Page 53 of Enemies to Lobsters
Diana bolted upstairs, totally abandoning her Yankees. I followed her up here, and now it sounds like an exorcism is happening on the other side of the door. I want to give her privacy, but I’m wondering if I should call a doctor or burn some sage.
“Di?” I call through the door.
The third act of the exorcism is happening, and I can't leave her like this. She clearly needs help.
I tap my knuckle on the bathroom door, fully aware that she doesn’t want my help. She’s made that clear enough. “Di?”
She moans. The sound echoes off of porcelain.
Oof.
“What can I do?”
Just more moaning.
I drag my phone out of my jeans and dial my brother's cell. Diana will hate this, but my only other option is a Catholic priest.
“Ike?” my brother answers.
I wander toward the stairs, lowering my voice so I don’t embarrass Diana. “August. Something's wrong with Diana.” I describe the sounds I've heard as quietly as possible.
“It could be a virus, or it’s some kind of food poisoning. She'll work through whatever it is. Keep her hydrated. Lots of fluid and electrolytes. Want me to bring something up?”
This is all stuff I knew. I was hoping he had a secret trick that only doctors know. What's the point of having a doctor in the family if he doesn't have secret tricks? I drag my hand down my face. I hate how miserable Diana sounds, and I wanted some magic for her. It looks like my only option is magical Gatorade.
“No, I’ll grab something. Thanks, Aug.” I end the call and make my way back through Diana’s room.
“Diana?” I call through the door.
Her only response is an unintelligible, pitiful sound followed by, “Leave me alone, Ike.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say, even though it stings that she doesn’t want my help. I sit on the hardwood floor outside the bathroom Googling solutions for food poisoning until the game ends, and my friends leave. The Red Sox won, and I can’t even enjoy it.
The past few weeks of marriage to Diana have been dream-like. We fit each other. She’s letting me in and allowing me to treat her the way she deserves to be treated. We were making progress. Or so I thought.
Sometimes it’s like Diana’s a rare bird that landed on my shoulder. She’s too beautiful for words and startles easily. But if I go about my life, quietly appreciating her presence without drawing attention to the fact that we’re legally married, she doesn’t flap her wings. She even seems to enjoy being with me. There are perks to being married to Ike Wentworth, after all. I grin, remembering how she curled into my lap so easily downstairs.
There are perks to being married to Diana, too.
∞∞∞
Everything hurts.
Last night I passed a tall glass of ice water through the bathroom door for Diana. I checked on her periodically, frustrated that I couldn’t do more. Around two in the morning I heard soft snoring. I crept through the door, scooped her up, and carried her to bed. I smoothed her hair and tucked her blankets over the top of her. Then I laid on the wood floor beside her and tried to sleep. It didn’t happen. Now there’s yellow light coming through the window, and I feel like I’m ninety years old.
“Argh,” Diana groans, scrambling out of bed and running for the bathroom.
Oh, man. What is this? Round forty-seven? Poor Diana.
A few minutes later she emerges looking rough. She’s wearing yesterday’s Yankees T-shirt and jeans. Her hair is smashed on one side of her head. She’s pale and clammy-looking as she stumbles past me, face-planting on her bed with a whimper.
I sit on the edge of her bed, pressing the back of my hand against the barely-exposed skin of her forehead. “You’re hot, Diana.”
She mumbles into her starfish quilt, “You want me. I knew it.” Then she moans like those six words used the last of her energy reserves.
I chuckle. She's not as near death as I thought. “I don’t want to leave you.” I hate this. We need reinforcements, but I can’t leave her here.
“Go to work. Don't worry about me.” Her words don't match her tone at all. “I'll be fine,” she says as she curls into the fetal position.
