Solitaire and Brahms

by Sarah Dreher

  "Thanks for everything," Shelby called after her. "Talk to you later."

  If she were Fran, she'd hate her by now. She felt as if she were at her every waking moment, demanding that she eat, demanding that she drink, nagging, forcing aspirin on her. Rubbing Vicks into her chest whenever the coughing got bad. By nightfall they'd gone through macaroni and progressed to chicken, and at least two quarts of ginger ale. Her temperature had fallen another half degree. Things were looking up. The trouble was, Fran hurt. Her sinuses hurt with congestion. Her throat hurt when she breathed. Her chest and back hurt from her fits of coughing. Her joints hurt from fever. Around eight o'clock, Shelby couldn't take it any more. She couldn't read a book and glance up to see Fran tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable, only hurting herself more. She couldn't just sit there like an idiot, helpless.

  "OK," she said as she put a glass of ice and water on the bedside table. "I . don't know if this will work or not, but it's worth a try. Turn over, I'm going to rub your back."

  "You don't have to do that," Fran said quickly. "You've done enough."

  "I can't watch you like this. I have to do something."

  "Go in the other room."

  "Fran..." she said in a faintly menacing way.

  "All right, all right."

  Shelby unbuttoned Fran's pajama top and slipped it off and helped her turn onto her stomach. "You're much too weak to take me on in hand-to-hand combat," she said as she tucked one pillow under her hips, another beneath her chest.

  Fran didn't answer. She seemed tense, as if waiting for something horrible to happen.

  "I won't hurt you," Shelby said. "If I do, just say so. I won't take it personally."

  She put her hand between Fran's shoulder blades. Fran started.

  "I'm sorry. What did I do?"

  "Cold hands," Fran said.

  Shelby held her other hand up to her own face. It was warm. "Not really," she said. "It must be the fever."

  "Yeah."

  She sat beside her and touched both of Fran's shoulders and drew her hands down her back. Her skin was smooth and soft, the muscles beneath as hard as steel. "Either you work out three times a day, or you're awfully tense."

  "You'd be tense, too," Fran said.

  Shelby smiled. "I guess I would." She rubbed her for a while in silence. "I wish I had something like Ben-Gay or something. It would help."

  "Place already smells like a locker room."

  "Does not," Shelby said, massaging the muscles around Fran's shoulder blades. She was aware of the heat in her own hands, and the way Fran's skin lay warm beneath them. And an unfamiliar tingling in her own finger tips. "Is this making it worse?" she asked after a while.

  Fran shook her head. "Better."

  She worked on her neck and shoulders next, rubbing gently and with increasing pressure until Fran's skin turned pink from the blood and heat that rose to the surface. She massaged her arms, and her hands, one at a time, slowly. The joints of her fingers. Fran began to relax a little. She stroked her back, carefully, gently, lovingly.

  There was a hum in her ears, and the room around them seemed very small and very warm and very personal. They were safe together in a dark cozy place. No one else existed. There was no time, only one long moment that went on forever. Shelby felt as if her whole body had turned to a single object, not separate muscles and bones and organs, but one entity that existed only for this. She was soft and strong. Vulnerable and solid. Living only for this one small act of comforting.

  Fran was hit by a fit of coughing. Shelby gave her room, but kept her hand against her back, pressing just hard enough so Fran would know she was there. "Do you need water?"

  "Huh-uh." She cleared her throat. It sounded dry.

  "Sure, you do." She turned Fran over and gave her the ice water.

  Fran wouldn't look at her. She held onto herself, as if she were holding something alive in her arms that might escape at any minute.

  "You're beautiful," Shelby said.

  “I’m a mess.”

  Shelby turned out the bedside light and went back to stroking her.

  “I'm giving you a hard time, aren't I?" Fran said into her pillow.

  "I've seen worse." She ran a hand through Fran's hair. "I've been worse."

  "It's hard for me to let anyone take care of me."

  "I've noticed."

  "I'm sorry."

  "I understand, Fran. I'm the same way. It's as if, if you let someone care for you or comfort you, it'll open up a bottomless pit of longing." She hadn't known she knew that until she heard herself say it.

  “Yeah."

  "Go to sleep." She could feel Fran slipping away. It was still and quiet in the room. She sat for a while longer, not thinking, only aware of the touch of her friend's back under her hands. Then she got up slowly, draped Fran's pajama top across her back and shoulders, and pulled the covers over her. She looked down at her for a moment, then leaned over and kissed her between the shoulder blades.

  * * *

  She woke to the sound of stifled crying. She sat up. "Fran?"

  Fran made a low choking noise.

  "Don't fight," Shelby said. "You'll just make it worse." She went to her.

  Fran had hidden her face beneath the pillow. Shelby eased it away.

  "Talk to me."

  "Go away," Fran sobbed.

  "No."

  Shelby thought about turning on a light, but decided against it. Whatever was going on here, it was too private to be seen. She pulled Fran into her arms and held her.

  This wasn't ordinary crying. These were hard tears, desperate tears, iron tears, helpless tears. They seemed to come from somewhere deep inside, an old hurt, a hurt that wouldn't go away, a hurt that must be a constant ache in Fran's heart.

  She tried to think of comforting words to say. It would be wrong to be silent in the face of this horrible sadness. But the things people usually said—“It'll be all right," "It's OK”—weren’t right. Because she didn't know if it would be all right, and it wasn't OK. This felt like something that would never be OK.

  All she could say was what was in her heart. "I hope you can tell me what it is," she murmured gently. "I hope together we can make it better. I don't know who hurt you this way, but I'd like very much to kill them, if it's all right with you."

  Fran clung to her. There was an emptiness below her tears that made Shelby think of deserted railroad platforms, and planes silently lifting off runways. A saying goodbye. More than sorrow, more than hurt. This was grieving. For things lost forever. She felt a terrible, hopeless sadness herself. It frightened her. Deeply. It made her heart pound, her head spin. Seeing Fran like this was more intimate than sex. She wanted to stop it, to run away from it, but knew she couldn't. Hang on, she told herself. Go through it. And held Fran tighter.

  "I'm here," she said, stroking Fran's hair. She rocked her a little. "I'm not going to leave you."

  Fran shook. She cried in huge and violent gasps.

  Shelby wondered if morning would ever come. The night was black and still behind the windows. On top of the dresser, the dial of the alarm clock glowed green. She tried to hear the ticking over the sound of Fran's tears, but couldn't. She's going to turn herself inside out, Shelby thought. There must be something she could do to ease that pain. But sitting here like this, holding her, was really the best thing, she knew it instinctively. Let her go. Let it run its course. Make it safe for her. Let your arms be strength and protection and comfort. Try to draw the pain into yourself and take it away from her.

  The emptiness was the worst. The hollow, black emptiness. Wind blew through it and made a groaning sound. It was cold, so cold.

  Oh, God, Shelby thought. To carry that cold inside you all the time.

  She kissed the top of Fran's head. "I love you," she said softly. She wondered if Fran even heard, if she even knew Shelby was there.

  But there was still thread between them. She could feel it. Hang on, hang on. Shelby focused her attention
on that thread. Don't let it break. Something terrible will happen if it breaks.

  If I hold her any tighter, I'll choke her.

  She tried to ease up, but then she'd feel that awful crying, shaking them both, and her arms would pull Fran closer. She wanted to draw Fran inside her where she could be warm, where she wouldn't be alone. "I love you," she said over and over, with her words, with her arms, with her hands, with her heart. She kept on rocking.

  After a time Fran's sobbing grew lighter. Shelby reached for the tissues and gave her a handful.

  "I got you wet," Fran said.

  "I'll survive. I'll steal one of your tee shirts." She brushed Fran's hair from her forehead. “Want to tell me about this?”

  Fran shook her head. She seemed so tired, but she still hung onto Shelby with one arm.

  Shelby let her rest against her. "I'm not leaving," she repeated, and held her until she felt her start to go soft. She helped her lie down. Fran groped for her hand. Shelby ran her thumb across Fran's knuckles and gave her hand a squeeze.

  She peeled out of her wet pajama top and crawled into a tee-shirt. It was soft, and smelled like ironed cotton and Fran. The water in the glass was still cool. She gave Fran a drink. "Better?"

  "Shaky," Fran said.

  Light was about to come. She could tell by the silence, like the second of silence before a thunder clap.

  Fran lay down on her side, facing away. Hesitating only a moment, Shelby slipped in bed beside her and slid one arm under Fran's neck, and wrapped the other around her. She pulled her close.

  "Shelby," Fran mumbled.

  "That's what they call me.”

  "I never want to do anything to make us not be friends.”

  "I can't imagine it."

  She could make out the outlines of the furniture, and the white woodwork. Shelby closed her eyes.

  She didn't care whether she slept or not.

  Fran was stirring. Shelby put down the story she was editing and went to sit on the side of the bed.

  "Hey," she said, and touched her hand to Fran's forehead. It felt cooler.

  Fran slipped a hand out from beneath the covers and fumbled for Shelby's hand. Shelby took it. "Hey," she said again, softly. "Sleepy head."

  Fran's eyelids fluttered open. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen and sore. Her forehead wrinkled into a frown. She struggled to focus.

  As if she had suddenly touched something sharp, her hand jerked, pulling away.

  Shelby held on tighter. "It's OK," she said, and stroked Fran's hair.

  Fran scrunched her eyes shut and shook her head. "Don't."

  "I'm sorry." She sat back a little. She knew how it felt, having a fever. Sometimes your skin was so sensitive you thought you'd been burned. "Want some water?"

  "I guess so," Fran said, her eyes still closed, her head turned away.

  The water in her glass was warm. Shelby went to the kitchen to freshen it. Glancing up as she passed the bureau, she could see the bed and Fran, reflected in the mirror. She was trying to sit up. "Wait a minute," she said. "I'll help you."

  As she filled the glass, she noticed her hands were trembling again.

  Fran had managed on her own, with her legs pulled up and her head resting on her knees. Shelby sat beside her and put an arm around her. "Here," she said, and offered the water.

  She took it and drank, not looking at Shelby. "Last night..." she began.

  “Yes.”

  "Forget it, please?"

  Shelby placed her hand against the side of Fran's face and turned her head toward her. "Fran."

  She pulled away. "Please. It was the fever."

  Shelby knew that wasn't true. She knew Fran knew it, too. "You were very upset last night. I think we should talk about it."

  "I need to go to the bathroom," Fran said, and struggled out of bed.

  Shelby waited for her to come back, then tucked her beneath the covers.

  "Fran."

  "Please," Fran said, "let it go for now."

  "All right." She felt helpless. "What do you want for breakfast?"

  "I'm not hungry."

  "That's irrelevant."

  "I can fend for myself. Really."

  It was clear she felt better. But she had a long way to go.

  "Right," Shelby said ironically. "You can take care of yourself, but you're not hungry. When were you planning to eat?”

  Fran glanced at her. “This isn't fair to you."

  "I intend to suffer with you," Shelby said as she got up and started for the bathroom. "Every inch of the way."

  "You're crazy."

  "That's what lonely people do…" She ran cold water and soaked a washcloth in it and wrung it out. “…with other lonely people. They suffer together." She came back and put the cloth across Fran's eyes and pressed it against her eyelids and temples. "There. Now you don't have to keep your head turned away. You can't see me."

  "I'm sorry."

  "It's all right." In fact, it was all right. Whatever Fran wanted to say or not say, it was all right. It made her feel gentle, and free.

  She sat for a while looking at the floor, at the threadbare pattern on the rug. Something was happening between them, had happened between them. It was like being swept down a river on a raft. She didn't know where she was going, or how long it would take to get there, or what was at the other end. Her head told her to get off now, to push her way to shore or swim if she had to, just get off the river. Her heart told her to float.

  She floated.

  "You don't have to sit with me," Fran said. Her voice was shaky. "I'm OK."

  "You are not. You are, as you so succinctly put it last night, a mess."

  "It's my mess. If you have things to do..."

  "I'm doing the things I have to do," Shelby said.

  "You have to go to work."

  "Do not. I called in sick."

  "I really can take care of myself."

  "At the moment, maybe," Shelby said. "But it comes and goes in waves. You could fall down in a dead faint on the linoleum, and that would be really uncomfortable."

  “Not for me.”

  "Look, I know you want me to get the hell out of here and give you back your privacy…”

  "I don't," Fran said quickly.

  "...but trying to do anything at this point is asking for trouble. Let me take care of you today, then we'll see how you feel."

  Fran was silent. "I really didn't mean to do that," she said at last.

  “What?”

  “Last night.”

  "Nothing happened that anyone should be sorry for."

  "I don't know why I acted that way. The flu gremlins must have gotten to my emotions."

  "That had nothing to do with gremlins," Shelby said, and took her hand.

  Her hand was lifeless.

  "What made you cry was something that hurt you. We both know that."

  Fran didn't answer.

  "Please, Fran. You don't have to talk about it. But just say you don't want to. Or can't. Don't ask me to swallow lies."

  "You're lucky. You can swallow." She hesitated. "I'm sorry. It wasn't just fever, it was... old things. Really old things."

  "I wish you could tell me."

  “Not now.”

  “Any time."

  "I can't think.... I want to... but... I mean, it sounds silly but… it's just too sore right now.”

  "That was clear last night," Shelby said softly.

  "I'm really embarrassed."

  "You shouldn't be." She got up and went to the bathroom to cool the wash cloth. She wiped Fran's face and covered her eyes again.

  "Thank you," Fran said.

  “I don't know what you're talking about, but you're welcome."

  "For what you did. For understanding."

  "I'm not sure I do understand, but it doesn't matter." She fussed with the blankets. "Rest now. And stop worrying."

  "I feel like garbage."

  “I know.”

  Fran looked soft, and small, an
d vulnerable. The emptiness was still there, hovering behind her face like a hungry ghost.

  It hurt her, to see Fran broken and know there was no way she could help. To realize that this woman, this friend she cared so much about, had been deeply damaged, and all she could do was be strong and patient, and try not to hurt her more.

  Shelby felt an ache in her chest, an emotion too huge to bear and too precious to let go.

  Something had happened to her, too, last night. She had the feeling she'd crossed an invisible boundary, and things would never be the same again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Shelby froze in the doorway to the lounge, a deer stunned in the headlights of a poacher's truck.

  They were all there. The whole lunch bunch, and Charlotte, and three women from the advertising department whom she recognized but whose names she didn't know. The medical reporter, with his buddies from layout. Even the travel editor was here, on one of his rare appearances at the stateside office.

  Women's voices sounded shrill as mating cats. Men rumbled like empty freight trains on trestle bridges. There was too much motion, people crossing the room, back and forth, doing things at the coffee urn, shaking out newspapers, rearranging the coat closet, wandering for the sake of wandering. Movement blended into sound into light and melted in confusion. Sunlight glared through the windows. The orange vinyl sofas shimmered. Black and white squares of checkered linoleum seemed to rise and fall in three dimensions.

  Connie spotted her first, and let out a whoop. Shelby cringed.

  She wished she hadn't come in here. She wished she'd gone directly to her office, do not pass "Go," do not collect two-hundred dollars. But eyebrows would be raised, questions would be asked. Someone might get the idea she was avoiding them.

  Maybe she was.

  No, not really. She didn't want to avoid anyone, exactly. She only wanted to come back slowly. To decompress.

  Instead, she pasted on a smile and went to greet her friends.

  "How's the headache?" Jean asked.

  "It comes and goes."

  "I hear you're working short days this week," Penny said. “For doctors' appointments.”

  Jean had done a good job. She'd even found a way for her to leave the office early. "You have untapped talents," Shelby said in a low voice.