Staying Put

"Mark?"

The voice in my phone was so soft I could hardly hear it.

"Yes," I said. "Who's calling?"

"It's Chris," the voice said, a little louder now, but still not much above a whisper. I knew I recognized it, but I was still at a loss.

"Uh, hi Chris," I replied, still groping for a face to go with the voice.

"From swimming," she said. Then I knew who it was. She sounded like shit.

"What's wrong?" I asked. "You sound pretty bad."

I think she tried to chuckle, but it didn't work. "Yeah," she said. "I am. That's why I'm calling. I'm really sorry to bother you, but I didn't know who else to call." She paused, resting for a few seconds. "I'm really sick and have a doctor's appointment this afternoon and, well, I'm wondering if you could drive me?"

"Of course," I said. I was surprised to hear her sound so bad. I knew she hadn't been to our early morning Master's swim sessions for a week or so, but that wasn't too unusual during the summer. People do take vacations.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I'm still not sure," she said, her voice very weak, like it was an effort just to talk. "I'm hoping the doctor can tell me today."

"What time's the appointment?" I asked.

"Not 'til two," she said. "It's downtown at the University Hospital."

I did a couple of quick calculations, then said, "Okay. I'll be over around noon. Can I bring you anything?"

"Some Gatorade and some saltines would be great," she said. "I'll email you directions to my place."

"Okay. See you then."

"Bye." Her voice was so soft I could barely hear her.

---

On the way to Chris's house I thought about what could have brought her so low. The flu season had been over for a couple of months now and I hadn't heard of any other bugs or viruses circulating around town. Chris was one of the strongest, most powerful women I knew—she regularly competed in Ironman triathlons and kicked my butt every week in the pool—so whatever had her in its grip had to be serious.

I also realized I didn't really know Chris that well, not in the way one would normally know a friend. We'd been lane partners three mornings a week for the past two years and so we'd chatted a lot between sets as we recovered our wind. I knew she was 40, which made her five years younger than I, that she was a grad student in our creative writing program, that she had gone to college in New England and that she didn't wear a wedding ring.

I knew she had a brother in North Carolina, but she'd never mentioned him coming to visit her. But beyond that, I didn't know much. I didn't know if she'd ever been married, what kind of a job she had, or much of anything else. In fact, this would be the first time I'd ever been to her place.

From the directions, I knew it was in the horse country west of town, but whether she lived on a farm or just in a house on a main road, I didn't have a clue. But as I drove down a series of country roads, each place I passed looked pretty impressive—big fieldstone farm houses with well manicured lawns, lots of white fencing and many beautiful horses. If the azaleas hadn't already been past their prime, it would have been spectacular.

Finally, I saw Chris's mailbox and turned off the road onto a gravel driveway that led up a lane of old oaks. The midday sun sparkled in patches along the driveway as my car slid from shadow to shadow. When I turned a bend in the drive and saw her house and I knew Chris had money. This was no grad student's hideaway in the farm country. Her house looked like it had at least five bedrooms and there was a good sized barn to one side, a garage on the other. Either she spent a lot of time taking care of the lawn and gardens out front, or she had a service.

Her Subaru Outback was parked out front, so I pulled in next to it, mounted the front steps and knocked. She didn't answer, so I let myself in and called out, "Hellooo."

From off to my right came a feeble, "In here Mark."

I turned in the direction of her voice and entered the living room. There she was, lying on the sofa, looking as shitty as she'd sounded on the phone. Her skin, normally tanned and healthy looking from all of her triathlon training, was pale, almost white, and pasty looking. Her eyes drooped just a bit and she just gave off this aura of feebleness that was hard for me to reconcile with the powerful woman I knew from the pool.

As I walked toward her I realized that it was the first time I'd ever seen her with her clothes on. In the two years I'd known her, I'd only ever seen her in her bathing suit. Today she was wearing faded jeans, a polo shirt, and some running shoes. If she hadn't look so much like death warmed over, I'd have said she looked attractive. Today that would be lying. She just looked like shit.

"Hey," I said, sitting down in a chair opposite her. "You don't look so good."

"You can tell?" she said, in a weak attempt at humor.

"Uh-huh."

"Thanks for coming. I'm really sorry to call you like this, but everyone else I could have called was out of town and so I was getting desperate."

For about five seconds that hurt my feelings just a little. I was clearly the last choice. But then I realized that we couldn't really count each other close friends, so I let it pass.

"I'm just glad you called me. I'm off this summer relaxing anyway, so you gave me a good excuse to get out of the house."

"Happy to help," she said ruefully.

"What do you think you've got?" I asked.

"I'm not sure," she said. "I've been really sick for four days now. The fever comes and goes. The rest of it's not very attractive—anything I eat either comes right back up, or is flushed through the other end in a hurry. I've been getting increasingly weak as a result."

"Sounds awful," I said. She sure looked awful.

"Do you think I could hold onto your arm as we walk to the car?" she said. "I'm feeling just a little woozy at the moment."

"Sure," I said, standing, extending a hand, and helping her off the couch. She really was shaky. Because I knew how strong she was, it was that much more obvious how bad off she was.

We shuffled together across the living room floor, out the door, down the steps and over to my car. She held onto the roof racks as I opened the door for her, then let herself down slowly into the seat with a sigh. She was so pale I thought she might faint right there, but I left her for a second to close and lock her front door. When I got back, she was slumped with her head against the passenger window, but I could see that she'd managed to buckle her seat belt and her eyes were open. No fainting yet.

I climbed in, turned the car around, and headed back down the tree-lined drive. "You said the University Hospital right?"

"Yes," she said. "You know how to get to the outpatient clinic?"

"It's two buildings over from my office, so I pass it every day."

"Great," she said. Then she closed her eyes and in a few minutes had drifted off on me. From her place in the country it was a good hour to the hospital, and I drove the whole way in silence, every once in a while laying the back of my hand on her forehead. She was running a fever, but wasn't burning up. She didn't even stir when I touched her.

At the entrance to the outpatient clinic, I pulled into the patient loading/unloading area and left her to go find a wheelchair. This was a routine I knew well from several years of managing my father's end of life health issues. When I returned, she was awake and had the door open, but was sitting while she waited. She smiled at the wheelchair, but gladly accepted it. I pushed her into the entry hall waiting area then went off to park the car. When I returned, she hadn't moved.

I wheeled her to the elevators, we rode up to the seventh floor, and found the offices of the gastroenterologist she had an appointment with. In the waiting room, I scanned a few magazines while she sat zoning in a chair. Under other circumstances I would have tried to make small talk, but I could tell she was concentrating on holding it together so I let her be.

When the nurse called for her, I wheeled her over to the door, then told her I'd stick around the waiting room.

"Thanks Mark," she said. "I really appreciate this."

As soon as she'd left, I skipped out to the cafeteria for some coffee, then came back and got caught up on all the magazines I don't subscribe to and never will. After almost an hour and a half, a doctor stepped out from the back, looked at me and said, "Mark Johnson?"

"That's me," I said.

"Can you come with me for a minute?" she asked.

I stood and followed where she led. It was to her office that was furnished with dark oak, framed degrees and licenses.

"I'm Alice Markovic. Chris tells me you're a friend of hers," she began after I'd sat.

"Yes," I replied. "We've known each other for a couple of years."

"I'll get right to the point then," she said. "As you can see, Chris is very sick. The good news is that it's not life-threatening. In fact, the problem is pretty straightforward. She picked up a parasite while she was camping a couple of weeks ago. It seems she wasn't as careful about boiling some stream water as she should have been."

"Sounds nasty," I said.

"Well, yes," she said. "You can see for yourself how it is. She's very weak from the loss of calories over the past several days. In fact, if she weren't such an athlete, she'd have been admitted to a hospital by now."

I nodded.

"The reason I'm telling you this," she said, "is that Chris is going to need fairly constant care for the next several days—probably four or five. She tells me that the members of her family or other friends who might provide such care are all out of the area and unavailable and so what I want to know is whether or not you could provide such care for her. It would mean staying with her 24/7 until the drugs I'm prescribing take hold. She may even get a bit worse over the next 24-48 hours before she gets better."

"I, uh, guess so," I said. I did a quick mental review of my life over the coming few days and the schedule was largely blank—one of the advantages of being a college professor in June. I had planned on doing a fair amount of writing this coming week, but that could certainly wait.

"Because if you can't," the doctor continued, "I want to go ahead and admit her to the hospital today."

"Which do think would be better for her?" I asked.

"Honestly, I think being at home would be better. That's why I'm asking you this. In her weakened condition I'd just as soon she not be in the hospital. After all, there are a lot of other germs floating around here that she might pick up. So if you can take a few days off to help, it would be best for her."

I nodded. "Sure," I said. "My semester's over and so my calendar is pretty free. The timing's good."

"Excellent," she said, smiling. "I need to warn you about a couple of things. The first is that she is likely to vomit or lose control of her bowels several more times before she starts getting better. You need to be particularly careful about cleaning up any mess that occurs. This particular parasite would love to migrate from her to you, so you need to pick up some sterile gloves on your way home. I'd go ahead and get a box of 100. If any of her vomit or stools come into contact with your skin, wash immediately with soap and water, then go back to what you were doing. Is that clear?"

"Very," I said. "From the look of her, I sure don't want the same thing."

"Trust me," she replied. "You don't. The drugs we have to put her on are almost as bad. Very strong stuff. Mostly though, they'll make her sleep a lot. She should start showing signs of improvement in 48-72 hours. That means being able to hold down small amounts of food—crackers, that sort of thing. If she can't hold down food within 72 hours, I want you to call me."

"Will do."

"And you need to realize that she may need you to stick around her for five to seven days until she's strong enough to take care of herself."

Four or five days had just become five to seven, I noticed. I nodded anyway.

"One last thing," she said. "Patients in her condition sometimes hallucinate. It's a delirium brought on by a combination of the drugs, the weakness and the fever. Don't let it freak you out. I'd say half of the patients I see with this sort of problem experience some delirium. It can be a little unnerving, but it's nothing to worry about."

"Thanks for the warning," I said. "Is there anything else I should watch out for?"

"Dehydration is the biggest risk with patients like Chris. Just make sure she drinks lots of water for the next 24 hours. I'm sending you home with some liquid meals. After 24 hours try her on just a little of that—maybe a half a cup at first, no more. See how she does. Bananas are also good. But keep pushing the water. And if her fever spikes over 104, go ahead and take her to the emergency room. I don't want her to sustain such a high fever."

"Got it."

Dr. Markovic stood then, put out her hand and shook mine. "Chris is lucky to have such a good friend," she said.

It didn't seem like the moment to tell her that I was more like an acquaintance. But, I guessed that by the end of the week, I would qualify as a friend. The good doctor stood and led me down the hall to the room where Chris was waiting. She was dressed and in the wheelchair. And she actually looked a little better.

Dr. Markovic spoke first. "Mark says he's fine with taking care of you for the next few days. I've called in your prescriptions to the pharmacy downstairs and you can pick them up on your out. Call me if you start to get much worse, or if you haven't started getting better in 72 hours. Okay?"

Chris nodded. She apparently didn't know that "the next few days" more likely meant "the next week."

"Thanks Mark," she said, looking a little like she was going to cry.

I waved her off. "My pleasure."

She just smiled. So I took hold of the chair handles and off we went to the pharmacy downstairs to pick up her medications. The drive home was much like the one there. Me sitting quietly as she slept. At least I had a chance to plan out everything I was going to need to do to get ready to move in with Chris for a week. Or would it be more?

When we reached her house the afternoon sun was slanting between the oaks that lined the driveway. It was quite beautiful actually and left me jealous. On my professor's salary I'd never live any place quite this nice. At some point I'd have to ask her where her money came from.

---

After putting Chris to bed, I headed for home to pack for the week. I figured she'd be out a good bit, so I grabbed my files and my laptop so I could get some writing done. I'd noticed an exercise bike and an elliptical on her side porch, so I brought some gym clothes too. I'd forgotten to check her refrigerator for me-food, so I stopped at the grocery and stocked up for the week just in case.

When I got back, I heard the water running in the bathroom connected to her bedroom. I knocked on her bedroom door, then poked my head in. Sure enough, she'd tossed her cookies in the bucket I'd left her, but also onto the floor. Fortunately, it was all water and bile, so it didn't look too bad.

I went off in search of a mop and some cleaning fluid, which I found without difficulty. By the time I got back to the bedroom, the water had stopped running, so I called into her room. "Maid service."

When she didn't answer, I opened the door and looked away. She was sprawled buck naked on the bed, legs arms akimbo. I stepped quickly back out of the room, then called in again. "Chris?"

She didn't answer, so steeling myself for the embarrassment, I stepped in. Sure enough, she was out like a light. Just that fast. At least she was cleaned up. So I tugged the blanket out from under her legs and draped it over her. I couldn't help but notice that she was shaved and had small crossed lightning bolt tattoos where her pubic hair would have been. That and her breasts were as beautiful naked as they'd appeared to be in her swimsuit the past couple of years.

There's nothing like being a serious triathlete to give a 40 year-old woman a killer body. They were neither small nor large, and lay there slightly flattened on her chest, her areolas a deep red. Her stomach was flat and her abdominal muscles rippled beneath the skin as she breathed. As I stared, I felt prurient and so turned away. I was the nurse here and I shouldn't be leering at her.

So I set to work on the mess, being careful to avoid any contact with the liquids she'd spewed up. Like all vomit, it smelled rank. But I was a father, so I'd cleaned up my share of spew in my day. I just hoped she didn't crap in the bed.

I left her door cracked, then went back the kitchen and cleaned up. I didn't feel much like eating at that particular moment, so instead I poked around the house looking for ways to settle in. The guest room was across the hall and down a bit from her bedroom, so I tossed the gym bag with my clothes in there. Also on the ground floor was a den that she'd set up as an office. Rather than impose myself on her space, I put my laptop on the dining room table and shoved the box of files I'd brought under it.

Then I spent a productive half hour nosing around her house. It was tastefully decorated in a modern style I couldn't name. The walls were all painted muted colors and the furniture looked expensive. I was pleased to see lots of books. Years ago my realtor told me I needed to get rid of all the books in my house before I put it on the market. When I asked why, he said, "All those books make people nervous. Reminds them that they don't read as much as they ought to." I just couldn't follow that, but I did what he told me to and the house sold.

What was missing from Chris's house was much in the way of personal mementos. In her office room there were various trophies from the races she'd placed in and a couple of finish line pictures with friends. But in the living room, there was no sense that she lived there—not photographs, no knick-knacks. It was just a bit too sterile or too lonely for me. It made me a little sad.

Once I'd finished poking around in Chris's life, I decided I was hungry after all, so I fixed myself a large salad and a beer and read the new Michael Connelly novel as I ate. Connelly is one of my heroes. If I could write like him, or at least half like him, I could die happy. After I'd finished the food, I checked in on Chris. She didn't seem to have moved, so I retired to the living room with a cup of tea. If I was going to be up in the night, I figured more beer was a bad idea.

Looking around that sterile room from my chair, I shook my head in wonder at the situation I found myself in. When I woke up this morning, I was a carefree divorced college professor with the whole summer ahead of him. Now I was Nurse Johnson with some serious responsibilities. Go figure.

Chris needed to take a second dose of her meds at midnight, so I had a second cup of tea and followed Harry Bosch around Los Angeles for several hours. At 11:30, I took a shower, changed into some gym clothes, and then went in to wake Chris.

She had moved a bit in the bed, but not much. I reached down, shook her gently and called her name. Getting no response, I shook her a little harder and called a little louder. Finally, she came to a bit, opening her eyes and looking around.

"Daddy?" she said, focusing on me. "Daddy, what's wrong?"

"It's Mark, Chris," I said.

She looked at me quizzically for a second or two, then shook her head and said, "Oh, Mark. Hi. For a second I wasn't sure where I was."

"I could tell," I said. "Listen, you need to take your meds. I want you to do this slowly." I handed her the pills and a cup of cool but not cold water. She gulped the pills and washed them down. I sat for a minute waiting to see if they'd come back up, but it seemed like she was going to keep them down. So I gave her more water until she'd gotten a full cup down. To keep track of what her intake was, I'd marked the water bottle with a sharpie. I felt pretty resourceful about that.