by Monica James
“I can do that. You cooked, so it’s only fair.” He goes to stand, but I gently push him back down. He peers up at me in confusion.
“It’s fine. I’m happy to do it. Doing normal things like this helps me forget.” And it’s true. Besides the past hour, I have felt normal, and it’s been wonderful.
I rinse off the plates before stacking them in the dishwasher. As I stand from my downward position, a wave of nausea rolls over me, and I think I’m going to be sick. Roman is thankfully distracted when his cell chimes, giving me the out I need.
“I’m just going to use the bathroom.” I barely get out the words before dashing down the hallway, both hands covering my mouth to stop from being sick.
I slam the door shut behind me and run over to the toilet, throwing up the contents of my stomach as I cradle the bowl. Tremors wrack my body, and I shudder, unable to stop the vomit. A light sheen of perspiration coats my body, bringing home the cold sweats.
Usually, I would be cursing the choice to do this to my body, but not today. My mindset has changed. I try to place a positive spin on it, hoping that every purge is eliminating my body of the disease which ravages it. Surely, the more I throw up, the better it is? I use this as my reasoning as I heave up everything I ate today.
I feel like utter shit, so when a soft knock sounds on the door, it’s expected for my response to be a garbled, “Go away.” My wishes are, of course, ignored, and when the door creaks open, I bury my head farther into the toilet bowl.
“Lola?” His concerned voice has me groaning. I feel like a fool. The visual he must have right now has me throwing up again.
“Don’t worry”—my voice echoes off the bowl—“I don’t think it’s contagious.” This is hardly the time to be making jokes, but it’s either that or I cry myself into a heap.
When his footsteps proceed toward me, I thrust my hand out, requesting he stay put. “No, don’t. I’m all icky.”
He tsks me, appearing unconcerned by my repulsive state. “Don’t be silly. I don’t care about that. How long have you been feeling sick?”
I shrug, cradling the bowl like it’s my lifeline. “About an hour.”
“What?” he admonishes. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because…” There are a million reasons, but only one word seems to suffice.
“You’re so stubborn.” If my head wasn’t wedged down a toilet, I’d poke my tongue out at him.
He moves around the room, pushing bottles and god knows what else out of the way. The faucet runs for a few seconds before he turns it off and walks my way. I surrender because I know any attempt to warn him to stay away will just fall on deaf ears.
His huge frame is at my back, and before I can ask what he’s doing, a warm cloth is applied to the back of my neck. The sensation appeases my tremors as my body instantly reacts to the warmth.
“That feels n-nice. Th-thank you.” I almost hum in relief.
I don’t quite trust myself to remove my head from the bowl, so I stay still, enjoying the calm. He turns the cloth over, ensuring I stay heated. After a few minutes, he rises and wets the towel once again.
My stomach soon settles, but I know it’s just a ruse. It’ll flare up again. It always does. “I’m s-sorry,” I stammer. I’m suddenly so cold. “I’ve ruined a perfect evening.”
“Lola.” His voice is heavy. “No, you didn’t. Believe it or not, today is the best day I’ve had in a very long time.”
I half laugh, half choke. “You really need to get out more then.” A wave rolls over me, like a tsunami, poised and ready to drag me under.
“Roman, go.” It’s all I croak out before I’m violently ill once again. Tears leak from my eyes, and I almost gag from the burn. No food is left in my stomach, but my body wants to purge.
“No, I’m not going anywhere,” he argues. And he calls me stubborn.
I’m so embarrassed that Roman is here, watching this more than horrifying sight. One wouldn’t blame him if he fled from this room and returned with sanitizer and bleach.
I have nothing left, but I can’t stop. The nausea laps at my stomach, not content until I’m drained dry.
“Honestly, I’m okay. You can go whenever…” My spiel is short-lived, however.
The entire time I’m throwing up my guts, Roman never leaves my side. He rubs my back and holds back my snarled hair. If I wasn’t on the cusp of blacking out, I would thank him for being so nice.
“Lola, don’t pass out. Stay awake.”
“So tired,” I mumble, my eyes slipping shut.
He circles my back before gently encouraging me to lift my head from the bowl. I’m too exhausted to fight him. “You’ll be all right.”
With eyes still sealed shut, I’m blind, trusting him completely. My head lolls to the side, but Roman places his palm against my cheek for support. I attempt to pull away, but my efforts are futile. I have no strength left.
“Why are you doing this?” It’s the second time I’ve asked him, but this time, I want the truth.
His touch wavers against my face, the first sign of nerves. “Because it’s—”
“If you say it’s your job, I swear to god, I’ll scream.” That’s a slight exaggeration, but I’ve made my point.
When he doesn’t speak, I force an eye to half-mast, ensuring he’s heard me, and I didn’t say those words in my head.
He swallows, a pain slashing at his very core. “I…I lost someone very close to me.” If I could gasp, I would have. “Ever since then, I just”—he fumbles over his words—“you remind me of her. That’s not the reason I’m helping you, I just…”
I’ve never seen Roman tongue-tied, but that can wait because just who is this person he lost? Flashes of his tattoo flicker before me. Could it be Eleanor? It makes sense. But the next question is, who is Eleanor?
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” I open my mouth, poised with a thousand other questions, but he stops me. “How are you feeling?” he asks, clearly wanting to drop the topic.
“Better,” I confess, pushing the hair from my brow. Roman almost looks relieved.
He stands wearily, and although he wasn’t throwing up, he was with me every shudder of the way. Running both hands through his hair, he opens the medicine cabinet. “Want some Pepto-Bismol? It’ll help settle your stomach.”
I’m happy to take anything if it’ll help.
I nod, extending my palm. He passes me the bottle. I’m still a little wobbly, so I don’t attempt to rise. I must learn how to crawl before I walk.
Roman brushes his teeth, leaving me to recoup, which I appreciate. I watch with interest as he rinses out his mouth before reaching into the medicine cabinet and shaking out two pills from a bottle. My curiosity is piqued. If I wasn’t so fatigued, I’d ask what they’re for.
When he’s done, he turns, his face a cluster of worry. I feel terrible for placing that concern there. “Just give me a few minutes, and we can go back.”
He narrows his eyes. “Go back where?”
“To Strawberry Fields.” I’m not expecting to stay another night, as I’m sure I’ve outstayed my welcome.
“You want to go?”
“No, but I’m pretty sure you want your bed back.”
He shakes his head firmly. “Nonsense. You can stay here. You’re in no state to travel.”
The prospect of staying another night is appealing, but I couldn’t allow him to forfeit his bed for another night. “I’ll take the couch.”
He scoffs, offended. “You’ll do no such thing. Your clothes are in the bedroom. I’ll grab them for you.”
“Thanks.” I’m speechless. His kindness knows no bounds.
Once he’s out the door, I take a couple of deep breaths and endeavor to stand. After attempt number five, I’ve risen to semi-full height as I lean slouched against the tiled wall.
Roman reenters, his eyes widening when he sees me struggling. “Let me help you.”
“You’v
e done enough.” Under this bravado, however, I’m thankful for the assistance as I’m seconds from falling back down. I lean against him, placing my palm to the wall to gain my balance. The room stops spinning after two minutes.
“I’m okay,” I affirm, steadying my breathing. He lets me go but has both hands out in front of him, ready if I fall. “I really want to take a shower.”
He rubs the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. I don’t understand why until I realize what I’ve just said. “Oh my god, no, that was not me hinting for you to help! I think you’ve seen enough.”
“I can help, I mean, I’m a doctor…but I…” He clamps his lips together.
But he what? Finds it weird, too? Why? “It’s fine, honestly.”
He appears relieved. “Okay. I’ll just be outside the door. Call out if you need me.”
“Not necessary, but thank you.” When he lingers, I shoo him out the door. And even then, he hesitates to leave.
It takes me about ten minutes, but I’m finally naked. I avoid the mirror but look down at my concaved stomach. I look frail and unwell, but here’s to hoping that changes soon. I shuffle over to the shower, glancing at the clothes Roman placed on the edge of the basin. I can tell he most likely grabbed handfuls of clothes with his eyes closed, as most items are mismatched, but that’s fine. The familiar sight settles my nerves.
Just as I’m about to step into the shower, a flash of red catches my eye. Doing a quick double take, I almost collapse for an entirely different reason. Under my T-shirt sits Georgia’s bandana. How did Roman know? As silly as this is, just it being here gives me the strength I need.
This is a sign that things will be okay.
“Thank you again.”
“It’s not a problem, really.”
Roman’s gaze never wavers from the road as he drives us to Strawberry Fields. We’ve taken his Jeep instead of the bike.
My sensitive stomach feels as if I swallowed a gallon of acid, but it’s already feeling better. All in all, the side effects are horrid when they hit, but the aftermath isn’t as bad. With the initial trials, Georgia and I would be sick for days.
I finger the red bandana around my neck, smiling at the memory of when she gave it to me. Roman’s admission about not needing pictures to recall special events sticks in my mind. I agree with him. I don’t have that many photographs of Georgia because neither of us wanted a reminder of how ghastly we looked. We promised that would change once we got well. It might have been wishful thinking, but it gave us something to look forward to.
“Everything okay?”
Roman’s concern stirs me from my head, and I nod. “Yes, it really is.”
He doesn’t address my strange response; he’s probably accustomed to my weirdness by now. That has me thinking. “So will you drop me off down the street or something?”
“No. I’ll park the car, and then I’ll walk you inside,” he replies.
I turn to look at him, curling my lip in confusion, but I don’t argue.
All this sneaking around could get Roman into serious trouble. I owe him, which reminds me. Lifting my hips, I dig into my back pocket of my jean shorts and fish out my phone.
“What’s your email address?”
He averts his eyes from the road, intrigue and curiosity tugging at his lips, but he rattles off his email.
Once I’ve attached the tickets to the email, I peer at the subject line and think of something witty to write.
Hut! Hut! Hike!
I press send and smile. Roman’s phone vibrates in his pocket. Message sent.
Roman drives around the back to the parking lot.
The sun is pleasantly warm as I exit the car, and I take a moment to feel the balmy rays on my skin.
Closing my eyes, I tip my head back and bask in the sunshine. If the trials were unsuccessful and I was to eventually succumb to my disease, then I think I would miss the little things the most. The sun’s rays on my flesh, the lulling sound of rain pounding against a window during a storm, and the stillness of being with someone like Roman Archibald.
Our paths cross with different people for many reasons, and I can’t help but think that Roman’s and my meeting was fated within the stars. Georgia was a big believer in fate and destiny, and I’m now beginning to believe it too. Whatever happens is mapped out for us, and we’re just holding on, hoping for something…better.
Gradually opening my eyes, I take in Roman standing before me. He is an exquisite man, but underneath that beauty lies a broken being. He confessed to me as much last night, and I can’t help but wonder who he lost. I remind him of her. Is she the reason he’s so closed off to Tamara?
We enter around back, and I lower my face, suddenly feeling like I’m doing the walk of shame. We say our goodbyes, and as I walk to my room, I bump into Sadie.
She looks awful.
Her green dress hangs off her bony body, and her eyes are sunken into her gaunt cheeks. Her short red hair is sticking up into brittle peaks, appearing as if she gave up mid-brush.
“Hey,” she softly says, wringing her hands nervously.
Once I find my voice, I put my game face on. “Hey. Your dress is really pretty.”
She smiles, a smidge of color tinting her cheeks. The sight gives me an idea…but can I? Would Georgia be disappointed in me?
“I won’t be mad, Lola. It’s time to let go.”
We hold items because we want to remember, but how can I forget someone who gave me so much to remember them by?
Unfastening the bandana, I toy with the material, recalling the strength it gave me. It’s now time to lend that strength to Sadie. I may not be able to save her, but I can hold her hand while trying.
“Georgia…” My profound voice hushes the hallway. “Well, she gave this to me. It was her favorite thing. She would never sit through a treatment without it. She never gave me a reason for why it meant so much to her, but I guess there doesn’t have to be one. We find comfort because sometimes, we just need it. I can’t tell you how many times this has provided that for me.” I turn the bandana over in my fingers.
“But I…I don’t need it anymore. I’ve found my comfort in being your friend.” Tears roll down my cheeks, matching the ones streaming down Sadie’s cheeks.
“Georgia would have wanted me to pass this on to someone who needed it more than me. I can never bring her back, but I can share who she was with you. With the world. And let me tell you, she was unbelievable.”
I silently ask for permission.
She nods, her large eyes drowning. With the utmost care, I tie the bandana around her head, adjusting it like a headband, just how my Georgia did.
“You did good, kiddo.” I snuffle out a laugh. She used to call me that when playing the big sister role.
“Thanks, G,” I say aloud, uncaring that I’m talking to the voice inside my head.
“I love you, Lola.” I know this will be the last time she speaks to me. I held on to her because I needed her strength, but it’s now time I be somebody else’s.
“Just one more episode,” Sadie says with a yawn, rubbing her heavy eyes.
“Not a chance, kiddo. Time for bed.” I gently climb from the sofa. Our day was spent enjoying the sunshine before we came back to the living room and binged on Netflix.
Roman texted me throughout the day. I can’t stop my smile when recalling his message.
You really shouldn’t have, but thank you.
Just as I was about to reply, a second text came through.
P.S. Hut! Hut! Hike? Really? :P Wrong sport.
My absolute zero knowledge of sports shined through. So much for being clever.
It still has a ball with players in ridiculously tight pants, right? What’s the difference? Tomayto, tomahto.
There is a huge difference. Baseball encompasses skill. NFL encompasses concussions.
From what I understood, that’s true, but I wouldn’t know firsthand.
Bending, I tuck a blanket around Sadie, sm
iling when I see the bandana securely in her hair. “Sweet dreams,” I whisper, not wishing to wake the handful of kids who have passed out around us.
“Night,” she replies, settling into the couch cushion. “Thank you.”
She catches me off guard. “Thank you?”
She nods. “Thank you for being a reason I can smile again. Back home, I forgot what it felt like. I guess that’s because there wasn’t a reason to. But that’s changed, thanks to you.”
My mouth falls open, and my heart swells. This tiny girl is a godsend and so much more. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, I stroke her cheek with the back of my hand. “Thank you for giving me a reason to make somebody smile again.”
Roman instantly comes to mind as he said something similar what feels like a lifetime ago.
“Sisters?” She extends her tiny hand.
I fist bump her with pride. “For life.”
“Good night, Lola.” Sadie buries herself under the blanket, her eyes slipping shut.
“Good night, Sadie.” When her breathing grows shallow, I whisper. “I love you.”
I tiptoe through the room, and the moment I reach the doorway, I freeze, tears stinging my eyes.
“I love you, too.” She loves me, and it feels so good to be loved.
The dimmed corridor lights indicate it’s past eleven, so there isn’t much to do at this hour, but I suppose I could watch a movie and hope I fall asleep. But the thought of sleeping in my bed is not as enticing as Roman’s silk sheets.
Walking to my room, I realize that my limp isn’t as apparent. I also feel stronger. My body is charged. With so much energy to burn, there is only one place I want to go. I dash to my room and change into gear I never thought I’d wear again. Once my laces are tied and I grab a water bottle, I close my door and head for the gym.