Page 13 of Finding Love

“Let me help you.” I don’t know how. Caregiving has never been on my list of skills. Another aspect of myself she’s revealed, whether I like it or not.

“Disgusting…” She gags again, but nothing comes up. I return to the kitchen, grab water from the refrigerator, and open the bottle on my way back to her. She flushes the toilet and lowers the lid before resting her forehead against it.

“Are you strong enough to stand?” She weakly grunts before I drape her arm over my neck and help her to her feet. She swishes a mouthful of water and spits it into the sink before leaning against me, letting me lead her back to bed.

Looking at the nightstand in the light coming in from the bathroom, I ask, “Where are your meds? When was the last time you took one?”

“I haven’t…” She half groans, half whimpers, her head hanging low. The room goes completely dark as soon as I turn off the bathroom light, blackout curtains drawn tight.

“I was there when the doctor talked to you about pain management. You have to be proactive, remember? Before it gets to be too much.” Everything she brought from the hospital is in her bag, which I find at the foot of the bed. The bottle of pills is on top, and I’m almost annoyed with her for leaving it there.

I soften when she whimpers again. “Here,” I murmur more softly this time, holding out one of the tablets. She doesn’t hesitate before taking it, gulping down more water.

“Empty stomach,” she whispers as she eases herself into lying down. She moves so slowly, carefully, like she’s afraid she’ll break otherwise.

“Here’s hoping you can sleep and the nausea won’t bother you too badly.” I’ve done almost all I can, and she’s still in pain. What do I do now? How do I help her? The doctors said this could continue for a while until she finishes healing, and unless a severe headache lasts more than a full day or comes along with slurred speech or loss of coordination, it’s nothing to be alarmed about.

Easy for them to fucking say. They don’t have to stand by and watch their reason for existence suffering the way she is now. She doesn’t deserve this. If only it were as easy as deciding to absorb someone else’s pain. I would take hers in a heartbeat.

She doesn’t react when her phone buzzes on the nightstand. It’s a call from her mother. I pick up the phone, intending to send the call to voicemail so as not to disturb her. When I do, an alert on the screen tells me this is one of five missed calls. I can’t imagine Emilia not checking her phone last night the second she was alone, which means these calls have all come in since then. Otherwise, there would probably be many more listed.

I’m about to return the phone to the table when low and behold, the screen lights up again with another call from Mom. Emilia only groans softly, her back to me. While I’m watching her, what I see in my mind is a belligerent woman raising shit because she can’t get a hold of her daughter. I can’t risk her making noise, going down to Emilia’s old station and demanding somebody put her in touch with a girl who no longer works there anymore.

I don’t want to do it, but it seems like the only viable option. Stepping out of the bedroom, I close the door behind me before answering the call. “This is Emilia’s phone. Emilia is all right,” I quickly add before she gets any ideas. “But she’s too sick to talk. Is this Mrs. Washington?”

There’s a moment of silence before a woman answers. “Yes. Where is my daughter? Who are you? What do you mean, she’s feeling sick? I want to talk to her.” Fear rings out in her voice, more intense with every word.

“She has a bad headache and isn’t in great shape. A migraine, I’m guessing.” A harmless lie. There’s no way I can tell her the truth. I wouldn’t know where to begin. Emilia might only end up hating me worse if I tried.

“And who are you?” she demands.

“I’m…” I almost got her killed. I love her more than life itself, and she doesn’t even know who the fuck I am anymore. “I’m a good friend of hers. I’m sure she’ll get back to you once the headache clears up.” When all I get in return is silence, I add, “I understand we’re all supposed to get together for dinner sometime soon. I’m looking forward to it.”

It’s like a lightbulb finally goes on. “Oh! That kind of friend! Emilia didn’t tell me!” There I was, hoping to prove I know her daughter and only want to take care of her, but she sounds like she wants to start planning the wedding.

“Then let’s pretend I didn’t say anything since she might get annoyed with me for telling you.” Her soft laugh tells me I’m charming enough to disarm her. It’s a farce, beginning to end, yet it’s working. She’s happy to believe me since I sound intelligent, charming, and kind. That’s the kind of man she wants for her daughter.

It’s a relief to end the call and drop the act. Now, as I ask myself what to do next to help Emilia, I have her demanding mother on my mind along with everything else. I can only hope I haven’t complicated the situation further.

6

EMILIA

I died.

I died and went to hell.

I’m being tortured for every bad thing I’ve ever done as I lie here in the darkness, afraid to move. It hurts so much worse when I do. But then it hurts when I don’t, driving me to try to turn my head this way and that, hoping it will help. It has to. I can’t take much more of this. It’s like my brain is being torn to pieces inside my skull.

I need to relax, an impossible task thanks to the panic that keeps wanting to wipe out everything else. Panic that the pain will never stop, and I’m going to feel this way forever. It’s childish and stupid. I know this will end. There’s no comforting myself with that when all I know, all that’s real, is pain. Agony.

I barely hear the bedroom door open and close again. Luca. I don’t have it in me to be afraid or put off by his presence. I can’t think about him right now, not when I’m like this.

“What can I do for you?” he whispers, and it surprises me to find how close he came on silent feet. He is already on the other side of the bed, in front of me, leaning close enough that his breath hits my face.

“Nothing,” I whisper, and that is a struggle in and of itself. “It hurts so much.”

“It usually takes around twenty to thirty minutes for the medication to start taking effect.” I should accept what he’s telling me without question. I mean, there are much bigger problems going on, such as how I’m going to live through this moment.

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