Trouble Won't Wait (10 page)

At home, I’m steadfast about checking my email every two hours. Adam seems in good enough spirits, teasing me about buying him so much medicine. He writes to tell me when he has his next garage sale, he’ll have to get DEA and FDA approval first. In another message, he asks if I can run downtown to pick him up a ledger to keep track of all the drugs, and requests a Vaporub massage. I’m now Florence Nightingale, instead of Axl.

* * * *

Mike quizzes me about my therapy session after the kids go to bed. I start giggling, and tell him in detail what happened. He looks serious when I’ve finished, but not like he wants to run downtown and kick Baldwin’s ass. “Why would you make up a story like that?” he asks.

“Yeah, why
would
I, Michael?” I’m not a liar.

He knows this. He’s still looking at me blankly, waiting for an explanation.

“I’m not lying!”

“First that wild tale the other night about being at some guy’s house, then you tell Lana you’re gonna sleep with Brad. Now this. Are you fantasizing about getting even with me?”
If you only knew, Mikey
. Back to the Undesirable Mandy Theory. Back to me being livid. Hey, wait a minute. He’s been talking to Lana. Ooh, I will
so
make him pay.

“How can you run around here acting like it’s your life mission to get me back in your bed, and then not believe that any other guy could want me? Do you know how that makes me feel? Go to hell, Michael. Oh, and either find another counselor, or don’t expect me to go there alone again. We have three weeks left, by the way.”

Time for my self-righteously steamed self to the shower. I never bathed after my run today, because I spent all that time buying Adam’s medicine. I know Mike has gone in the bedroom and can hear me in the shower. The massaging head comes down, and I use it for just the reason it was invented, making sure he can hear me moaning in more ecstasy than I feel, especially as I finish.

When I come out in my robe to fetch a nightgown, Mike is leaning against the wall opposite the bathroom door, looking mighty pathetic. I turn up my nose at him and flutter past, sighing as if self-gratification is still pleasuring me.

Before going to sleep, I check on Adam, electronically. He let me know he’s going to sleep for the night, and he’s staying home from work tomorrow, but under no circumstances am I to come there, because he doesn’t want me sick. How noble. Now I won’t even get to see him.

Chapter 6

It’s Monday and I haven’t seen Adam in four days. He has a whopping case of the flu.

We had another appointment with Dr. Bangs this morning. Mike actually asked the guy if he suggested I have sex with him. Yeah, Mikey, the guy’s just going to flush his career by admitting he came on to a patient who
rejected him
. When Baldwin denied it, Mike looked at me like, “I told you so.”

My eyes rolled back so far, they almost got stuck like Grandma always warned they would if I crossed them. Can’t Mike see how stupid this is? I have got to call my brother and meet him for lunch.

I’m on my way to Adam’s because I haven’t gotten a single email from him since yesterday morning. It’s only eleven when I park beside his work truck. It feels like something is wrong. He doesn’t answer his door, so I scoop up the big stack of mail the mailman stuck on the doorstep and head around to the back door. With a sigh of relief, I find it unlocked. I would have found another way in if I had to, but this is less likely to cause the old guy next door to call the cops.

“Adam? Hey, Ferris!” I call when I step in. I can smell the Vaporub, and the rest of my drug arsenal is strewn across the counter, along with a few water glasses that have been used for Gatorade. Lack of an answer leads me to his room. He’s there, and I can hear him breathing, kind of raspy. His face is
red
. He’s burning up, wrapped like a mummy in several blankets. He doesn’t wake, which worries me.

“Hey sleepyhead, it’s me,” I say softly, ruffling his hair.

His lips are cracked and dry. Dehydrated. How long has he been this sick? I slip the digital thermometer in his mouth, and find he’s at a hundred and six degrees–scary. Panic voice tells me to call an ambulance, but being a level-headed mom, I set about trying to get the fever down.

There’s one bottle of Gatorade left, and I pour some in a glass, but can’t get it down him without spilling, unless he sits up. I fetch crushed ice and slide some between his lips. This seems to work, so I continue for awhile, still trying to rouse him.

To lower his fever, I get a wet washcloth and start wiping him down, push away the blankets. They must be contributing to his high temp. Good thing I’m a level-headed mom, because I’m mopping a washcloth across an incredible set of shoulders, here. The reproductive-aged female part of me is nearly panting over an amazing chest, and oh, yes, abs to die for. Geez Louise, this guy is built!

My amorous sponge bath helps wake him, and he’s cooled down some. “Welcome back,” I coo in true Nightingale bedside manner.

One of his eyes opens. “Laura?”

Um, no
. Who the heck is Laura?

“You’re here,” he sighs, relieved. “Thought you died. You’re here!” He seems overjoyed about it.

Whoever Laura is, she sure matters a lot.

“It’s okay. Can you take some medicine?”

He nods, still smiling maniacally, and I get the glass of Gatorade and the ibuprofen. He swallows the pills, then leans back.

“You should have called me,” I chide.

He ignores my reprimand. He has questions to ask. “Is Stevie okay too? Where’s Stevie?”

“Shh, you want something to eat?”

He shakes his head, and he’s wild-eyed, delirious.

“I think you should take a shower, not too hot. It’ll help get your fever down.”

“Dammit, Laura, where’s the baby? Where is he? Tell me he’s okay too, please!” Those glazed blue eyes are getting wetter. He’s very distraught. This won’t do.

I give in and play along. “He’s fine, just napping. Please take a shower, you’re burning up.”

“I love you, you know that? I’ve been wanting to tell you ever since…” He’s choked up, so I nod and allow him to hug me against his blazing, bare chest.

Who is Laura? And I can’t say I’m happy to hear of her. When Adam is well, he’s got some explaining to do. But for now, I usher him into the shower. Typical man, he’s wearing nothing at all under those blankets, giving me a real eyeful. Now I know what I’m missing while I put up with Mike.

Adam’s laptop is on the table next to his bed, and he has my goofy picture set as his wallpaper. I can’t decide whether to be flattered he has me on his computer, or chagrined he didn’t use the other picture.

He goes back to sleep shortly after returning to bed. I managed to rustle up some clean sheets and got them on the bed while it was empty, and now I’m starting the others in his washer. Again, typical guy, has no fabric softener. Good grief, how can guys stand it? Yucky rough polyester sheets, and no fabric softener. I’ll bring some Bounce when I come back, and stick it in with them in the dryer. I check his temp; it’s down to a hundred and one now, which is uncomfortable but not dangerous, at least. I slip a couple more ice chips in, then leave quietly by the back door.

It’s only noon, so I head to Wal-mart again. This time I get him Bounce, two more packs of Gatorade, Carmex, and some of those little bowls of Mandarin oranges. And a DVD of–what else?–
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
. I’m not sure if he already has it, but I bet he’ll get a kick out of me buying it for him.

As an afterthought, I pick up some TwinPops, knowing my kids like them when they have a fever. Even with stomach flu, they taste good. Florence Nightingale, at your service.

Adam’s sleeping again when I come in, and the fever’s still down. I set about putting stuff together to take in his room so he won’t have to run to the kitchen for everything. For the first time, I notice his last name on a piece of mail.

Kraft. Adam Kraft. Has a nice ring to it. So who the heck is Laura? I’m not sure I
want
to know, but I’m certain I
need
to, sooner or later. He’s managed to down the Gatorade I left him, so I get him more, then wake him.

“Hey,” he croaks.

“Hey. I brought you Popsicles, and these little oranges if you want them.” Why am I whispering? “There’s more Gatorade, and I bought you a movie.” I hold up the DVD.

He smiles. “Thanks, that’s my favorite!”
Yeah, so you told me.

“I need to go now, but call or email if you need anything, okay?” I head out of the room.

“You taking the baby, or do I need to watch him?”

I stop in my tracks, turn to look at him, and he’s dead serious.

“Yeah, he’ll be with me. Get some rest.” I start the sheets in the dryer and leave, more confused than ever.

* * * *

Later that evening Adam emails me. He’s feeling better. He can tell I’ve been there by the movie, and he notices I changed the sheets. He’s forgotten everything else.

* * * *

I don’t have much time on my hands this week. Aunt Clara is coming over every day to make as much Christmas candy with me as she deems necessary. This candy-making is a good partnership. Her kitchen is way too small for it, and my one attempt at toffee resulted in a forever-gooey mess that ultimately stuck so badly, I had to throw away the pan it was in.

I’m here for transportation–of Aunt Clara and ingredients, as well as moving heavy pans of this and cooling trays of that–and for stirring. And hefting the fifty-pound bag of sugar, which I am beginning to doubt will be enough.

During a short break on Wednesday, while we eat lunch and catch
People’s Court
, I’m thinking of Mike and his behavior the night before. God, he seems so sorry. I can’t help thinking maybe I should give this whole marital counseling thing a fair shake and see if we can be fixed.

“What’s troublin’ ya, child?” Aunt Clara asks, munching a few crumbs of the peanut brittle we just finished making. “You’re a million miles away.”

“Just wondering if there’s a possibility my marriage could be fixed, if I really wanted it. People have gone through worse and stayed together.”

Clara rolls her little eyes, then looks off out my window at the small airport across the river.

“To me, a marriage is like a fort in the Old West. When you first settle in, you build it together, puttin’ up strong walls, hopin’ your love will be strong enough to protect you from anything scary that might come along. Outside your walls are maybe Indians or outlaws, wantin’ in to loot and pillage.” Lana. Yeah, she’s a savage, all right. “If one of ’em gets in, busts up part of your wall, you can’t ever change that. You can fix it, but it ain’t ever the
same
again, see?”

“Some people claim their marriages are stronger afterward. Like a bone that’s stronger after it breaks and scars.”

“Bone’s still scarred, ain’t it?” Clara scoffs. “Nobody’s ever gonna look at that bone again and not see the scar.”

“Still, if it’s
stronger
, that’s what matters, isn’t it?”

“You think
your
marriage will ever be stronger?”

How can she turn my most complicated life-struggles into the simplest things?

* * * *

Although Adam stays home from work the rest of the week, he doesn’t want me coming around. He’s insistent about not exposing me again, even though I got a flu shot. With the unlimited time he has on his hands, he sends me tons of emails, some brief blurbs or links to goofy websites, some pages long. In spite of Aunt Clara’s company, I find myself missing him at odd moments and making excuses to check my email to see what’s been on his mind.

On Friday, I check my fan club email the publisher insisted on setting up for me, and get a big surprise. I usually check it every two or three days, and answer them all religiously. It’s not like there are that many of them. I find a message waiting for me from Ferris.

Dear Ms. Lawson,

I’m your new number one fan.

You are an amazing woman. Your nursing skills are outstanding, and you have a great ass. I’ve been reading your first novel, and can’t wait to try out the moves Bo used on Maggie.

Just wanted to let you know I found you out, Miss “Tell Me All About Yourself.”

Crazed,

Ferris

Shit. How did he find me out? Why do I care? Because writing was the one thing I had that he didn’t know about me.
He
has all these big secrets. And I’m as transparent as window glass. I reply immediately.

Dear Snoopy Ferris,

How did you find me out? Stalking me again? And how’d you get your paws on my novel? Speaking of great asses, you weren’t wearing a stitch when I got you to the shower! Just thought I’d remind you. In case you think I’m joshing you, I saw that ice cream-cone-shaped birthmark next to your two scoops.

Ms. Lawson

My cellphone rings immediately. I’m smiling from ear to ear when I answer. “Hello?”

“You
saw
me naked?”