Page 38 of Prosecco with My Professor
My disappointment grows. I had half-hoped that she would return eager to take me up on my offer. That doesn’t seem to be happening.
The next week, Emma doesn’t show up on Wednesday. After the session is over, I check my email, expecting a note from her explaining why she skipped my lecture, but there’s nothing there. On Thursday she doesn’t show up either, and I haven’t seen her around the apartment building.
I’m getting concerned.
On Friday morning, I knock on Emma’s door and don’t get an answer. I knock on Eva’s door and ask if she’s seen Emma. She hasn’t. I check in with the other professors throughout the day; same story.
I return to the building Friday afternoon and knock more insistently. While I wait, I pace the hallway. I call the landlord, and he hasn’t heard anything.
What if something is wrong? What if she ran into that guy again, the one that followed her? I’m flooded with images of him being a sophisticated stalker who moves to kidnapping and serial killing, though the more logical side of my brain tells me that’s highly unlikely.
I bang so hard on Emma’s door that Eva comes out to check on me. She leaves Oliver inside, and we’re discussing calling the police when there’s a noise on the other side of the door, and I shush her.
A few excruciating moments later, the door opens, and I sag in relief when I see Emma. It’s short-lived, though, because she looks awful. Her hair is a mess that possibly used to be a bun and what’s come out of it is sticking to her sweaty neck and face. She’s wearing a damp tank top with nothing underneath, cotton underwear, and a blanket like a cape.
Eva and I exchange a glance, and Emma blinks at us. “Emma,” I say. “Are you okay?”
She blinks again. “Sick.” She turns and stumbles toward the bedroom but then diverts course and crawls over the arm of the loveseat to lie face down on it.
Eva and I both step inside. I take off my blazer and crouch next to the couch. “Emma, piccola, what’s wrong?” I place the back of my hand on her forehead. She’s burning up.
“Sick,” she repeats, her voice hoarse.
“I’ll go get a thermometer,” Eva says from behind me, and she disappears.
“Chills?”
Her head moves in the barest of nods.
“Body ache?”
Another infinitesimal movement.
I check her lymph nodes—swollen—and when Eva returns with the thermometer, I take her temperature—thirty-nine degrees. High, but not too high.
“What can I do to help?” Eva says after hovering over my shoulder for a few minutes.
“Can you check her fridge for some orange juice or a sports drink? She needs to hydrate. I’m going to call a doctor.”
A moment later, Eva confirms that there is neither in the refrigerator. “Can you run to the store, then?”
Eva disappears. Oliver barks when she goes into her apartment and then when she leaves. I call my doctor and friend, Chiara, to see if she can make a house call. When I explain Emma’s symptoms, she says she can swing by in a few hours, but until then, she should drink lots of fluids, have some tea with honey, and—if possible—a hot shower.
When I get off the phone, Emma’s fallen asleep, and I decide not to wake her until Eva gets back. I open the window a crack to get some fresh December air in and roam around, picking up used tissues and taking a few dirty plates back to the kitchen.
Eva returns, and I thank her for running the errand.
“I bought some tissues, too, and medicine for cold and flu.”
“Thank you,” I repeat.
“Do you have this?” she asks, peering back at Emma. “I’m so sorry, but I have to walk Oliver and then I have a date.”
“Yes, I have her. The doctor is on the way.”
Satisfied, Eva disappears, and I close the door behind her.
I crouch down next to Emma’s head. “Piccola, wake up.” I touch her shoulder, and she opens her eyes groggily. “Sit up. You need to drink something.”
