In Sickness and in Health
Jake
A loud rap on thewindow startles me from my sleep. The sky has turned dark, and the dash clock reads 5:15 p.m. I’m in the car next to the greasy-looking river. I came here after I walked out and…fell asleep.
I’m freezing. I ache. I’m soaked in sweat.
Another rap.
It’s Dodi.
“What thefuck,” she says. As usual, there’s no question mark at the end of it.
I crack the door.
“What’s going on here?” she demands. “Why are you camped out here by tent city like a homeless person?”
“I am homeless. I left Grant’s.”
“You’re homeless,” she says flatly. “In a Lamborghini.”
“A what?” I glance around me at the interior of the car. I’ve never understood how people can identify car makes. Cars are the most uninteresting thing in the world to me.
I watch her draw two deep breaths in through her nose. She looks frantic and furious.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“It was kind of hard not to notice the giant black supercar lurking one block from work. You’re going to get robbed. You need to check yourself into a hotel.”
“I don’t think I can drive right now.”
She peers closer at me. “You look terrible. What’s going on? You drunk?”
“No.”
“Sick?”
“Sort of.”
“I’m not going to keep digging.”
“Well, I’m dying, you know.”
She narrows her eyes at me, and then, surprisingly, she touches my forehead, my cheek. Her touch is so gentle. “Jesus,” she mutters. “Did you pick something up on the plane? You know you’re not supposed to lick the tray table.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“Idiot,” she says without looking at me. “You can’t stay here. You could get stabbed.”
“It’s fine.”
“I’ll just move up the funeral planning, then. Cremation or mushroom box in the woods?”
I tip my head back against the headrest and look at her face. “Are you still helping me, then?”
“Of course I’m helping you.”
I’m so relieved I could lie down and catch up on every hour of missed sleep from the past eight years. “I’d like to be cremated, and I want you to make decorative hand soaps with my ashes and hand them out at the office.”