”
I grunt in acknowledgment.
“Sounds like Emma got it the worst,” she continues. “Jade was out sick Tuesday but worked from home the rest of the week. Sara missed it entirely so far. My throat started getting sore last night. I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to fly.”
I relay this information to the doctor, who agrees Tessa shouldn’t travel.
“Should we call her family?” Tessa asks. “Maybe one of the kids could come take care of her. Or, there’s Bruce.” Tessa says it hesitantly, like she isn’t sure Emma would want that.
Dear god, I don’t want Bruce to come, and I doubt Emma does either. “If you want to call them, you can, but I’ll be here taking care of her, regardless.”
“You will?” Tessa asks. “Don’t you have to teach on Monday?”
“I’ll take the day off.”
“But hopefully, she’ll be much better by then,” Chiara chimes in. She’s been listening while she scribbles instructions down on a piece of paper.
“I guess that’s the best thing then,” Tessa decides. “And if my throat gets better I’ll fly down on Monday. But call us every day. Video calls. I want to see how Emma is doing myself.”
“Yes, I will.”
We swap numbers and when I hang up, Chiara hands me the instructions and a prescription for an antibiotic.
“Looks like you’ll be busy this weekend,” Chiara says, switching to Italian. “Get this filled as soon as possible, and it’ll help. How’s your health? It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”
“Good. I know I am due for an appointment. I’ll call you when this gets sorted out.”
“Excellent.” The doctor turns back to Emma and switches to English. “Would you like a shower, Emma? It would be good for you.”
Emma nods, and the doctor and I help her up. Chiara is a slight woman, so we decide it will take both of us to ensure that Emma doesn’t fall in the shower. We wash her with her clothes on and I turn my back while Chiara changes Emma’s outfit. Throughout it, Emma is soft, like a weak kitten. I want to wrap her up and press my lips to her forehead.
Finally, she’s in bed—in my sheets—and asleep. Chiara says goodbye and after I check on Zola, pick up the prescription, and have Emma take her first dose, I settle onto her loveseat to get some sleep, the whole time worrying over Emma.