Page 33 of Marriage is a Shore Thing
“I just went on a summer run. Of course I’m hot.”
Or at least that’s what I mean to say, but it comes out in a nearly incoherent slur.
“We need to cool you down.”
Then I’m weightless. I’m in Van’s arms again, but unlike at the beach, I don’t fight him. I don’t have the energy to do anything other than lean my head on his shoulder as he carries me upstairs.
“What’s that?” I ask, seeing a beachscape painting in a wooden frame on the upstairs landing—three seagulls float on an imaginary breeze above frothy waves.
It’s another question that isn’t fully articulated, sounding like garbled nonsense.
“Don’t worry.” Van’s hands grip me tighter. “I’ve got you.”
And that’s the last thing I remember before my vision goes from gray to black.
thirteen
Van
“Wake up, darlin’.” I keep the tension out of my tone as I jostle Geneva in my arms so I can take her pulse.
It’s strong and fast, just as I expected. My mind flies through the differential diagnosis and quickly narrows it down to two. The most likely is influenza. Even though today is September first, the flu has been making an early showing this year with several pockets already in the northeast. The second, more dangerous option is heat stroke hyperthermia—a medical emergency. Reminding myself that the fire station, with all its EMS supplies is mere blocks away, I gently set Geneva on the tile floor of the bathroom so she’s leaning against her tub.
“Gen.” I run the tap cold before kneeling and framing her sweaty face with my palms. “I need you to fight with me.”
Her eyes flutter open. “What if I didn’t like seascape paintings?”
Unlike the last two times she spoke, her words are clear and biting.
“There she is.” A smile lifts my lips as relief douses every cell in my body.
Her finger comes up to poke me in the cheek. “Don’t dimple-smile at me. This is a serious matter. What if I don’t like comfy patio furniture? Or geometric outdoor rugs? Why do you keep making my house nice?”
“You saying I’m making things nice undermines your argument, dearest,” I tell her, quickly removing her shoes and socks.
She grumbles at the endearment. “You’re the worst, you know that?”
“I am. I’m a complete monster.” I pause, making sure I catch her gaze before continuing. “I need to get my supply bag from downstairs. Can I trust you not to pass out? Or do you want to lie down?”
I try not to ‘dimple-smile’ at the flat look and dismissive wrist flick Geneva gives me, but it’s impossible.
A handful of seconds later, I’m back with the medical bag I keep in my truck when I’m not working and my phone—just in case I’m wrong. And I really, really hope I’m not wrong.
Geneva is right where I left her, an unamused expression on her gorgeous—albeit flushed—face.
Good.She can scowl at me all she’d like as long as she stays awake.
“Can I get in the tub now?”
The wistful way Geneva gazes at the water sends a strange emotion tumbling through my bloodstream. Logically, I know I should be completing my assessment first, but for a woman who asks for nothing, I don’t want to say no.
In the emergency department, to treat heat stroke, we’d dunk her in an ice bath or run cooled saline through her veins to rapidly cool her core body temperature. A ticking clock pings at my temple, but I acquiesce.
“Only if you take this off.” I tug at the hem of her sodden tank. “I know that sounds like a move, but the less clothes the better. Everything else you can keep on, but I want as much of your skin in contact with the water.”
Surprisingly, Geneva lifts her arms. She does so while giving me the death glare of the century, but she complies. Then she makes a blissful sound that’s slightly distracting as I help her into the cool water. I dig in my bag, tossing my stethoscope on the ground before I find the temporal artery thermometer I bought during my pediatric rotation.
“Just let me...”
