Oh, I’ll call him all right.
“Bastard!”
Chapter Six
My exclamation echoes against the hard limestone walls, then dies, replaced by the distant sounds of wind howling and rain pelting as I stand here, mind racing.
What just happened?
I’m completely and utterly alone in this stairwell. Not another human being, much less insect, is here with me. Certainly no dark and sexy stranger.
I stare at the wall that I could have sworn had fallen down.
“Am I going crazy? Do crazy people know they’re crazy? Would I know? I feel crazy right now, not stabby crazy, so maybe I’m fine? But still…” I bite my lip.
Okay, back the train up, Pell, I tell myself. You took pictures.
“Yes, I took pictures!” I shout. I’m not crazy, and I can prove it.
My hand digs in my cargo pants pocket and extracts the broken phone and I hit the On button.
No, I’m not crazy.
I touch the Photos and furrow my brow when the pictures I took of colorful pottery shards another of my colleagues found recently come up.
I scroll.
But I run out of images in short order. “They have to be here.” Insistence fills my voice. and I scroll back to the bottom, but the pottery shards are the last ones.
I shake my phone—because that’ll definitely help—then growl at the broken screen, “Cough ’em up, you stupid device.”
Nothing happens and I throw up my hands and let out a growl.
“Okay, fine. Fine. I can’t get to my pictures.”
Pell, you can figure this out. You can.
I exhale heavily and recite, “I came to check on the stability of the cistern.”
I work through the events, systematically, like any good scientist.
I turn around, my boots scuffing across tiny pebbles that line the dirt floor and shine my Maglite around the walls and surface of the water. It’s fine.
I turn back and gaze at the wall again. “Part of this wall collapsed.”
I step forward and scrutinize it, yet no matter how long I study it, I find nothing to suggest any of the stones have moved in ages. I step closer and press a hand to the limestone. It’s solid.
My chest tightens.
Calm down, Pell. You’re a scientist. You pride yourself in being factual and literal, and avoiding embellishing.
“Walls don’t collapse and get magically rebuilt. People don’t appear out of thin air, then vanish again.”
I bite my lip harder as my brain struggles to make sense of the disparate facts. Minutes tick by without a coherent story emerging, and I start doubting.
Did a part of the wall really collapse? I run my fingers across the stones again and shake my head.
Did I really talk with a crazy, sexy man… with unique and beautiful and very familiar eyes… who isn’t anywhere in the vicinity?
I frown at my traitorous phone, then grab the back of my neck. There has to be an explanation. Has the stress of the earthquake and the toxic environment of the dig finally sent me over the edge?
I bring a hand up and feel my forehead, but my fingers are too cold to tell if I’m sick.
Have I been projecting, displacing my feelings of frustration onto a person I somehow conjured? The stranger’s dark, brooding good looks and deep baritone voice, the conversation… did I imagine all of it?
I’m not a psychologist. Has my brain created an invisible friend to help me cope? The guy beats Harvey the rabbit, hands down, but really?
I suck in a breath as another possibility dawns. Am I suffering from delusions? Does early onset Alzheimer’s run in my genes? I’ve no way of knowing. If it does, what am I to do? How long will I live? Will I forget everything?
My chest tightens and my breathing labors. Now I’m worried. I need to get it checked out. I’m too young to die. I have too much to live for.
I sneeze and a shiver races up my back, bringing me back. I scrounge in my pocket, grab another Kleenex, and blow my nose.
I snort. I am sick, all my sneezing proves it. That’s all this is. Maybe I’ve hallucinated. Yes, it has to be.
I need drugs and sleep, that’s all. They say the mind is an amazing organ capable of unimaginable feats, well, my brain has outdone itself. I’m sick and I’ve imagined everything.
The back of my throat suddenly feels sore. There see, more proof I’m sick. That’s all this is. I’m not crazy. My mind’s just playing tricks on me. I need lots of cold meds and sleep.
My body instantly relaxes with the declaration, releasing the tension that’s been building, and I take one last look around the landing. Boy, sickness sure did a number on me.
I shake my head, pocket my cracked phone—it’s not the only thing cracked—then climb the ninety-nine steps and slough my way through the drizzle and mud, back to the command tent.
Thankfully only Jude is around when I enter.
“The cistern is secure, but I’m not feeling well. I need to go.”
Jude looks me up and down but doesn’t ask any questions, only replies, “Then get some rest, and we’ll see you tomorrow. A little avgolemono soup will fix you right up.”
“Thanks, I’ll give it a try,” I say, waving as I leave.
_______
I feel my forehead again, then sneeze as Grumpy, the old black beater I got a deal on, gives another sputter as I drive. I don’t know how many more days he has in him, but I hope he’ll last the rest of this dig because I don’t want to have to ride share with any of the guys. But however long he has, I pray he doesn’t die today, not with the rain pelting like it is.
Grumpy lurches and chuffs as I pull into a parking space in front of my room at the ramshackle motel. I pull my hood up, then grab my take out—Jude’s suggested remedy—and a few other Greek cold meds, which never work as well as Nyquil, from the passenger seat, and make a run for the door whose bright blue paint is peeling.
The musty smell of the old, gold shag carpet greets me as it always does as I slam the door shut and lock both bolts. I kick off my muddy boots as I set my packages on the desk next to the door, twist close the bent, formerly white mini blinds, then make a bee line to the thermostat, zipping it up. No doubt whoever ends up upstairs tonight will complain about the heat, but I don’t care, I’m freezing. And sick.
The metal radiator against the far wall starts hissing as I throw my wet coat on the extra twin bed and head into the bathroom. The place is a dump, but its one redeeming grace is that it has scalding hot water, exactly what I need to get warmed up and forget my episode of crazy.
Steam begins to fill the closet-sized space as I strip off my sodden clothes and slip into the stream of hot water, ignoring the brown that colors the grout between the avocado tiles.
“Ahhhh.” It comes out a moan.
Refusing to think further about my hallucination, I welcome the image of the pair of eyes that always comforts me. It fills my mind almost immediately as I pick up the soap and start washing my body. “You’d never believe…” I chuckle. “I imagined an entire breathing, talking guy with your eyes. Granted he was sexy and cute, but still. What’s my subconscious trying to tell me?”
Now that I’ve rationalized the situation and know I was hallucinating from this cold, I feel safe remembering my fictitious encounter as I lather my hair.