Chapter 8
Anne
“I can’t risk exposing my patients to infection,” Chris said when I called with my test results.
“I understand,” I said.
Because I did. He treated children whose immune systems were already wrecked by cancer and chemo. It wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t take care of me. Couldn’t even see me.
“Even if I don’t get Covid,” Chris continued, “I still need to quarantine.”
And there it was, the faintest note of accusation. I had already contaminated him by getting sick in the first place.
I winced. It’s not as if I expected him to rush to my side, full of love and anguish, to declare he couldn’t live life without me. Like Anne Shirley in the movie, dashing to Gilbert’s sickbed.
“This could kill you. I could kill you,” he had said to me early in the pandemic, his voice thick with feeling. “I won’t put you at risk.”
As much as I’d argued to move in together then, I’d never doubted he was putting me, my health and safety, first.
When had that changed?
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Get lots of rest,” Chris said now, doctor to patient. “Drink lots of fluids.”
“I will,” I promised.
“You can take pain relievers for the fever. Do you have a pulse oximeter in the house?”
I wasn’t sure I even had Tylenol. “I’ll be okay,” I said, rapping on the table. Knock wood. “Honestly, I don’t feel that bad.”
If I said it, it might even come true.
—
“Take all the time you need,” Sarah Thompson said when I gave her the bad news. “The important thing is for you to get better. Ned and I can cover your classes.”
I closed my eyes in relief. “Thank you.”
After my almost firing, staying home felt like an admission of guilt. Or defeat. It was totally possible Jim Curtis would use my sick leave to decide I was not, in fact, a good fit for Ravenscrest. But at least as long as I was out sick, I couldn’t be forced to apologize to the Quinns.
Besides, I didn’t have a choice.
My temperature climbed to a hundred and two, then a hundred and three.
I crawled into bed, emerging only to toddle to the bathroom.
My head throbbed. Even my hair hurt. My sleep was wracked with nightmares, vivid dreams about teaching naked or falling from roofs or searching for my dad.
When I woke, coughing, my sleep T was wringing wet and my sheets were soaked with sweat.
I wanted my mom. “You’re not dying. You’ll be fine,” she would say briskly when I was a kid. Making up my bed with fresh sheets, bringing me ginger ale and pretzels. I could almost feel her hand on my forehead, checking my temperature, stroking my hair.
I blinked back tears. Even the thought of calling Mom exhausted me. I didn’t want to worry her so soon after my father’s death.
But mostly, keeping things from my mother was a reflex reaction, a knee-jerk move, like kicking out when the doctor taps your knee with a rubber hammer.
I measured time by periods of fever and chills, days and nights blurring together as I drifted in and out of sleep.
I was on Mackinac, my knees sticking out from a tiny desk.
I was taking a test, and I didn’t know the answers.
I read the questions over and over, my mind scrambling, the letters shuffling, the words jumbling together, when the paper dissolved, the classroom dissolved around me, and I was running, my heart pounding, running and not getting anywhere.
I crashed into a…wall? A man. A man’s chest. I burrowed blindly, a forest creature seeking warmth and safety.
Images swam and solidified in the darkness.
His hard arm, wrapped around my shoulders, heavy and reassuring.
His beard, tickling my forehead. I surrendered gratefully to his strength, breathing in his scent, soap and musk and mineral spirits.
And woke, disoriented.
Half-light stole through the window, casting rainbows through the colored bottles on the sill.
I lay still, taking stock. I was not having sweaty dreams about my childhood nemesis, the subject of my prepubescent fantasies.
But my body felt somehow looser. Lighter.
The stabbing pain behind my eyes, the dull ache in my neck, were gone.
I felt almost normal. I coughed. Normal-ish?
I could take a shower!
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stumbled to the bathroom, leaning against the wall as I waited for the water to warm up. I lifted my face, letting the hot spray wash away the stink, the ache, the remnants of my dream.
Halfway through rinsing my hair, my legs started shaking.
I managed to wrap myself in a towel before collapsing on the toilet seat.
Shivering, I hobbled to the dresser and dug for a clean T-shirt.
Nothing. The old flannel shirt I’d brought from home was crumpled in the back of the drawer.
I dragged it on. I couldn’t face the idea of crawling between my clammy sheets again, so, ripping the comforter from my bed, I lugged it into the living area and made a cocoon on the couch.
My phone battery was down to nine percent, but I saw a voicemail from Chris, three unanswered messages from Daanis, and eighty-five unread emails. I plugged in my phone, turned my face into the cushions, and fell asleep.
The buzz of my phone woke me.
I struggled to sit. “Daanis!” I croaked.
Her worried face appeared on my screen. “I thought you were ghosting me. Are you okay?”
Tears pricked my eyes. “Don’t be nice to me,” I warned, “or I’ll cry.”
“Sweetie, what happened? Is it Chris?”
“It’s Covid.” I coughed.
“Oh, Anne! I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t tell Mom,” I blurted, as if we were ten years old and I’d fallen off my bike again.
“You should tell her.”
“I will. Just not yet. When I’m better.”
I was afraid admitting one weakness would lead to even more terrifying confessions.
Hi, Mom, I have Covid.
I might lose my job.
My boyfriend is moving to Atlanta.
I need you.
Not so grown-up, after all.
“You poor thing.” Daanis’s concern wrapped around me like a blanket. It felt wonderful to be fussed over. “How do you feel?”
“Like I’ve been run over by a dump truck,” I admitted.
“I hope Chris is taking good care of you.”
“Absolutely.” From a safe distance. “As much as he can.”
Her dark eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”
I hesitated. Chris had been amazing. I didn’t want my best friend to judge my boyfriend just because I was feeling a little down.
“Well, he ordered me groceries.” Tea, chicken soup, cough drops, and tissues, all of which I needed.
Immune-boosting vegetables, high in fiber.
Tylenol, which I took, and a pulse oximeter from I’d lost somewhere under the covers or the bed.
I didn’t blame Chris because he couldn’t deliver what I craved.
Sugary drinks. Salty chips. Frozen mac and cheese.
His company. “And he checks in every day,” I added.
For a rundown of my symptoms. “Any shortness of breath? Muscle or body aches? Loose stools or diarrhea?” he asked. Keeping the romance alive.
Daanis was silent. I squirmed at the sympathy in her gaze.
A knock on the door rescued me. “That’s probably another delivery. From Chris. He called and left a message. Earlier. I should go. You know, in case”—what?—“I need to put things in the fridge,” I finished, inspired. “All those vegetables.”
I ended the call and hobbled to the door, still swaddled in the comforter.
And maybe…maybe Chris was here, I thought, hope infiltrating my chest. I wasn’t being stupidly unrealistic. Imagining things. It had been two weeks. We could keep our distance. If I could just see him…
I yanked open the door, realizing—too late!—I should have grabbed a mask first.
My elderly neighbor stood in the hallway, his thin gray hair combed over his balding head. I took a step back. “Mr. Banerjee?”
“You have not collected your mail,” he said.
Warmth flushed my face. “Er, no. Sorry. I’ve been sick.”
“I thought so. I brought you tiffin.” He held out a pyramid of stainless steel containers, clamped together with a handle.
“Thank you! But you didn’t…I can’t…”
“A year ago, when I could not go out, you fed me,” he said. “Now I feed you.”
I smiled mistily, undone by his kindness. “Mr. Banerjee, I could kiss you. I would kiss you, except I’m probably contagious.”
He withdrew in alarm. From the virus? Or the threatened show of affection? “I will leave it here for you.”
He set the lunchbox on the floor and retreated across the hall. I kept my distance, waving vigorously when he paused at the door of his apartment. He turned pink, ducking his head and smiling. Cheered, I grabbed the stack of containers and retired to my nest on the couch.
“How are you?” Sarah Thompson asked a few days later.
“Better,” I said optimistically. Which could have been more magical thinking, except I’d tested negative that morning. “That’s why I’m calling. I should be able to come back to work on Monday.”
“You don’t need to do that,” Sarah said. “Take this time to make a full recovery.”
“Thanks, Sarah. But, honestly, I want to come back.” I missed my kids.
Stuck alone in my apartment, the minutes crawled and the hours flashed by.
I couldn’t rest or read or relax. Instead, I’d spiraled down wormholes on the internet, googling articles on post-Covid hair loss and brain fog.
“You and Ned can’t handle my classes forever. ”
“Anne. You’ve been out a long time. I had no idea when you’d be back. Under the circumstances, Jim felt…” A pause, while a premonition crawled on the back of my neck like a spider. “We’ve hired a substitute for the remainder of the academic year.”
I struggled to breathe. There had to be something I could do. Something I should say. But my mind had gone blank. Static. It felt horribly like two years ago, when the university shut down. Everything changed. Nothing finished.
“The academic…” I repeated. “You mean, this year?”