After Swan Lae:

Thursday, May 23

I still stared upward, but my infinite sky had been replaced by drab ceiling tiles. The fabric against my skin was rough and uncomfortable. Cheap. I had no notion what became of my wonderfully soft silk blouse. One of my shoes lay in a transparent plastic bag on a chair against the white wall. Forlorn and alone in the world.

The cacophony in my head had subsided at some point, and I was aware of a chorus of beeps and tones. Some nearby, some farther away.

Air, presumably cold--places like this are never anything but--blew from a vent in the ceiling. It didn't seem to have any effect on my body. I was acutely aware of the fact that the place had no smell, which seemed implausible. Hospitals always had a distinct smell, like nowhere else in the world.

At some point in the recent past, my mind had returned to my body. The reunion was not a joyous one. My skin ached. My joints and muscles vociferously protested even the suggestion of movement. Deep breaths hurt from the inside. Shallow breaths didn't provide enough oxygen in spite of the tube chafing the inside of my nose.

This must be how a fish felt on a bicycle.

A brusque knock and the sound of a heavy door sliding open interrupted my reverie. In front of me materialized a man. Young-ish and powerfully built; clothing entirely white against his dark skin. Tattoos suggested themselves from the sleeves of his shirt. Someone's comic book interpretation of an angel. A bouncer on loan from the pearly gates.

He carried a single, violently green post-it note. The square of paper transfixed my gaze.

"Hi Michelle," the muscular angel said. His voice was deep, round, resonant. It was pleasant to hear. "My name is Craig. I'm one of your nurses. There's someone here, wants to see you. A neighbor? Are you up for a visitor?"

"Mrs. Holland?" My voice was foreign to me. Harsh, but muffled. Glass breaking under a blanket. Unpleasant to hear.

"Paul De-Del--" The man consulted his post-it.

"Yes," I croaked. "Yes."

"OK, no problem. Can I get you anything?"

I looked around and saw a cup of water on the bedside table, then shook my head no and Craig disappeared. I took a drink to try to calm my throat.

The room was windowless. Done in shades of white except for two bright gray chairs. I decided to stare at the wall instead of the ceiling. There wasn't much. A round analog clock. Time: 9:03. Still morning. Probably. A framed Monet print (

Water Lilies

). Three boxes of purple gloves.

I thought about the last time I had looked at a clock that read 9:03 until I heard another knock and the door sliding open again.

"Michelle, I have your friend Paul here." Nurse Craig again. "Just hit your call button if you need anything."

The heavy swish-chunk sound again as the door closed.

Today it was the midnight blue over ivory. The suit he wore to the theatre that first night. I love that one. I had an overwhelming urge to bury my face in his lapel. The way it all started.

His expression recalled images of disaster survivors. Like the ones from his own textbook. The look sent a knife through my heart.

My bag dangled pathetically from his left hand. I followed him with my eyes as he came over, pulled a chair close.

"Did you wear that for me?" I asked, trying to smile.

"Shelly, how are you? Why didn't you call 911?"

"Relax, I'm fine. How did you know I was here?"

"Shelly, you were on fire." His voice was ragged, almost as hoarse as mine. He wiped his eyes. Maybe he had allergies. "I watched them put you out with a fire extinguisher."

"You... watched?"

"I was running late and then everything was blocked because of the fire trucks. I was trying to turn around when I saw your bag. They kept me back on the other side of the street, wouldn't let me near the ambulance. Eventually I convinced one of the cops to bring the bag over. I called your parents."

I stared at him blankly while my brain caught up to the story.

"You called my parents? Wait, what about Mrs. Holland? Is she OK?" I asked.

His hesitation was its own answer. "Shell, I'm so sorry."

He touched the side of my head, gently brushed my fried hair with his hand as his phone started ringing. He looked at the screen and made an effort to regain his composure before answering. I only heard his side of the conversation:

"Hello? Hi Marlene. No, I know. I'm sorry I didn't call. I got caught up with the fire.

"No, no, thankfully not mine. Unfortunately I'm not going to make it in. At least the morning, more likely all day. Could you tell Erica I need help covering my classes? Tell her don't worry about presentations, and I owe her one. More than one.

"Also, one more favor? I'm at the hospital with Shelly Cameron. Yes. She was involved with everything this morning. Yeah, she'll be OK, but she won't be in today or tomorrow for sure. I called her parents. They're on the way, but I'm going to stay until they arrive. Yep, thanks Marlene. Call me if you need anything. Bye."

"How did you call my parents?" I asked after he hung up. "What did you tell them?"

He took my phone out of his inside pocket and laid it on the bedside table.

"Emergency contacts. I told them a neighbor had a fire and you went to the hospital as a precaution."

"As a precaution? A minute ago you said I was on fire. Who did you say you were?"

"I figure it's distressing enough to get that call in the first place. Someone else can fill in more details when they get here. I said I was one of your teachers, that I happened to be driving by."

"Maybe don't tell them about the fire extinguisher."

I closed my eyes for a moment. Either I was still delirious from the smoke or I was having a moment of absolute clarity. Maybe both.

"Paul, do you love me?"

"What?" he said.

"I need to know if--"

"Yes." His voice began trembling. "Yes. I love you. With every fiber of my being. Watching that ambulance drove away this morning it--it wrung my heart."

"Paul, I'm sorry."

"Shell, no. You were trying to help a friend. That's never something to be sorry about."

"Still," I said, "wringing your heart isn't what I want."

"I'm just glad you're safe, Shell."

I looked into his eyes, saw the depth of his concern and care and love. I knew I couldn't keep concealing our relationship, at least not from the people who mattered.

"I don't want to hide." My own tone of certainty surprised me.

His expression clouded and he silently opened his mouth, as if to say something, then closed it again.

"Paul, look at me. Two hours ago I walked through fire. Actual, literal fire. I'm still here, and now I'm invincible. The only thing that scares me is the idea of hurting you."

He looked like he was sizing me up for a straitjacket. "Shelly, you're not invincible."

"Nothing can hurt me. I don't need to shout it from the rooftops, but any minute now, my parents are going to walk through that door. I'm not going to lie about who you are. Why you're here with me."

"This isn't the right time. They're not going to be happy about it."

"You know, I read up on your friend Rutilius," I replied. "I'm pretty sure he thought the right time for honesty was always."

The door slid open again before he could respond, and both of my parents swept into the room.

"Give us a minute," I said to Paul, squeezing his hand. "Stay close."

He briefly greeted my parents and excused himself. If they had caught any of our exchange, they didn't show it.

They were surprisingly calm at first, but got increasingly agitated as they took in more of the scene. I must've looked rough. I felt rough.

"Shelly, what happened?" Mom asked.

"Mrs. Holland had a fire. I tried to help. She...." I couldn't finish the sentence.

"What did the doctors say?" Now it was my dad. "We didn't think you were hurt."

"I'm fine, really. Minor burns and some smoke. I can probably go home tomorrow."

"When happened to your arm?"

I looked down at a jagged red gash about four inches long on the inside of my right elbow. The skin was stained orange and sewn together with stiff green thread.

"I have no idea."

My mom occupied the chair Paul had just left. Dad stood behind her, hand resting lightly on her shoulder. I had never seen them so worried.

"I'll be fine, I promise. Look, that's not important right now."

That got them going; I guess my injuries, however minor, were important to them.

"Please, I need to say something." I looked at my mother imploringly. "It hurts to talk."

I felt Mom's hand on mine, and she gave me a small nod.

"That man you just met, Mr. Delacourt." I hesitated. (How the hell was I supposed to say this?) "Paul. He's..."

I looked up at my dad, held his eyes with mine. "He's not just my teacher."

I got the only thing I wasn't expecting: silence. The worry on Dad's face softened slightly. He looked unhappy, but there was something else underneath it. I looked back to my mother. She had her head down. I couldn't see her expression.

"Shelly," she started. "Your father--I was in graduate school, it's completely different."

"No it isn't," I said flatly. "Not in any way that matters."

My father sighed and squeezed his wife's shoulder. He didn't seem angry, but he still hadn't said anything.

"Dad?"

"I don't know what to say, Shell. And this," he gestured around the room. "Maybe let's just get through the day that's in front of us."

"I love him. Today. Here. Right now." I felt the tears welling up and then spilling out. "I loved him this morning before the fire. And I'll still love him tomorrow. No matter what happens."

"And him?" My mother asked with an edge of contempt. "It's a fling to him. Meaningless." She practically spat the word out. "Just another man chasing after every pretty young woman who crosses his path."

Apparently maternal bonds can displace matrimonial ones. I saw my dad's pained expression as his wife implicitly condemned their own decades-long relationship. It was hard to watch.

"Mom, I started it," I replied. "And look at you, you've been married 20 years. Longer. This isn't a fling."

"You can't know that."

"I do know it. I want you to know it, too. He's a good man who loves your daughter. I don't want to hide it from you."

"Is this what you were upset about?" She asked after a long pause. "Last week?"

I nodded and felt her squeeze my hand a little. I tried to get hold of myself, but the tears flowed inexorably.

"Dad, could you go get him please?"

Paul was just outside the door. I wasn't sure how much he had heard, but he gave me a searching expression when he came back in.

"Paul, I want you to meet my parents, Dan and Kristin. Mom, Dad, this is my boyfriend Paul." He looked nonplussed, but tried to smile. "I think you three have a lot to talk about, and I'd like to rest. Why don't you go get some coffee?"

At the very least, my mom didn't look like she was going to dismember him, but Paul was going to be on his own for the next bit. I silently hoped he came back in one piece.

I checked my phone after they left: 27 missed calls, 83 messages (Hanna was responsible for a substantial chunk of them). Apparently, someone overheard something in the office, and most of the school thought I was dead.

Hanna had called my mom at some point, so at least she knew I was still kicking. I sent her a selfie and asked her to visit after school. I replied to a handful of other people, letting them know the report of my death was an exaggeration, then tried to settle in.

I figured I wasn't going to get anywhere without some help, so I put in my headphones and queued up Max Richter's

Sleep

.

I couldn't actually sleep, but I was feeling groggy when my parents came back. Paul came in a couple minutes later with an extra chair. None of them really said much, but they seemed to get along well enough.

I pretended to be asleep until lunch arrived: ersatz turkey, re-hydrated potato flakes, flavorless gravy. The oatmeal raisin cookie was its own microcosm of sorrow. Not only did it look like partially-recycled cardboard, it made this morning's loss real in a way it hadn't been previously.

I began to weep, and felt three pairs of eyes focus on me. Uncontrollable sobs wracked my body until no more noise came out.

"Is the food really that bad?" Dad asked.

I pushed the table away. Paul wordlessly picked up the tray, and disappeared. Swish, chunk. I had an absurd moment of jealousy for the tray, wishing he would've carried me out instead.

We passed two mostly quiet hours. Dad fielded occasional phone calls from friends and family, but nobody talked much.

In the afternoon, once we moved from emergency to the regular floor, staff came by on rounds. They wanted to keep me overnight for fluids and antibiotics, but there wasn't much in the way of definite treatment. They were giving me Toradol (ibuprofen to us plebs) and basically putting Neosporin on the burns.

They said the wound on my arm looked like it was caused by broken glass; I told them how I happened to smash in a window with a brick this morning. For some reason none of the doctors thought this was funny. I thought it said more about them than me, but at least nobody was lecturing me about reckless behavior.

I fell asleep at some point after that. Hanna was the only person in the room when I woke up.

"What time is it? How long have you been here?"

"A little after four," she said, handing me the water. "I got here like half an hour ago. Figured I'd let you sleep. How are you feeling?"

"Bad. Itchy."

She nodded as if that was about what she expected to hear. "Are you going to tell your best friend why Delacourt is outside?"

Fuck. She looked wounded. Even if I had wanted to lie to her, I wouldn't have been able to do it. I had planned on telling her today, but this wasn't how I envisioned it.

"Hanna, I'm so sorry. I didn't want you to lie for me." When she didn't reply, I continued: "I invited him to the Saturday night show, and then we ran into each other after. We were just going to get coffee. It was such a good show. I was ecstatic and wanted someone to share it with. But the coffee shop was closed and we took a walk instead. We were kind of flirting. I was flirting. But he walked me home and something in me just flipped. I knew I would regret it forever if I didn't... try."

"Who else knows?" she asked.

"Nobody. I just told my parents today. I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to keep secrets."

"I figured." She nodded slowly. "I'm still mad though."

We sat quietly until they brought dinner in. I didn't think she was giving me the silent treatment, but not every space needs to be filled when you've known someone for 78 percent of your life.

I started picking at what was supposed to be grilled chicken.

"Did you really run into a fire?"

"I guess. I mean, it was just smoke at first."

"Why?"

The question floored me. I hadn't considered the possibility of not going in.

"I guess I didn't really think about it."

"You ran into a burning house. Alone. Without thinking about it?" She said it (shouted it, really) like an accusation.

I couldn't understand her fury. Her face was a confusing mix of rage, anguish, maybe fear. I wasn't sure. I didn't even know if this was about the fire or Paul.

"Shelly, it wasn't your job. That's why we have firefighters. You could've died. One person did die."

Obviously, Paul chose this moment to return.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt." He looked awkwardly at Hanna, backing out of the room.

"It's OK. Come, sit," I replied.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't be yelling at you," Hanna said. "or I probably could've waited until you were out of the hospital at least. But I have to get going. My parents are going out tonight and I'm in charge."

She kissed the air around my head.

"Love you," I said. "I'll call you tomorrow."

Paul gave me a look after she left the room. "That seemed, I don't know what."

"We've been best friends since we were four," I said as he moved into the chair. "You look tired, why don't you go home? You still have work tomorrow."

"I will in a bit. I just want to sit with you for a little while."

And so he sat. I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of his breathing, tried to match it. My world became very, very small.

"Paul?"

"Hm?"

I looked over into those fathomless eyes and he loosely took my hand.

"I love you."

###

My parents left to go home around 8:00, and I was completely alone. It was a weird feeling after such a wild day.

I sat with my thoughts for a while, and realized that I hadn't really said thank you to any of the people who were trying to be there for me.

I texted Hanna first: "I know I've been a crappy friend lately, but I want you to know that you are a great friend. Thanks for coming to visit, and for caring about me."

Then I called my mom. She picked up after half a ring.

"Shelly? Is everything OK? Do you need anything?"

"Yes--no. What? I'm fine, Mom. Relax," I said, with a trace of irritation.

"We're just worried about you. You're our only daughter and you're spending the night in the hospital."

"I know, Mom. That's why I'm calling. Sort of. Is Dad around? Can you put me on speaker?"

"Just a minute." A brief pause. "OK, we're both here."

"Hi Shelly," he said.

"Hi Dad. Look, I just wanted to say... thanks. I know today couldn't have been easy."

"You don't need to thank us," Dad said. "We're your parents, it comes with the territory."

"I know, but still. You both have so much going on already, and this is another problem you have to deal with. I want you to know that I love you, and I'm glad you're there for me when I do something stupid like run into a burning building."

I heard a sigh on the other end, but it wasn't clear who it was. Maybe it was both of them.

"We're just glad it wasn't worse," Mom said. "But I know it was hard for you too. Mrs. Holland was such a wonderful woman, and I know she was very fond of you."

"Could you maybe try to get in touch with someone from her family?" I asked. "She had a daughter. I'd at least like to try to talk to her or something. And then... the funeral."

"Sure," Mom said. "I can do that. Are you sure you don't need anything?"

"I'm fine. Really. I'm going to try to go to sleep soon. I was just going to make one more call."

The pause on the other end lasted a beat longer than it should have.

"Well," Dad started, "try to get some sleep, and we'll be back in the morning. Call us if you need anything. We love you."

"Love you, Dad," I said. "Love you, Mom. Goodnight."

I called Paul after I finished with my parents.

"Hey you." He sounded genuinely happy. "I wasn't expecting to hear from you tonight."

"Hey," I replied. "I won't keep you long, but I wanted your voice in my ears. And I wanted to say thank you."

"You're welcome," he said tentatively, "but I didn't really do anything."

"You cared about me today, and I appreciate you being there. And I'm sorry I caused you pain. That's the last thing in the world I want to do."

He was quiet for a moment, and I thought I heard paper rustling.

"There is no safe investment." The quality of his voice had shifted. It was more rhythmic and the timbre was at once fuller and almost hushed. Reverential. "To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal."

"You looked it up?" I asked.

"He wrote a whole book,

The Four Loves

, about the different kinds of love in the world. My aunt gave me a copy when I graduated high school."

"Were you reading it? Do you have it there with you?"

"Maybe."

"I was just going to put in a random audiobook to try to relax, but would you maybe read that for me instead? Even just a page or two. Please?"