Page 38 of Still Me
“On the right track now,” he murmured, as I pulled the cover over him.
“Great,” I said. And then he was asleep.
—
I couldn’t face another evening of scrolling through my phone so I got up quietly, left him a note, and headed out. I felt miserable and oddly angry. Why had he eaten something that had given him food poisoning? Why couldn’t he make himself better quicker? He was a paramedic after all. Why couldn’t he have picked a nicer hotel? I walked down Sixth Avenue, my hands thrust deep into my pockets, the traffic blaring around me, and before long I found myself headed toward home.
Home.
With a start, I realized that was how I now thought of it.
Ashok was under the awning, chatting to another doorman, who moved away as soon as I approached.
“Hey, Miss Louisa. Aren’t you meant to be with that boyfriend of yours?”
“He’s sick,” I said. “Food poisoning.”
“You’re kidding me. Where is he now?”
“Sleeping. I just... couldn’t face sitting in that room for another twelve hours.” I felt suddenly, oddly, close to tears. I think Ashok could see it because he motioned me to come in. In his little porter’s room he boiled a kettle and made me a mint tea. I sat at his desk and sipped it, while he peered out now and then to make sure Mrs. De Witt wasn’t around to accuse him of slacking. “Anyway,” I said, “why are you on duty? I thought it was the night guy.”
“He’s sick too. My wife is super mad at me right now. She’s meant to be at one of her library meetings but we don’t have anybody to look after the kids. She says if I spend one more of my days off here she’s going to have a word with Mr. Ovitz herself. And nobody wants that.” He shook his head. “My wife is a fearsome woman, Miss Louisa. You do not want to upset my wife.”
“I’d offer to help. But I think I’d better go back and check on Sam.”
“Be sweet,” he said, as I handed him his mug. “He came a long way to see you. And I can guarantee he is feeling way worse than you are right now.”
—
When I got back to the room, Sam was awake, propped up on pillows and watching the grainy television. He looked up as I opened the door.
“I just went for a walk. I—I—”
“Couldn’t face one more minute stuck in here with me.”
I stood in the doorway. His head was sunk into his shoulders. He looked pale and unutterably depressed.
“Lou—if you knew how hard I’m kicking myself—”
“It’s fi—” I stopped myself just in time. “Really,” I said. “We’re good.”
I ran him a shower, made him get in and washed his hair, squeezing the last out of the tiny hotel bottle, then watched the suds slide down the huge slope of his shoulders. As I did he reached up, took my hand silently, and kissed the inside of my wrist softly, a kiss of apology. Iplaced the towel over his shoulders and we made our way out to the bedroom. He lay back on the bed with a sigh. I changed out of my clothes and lay down beside him, wishing I didn’t still feel so flat.
“Tell me something about you that I don’t know,” he said.
I turned toward him. “Oh, you know everything. I’m an open book.”
“C’mon. Indulge me.” His voice was low against my ear. I couldn’t think of anything. I still felt really oddly annoyed about this weekend even though I know that’s unfair of me.
“Okay,” he said, when it was clear I wasn’t going to speak. “I’ll start then. I am never eating anything but white toast again.”
“Funny.”
He studied my face for a moment. When he spoke again his voice was unusually quiet. “And things haven’t been easy at home.”
“What do you mean?”
It took a minute before he spoke again, as if he wasn’t sure even then if he should. “It’s work. You know, before I got shot I wasn’t afraid of anything. I could handle myself. I guess I reckoned I was a bit of a tough guy. Now, though, what happened, it’s at the back of my mind all the time.”
