“No,” she replied. “You’ve been in your room all this time.”
“I have this weird recollection of a nurse taking my temperature with one of those electric thermometers. She was wearing a respirator and her hair was in a bun. She kind of. She reminded me of you.”
“I’ll be darned,” she said. “Probably just a weird dream.”
“Speaking of dreams, I’ve been having fucking nightmares. Jesus Christ. Talk about vivid.” I shook my head to clear it. “They were fucking awful.”
“Is it common for you to have nightmares?” she asked.
“Not at all. Hell, I rarely dream at all, and never have nightmares.”
She sighed. “I think nightmares are pretty common with a high fever. At least from what I’ve read.”
“I think my fever might be gone,” I said. “I don’t feel chills any longer.”
“You slept well last night,” she said. “Almost no coughing at all.”
“Before that?” I asked. “Was it bad?”
“It was just awful on the day before yesterday,” she replied. “Maybe the worst. It might have been three days ago, I don’t know. They’re all kind of squished together. Have you been drinking plenty of Gatorade?”
I glanced at the floor. “Apparently, I have.” I stared at the empty bottles that littered the floor in disbelief. “I must be going nuts.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t remember buying this shit. The Gatorade. I have no idea where it came from.”
“You’re probably just confused,” she said. “I’m sure everything will come back to you sooner or later.”
“I hope so.”
“Do you have any body aches?”
“I feel like I’ve been in a week-long boxing match,” I replied. “My entire body aches, but not like before. It was so bad the other day that I was in tears. I think this is residual.”
“Good, maybe you’re on the downhill slope.”
I’d read about victims who had felt they were on the road to recovery, only to have their symptoms worsen a day or so later. I took a drink of Gatorade, wondering if I’d slip back onto the living hell I’d been in since the day the books arrived.
I took another drink. “I just remembered the books. We started reading the one about Christopher.”
“We did.”
I took another drink. I glanced around the room. Bits and pieces of memories came to me like snippets of a movie clip.
“Did you read to me?” I asked.
“I did.”
I chuckled. “I have a faint recollection of Leo Gursky and Bruno trying to bake a cake.”
“I read it to you.”
“That part?” I asked, taking another drink. “The beginning? That was at the beginning, wasn’t it?”
“That part? Yeah. It seems like it was at the beginning,” she replied. “I’m not sure. All the days kind of run into one another right now.”
I was disappointed that we didn’t get to read the books together. It was something I was looking forward to sharing with her.
“How much of it did you read?” I asked.
“I read the entire book.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“I did.”
“All of it?”
“Every word,” she replied. “It seemed to calm you. I know it calmed me.”
I took my phone off the nightstand and cancelled the speaker. I raised it to my ear. “Wait, you read it to me?”
“I did.”
“All of it?”
“Uh huh.”
“Have you cracked the cover of Angela’s Ashes?”
“I have.”
I was fractionally disappointed. More so in myself than anything else. “I had visions of reading them together. Sharing the experience.”
“We did share the experience,” she replied.
“Don’t tell me you read Angela’s Ashes to me, too.”’
“I did.”
“All of it?”
“Every chapter.”
“Holy shit,” I replied, rubbing my face with my hand. “I’ve been out of it.”
“Yes,” she said. “You sure have.”
“Hold on a minute,” I said. “I’m going to go weigh myself.”
“Why?”
“When I was in the bathroom a minute ago, I looked like a skeleton. I want to see what I weigh.”
“Okay.”
I finished the bottle of Gatorade and set it on the nightstand. With my phone pressed to my ear I walked to the bathroom. Each step became much easier than the last. Excited that I was getting better, I got on the scale.
I stared at the digital readout like it was a lie. I got off, reset the scale, and got back on. The same number displayed.
“I’ve lost 18 pounds,” I declared. “There’s no fucking way. How long has it been?”
“Since the day you fell asleep?”
“Since the day we started reading,” I replied. “That’s the last day I remember.”
“Let’s see,” she said. “Thirteen days since your diagnosis, and seven days since you got sick.”
“I’ve been in bed for seven fucking days?”
“Uh huh.”
“An entire week? Jesus.” I glanced at the shower. “I’m going to try to take a shower. I’ll call you when I’m done. Okay?”
“I’m sure a shower will feel good.”
“Talk to you in a minute.”
“Okay.”
I started to hang up, and then paused. “Anna?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I enjoyed it.”
I hung up the phone and placed it on the vanity. After brushing a week of yack from my teeth, I took a long, hot shower. As I washed my hair, I recalled bits and pieces of my time in bed. Hours upon hours of aching, periods of hot sweats, cold chills, and the endless nights of nightmares.
I stood in front of the mirror, drying myself with a towel. It came to me that my father was in the hospital. I’d all but forgotten. Frantic, I grabbed my phone from the vanity.
I opened the call log and thumbed through it. Missed calls from Pratt, missed calls from Anna, and calls I’d made to Anna—all of which were accepted—were the only calls on the log. I had no recollection of anything that was listed.
Dumbfounded, I called the hospital and asked about my father. According to the nurse, he was still listed as “stable”, but that was all she could say.
I asked about the risk of exposing myself to others. I was advised if someone has been symptom-free for 3 days and they developed their first symptoms or were diagnosed more than 10 days prior, they were no longer considered to be infectious.
Naked, disappointed, and a little confused, I sauntered into the kitchen. I opened the fridge. It was filled with Gatorade. The milk, however, was gone.
I searched the trash. An empty milk carton was at the top. Beside it, a plastic bag from Ralph’s.
I never shopped at Ralph’s.
I lifted the bag from the container and opened it. A crumpled receipt was at the bottom. I retrieved the receipt, unfolded it, and looked at the purchase.