The Homecoming

by Robyn Carr

  She looked up at him from the sofa. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.

  “I’m going to get you well,” he said.

  “Please,” she begged. “Go away.”

  Seth put his bags down on the table and pulled out a box. He opened it and extracted a gizmo. A thermometer. It didn’t look like a regular thermometer with a silver end and mercury inside. “You don’t have a thermometer, do you?” he asked.

  “Somewhere,” she said with a careless wave of her arm. “Maybe.”

  He approached her cautiously. “Don’t hit. Just look up.” He ran the rubber tip over her forehead. She coughed and wheezed while he tended to her and tried not to breathe her air. “Ew,” he said. “You have a fever.”

  “Big shocker,” she said.

  “You’re sick.”

  “Like I’ve been telling you for two days.”

  He leaned closer, listening. “What is that noise? Hear it? Like a motor?”

  “What?”

  “Do you have a pet? Like a kitten or puppy under your shirt? Purring? Growling?”

  “It’s my chest!” she said, coughing again.

  “We might need reinforcements.”

  “Jesus, Seth, will you just leave me alone? I’m sick!”

  “You don’t have anything in the house to help you get better, do you?”

  “Like what?” she asked, and coughed horribly again.

  He shook his head. He went to the kitchen, found a puny bottle of Advil. He filled a clean glass with water. “When was the last time you took anything for the fever and stuff?”

  “It’s been a few hours,” she admitted. “All I have is Advil.”

  “Take this,” he said, giving her a cold-and-flu capsule that promised to cure at least seven of the prominent symptoms. “Then go take a very long hot shower—the steam is good. Find clean jammies. You might have to burn those. I’ll start your soup and straighten up.”

  “If you touch my trash, you’re going to get the flu.”

  “I have rubber gloves.”

  “I so hate you right now.”

  “By the time I leave you’re going to love me.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  But she turned and walked away from him. He allowed himself to chuckle very quietly, very carefully. She looked like shit. No one he’d ever known in his life could be quite as appealing and look that bad. Jesus, she might be dying she looked so bad. And he felt so soft toward her right now.

  When he heard the water running, he called Scott. “Hey, Doc, I’m at Iris’s house. She’s got a bad case of the flu with a fever and a nasty cough. I gave her some over-the-counter stuff and I brought Vicks and soup. I wonder if you should check her? Make sure she’s just got the flu?”

  “Hmm. Maybe. I gave her a flu shot. How high is the fever?” Scott asked.

  “One-oh-two and change.”

  “That’s not too good. Let me run a couple more people through here and I’ll come over and have a look.”

  “It’s ugly, Doc,” Seth said.

  “It’s never pretty, Seth,” Scott replied. “Should I bring anything?”

  “All your antibodies.”

  Before the shower turned off, Seth had searched for clean sheets and got Iris’s bedroom in better shape. He wasn’t sure it had any effect on curing the flu, but his mother always did that for him when he was a kid and something about getting scrubbed and in clean sheets just worked. He even spread a fresh sheet over her sofa. He started heating the chicken soup and went through the kitchen, dining room and living room, scooping up dirty dishes and trash. He did wear the rubber gloves. Whatever she had, he wanted no part of it.

  By the time she came back to the living room in clean pajamas, the place was tidy and a delicious aroma that Iris wouldn’t be able to appreciate wafted through the house. She sounded all stuffed up but obviously her nose was dripping, ergo the tissues all over. In fact, he was a little concerned that her red, chapped nose might actually fall off soon.

  “Sit down here, Iris,” he said. He had poured her a glass of orange juice and put it on the coffee table. He gave her a large spoonful of cough syrup—an expectorant. She made a terrible face and shuddered. He had all his medications lined up on the coffee table. “Don’t you have any of this stuff on hand?” he asked.

  “I hardly ever catch anything, even though I work in a petri dish and the kids all have something.”

  “You need this stuff,” he said. “Thermometer, cough medicine, cold medicine, decongestant, Advil, et cetera.”

  “Bag Balm?” she asked, picking up the old-fashioned green tin.

  He touched her red nose. “For this. The best.”

  “I used to have some of this,” she said. “I just cleaned the house. Some of the expiration dates on over-the-counter stuff went way back. To grade school.”

  He chuckled and lifted her feet onto his thighs.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “VapoRub,” he said, peeling off her sock. “You’re going to like this.”

  “On the feet?”

  “Neat trick,” he said, gently massaging it into the sole of her foot. He smiled to note her eyes rolled back in her head. “Nice, huh?”

  “Ohhh,” she agreed.

  She flopped back onto the pillow on her couch and just moaned softly, with a rattle in her chest, while he massaged her feet. When he thought he was done, she wiggled a foot to suggest a little more. He laughed and obliged.

  “I’ll get you some soup. And then—”

  There was a knock at the door. “Now what?” she asked.

  “Very few possibilities,” he said, putting her sock back on her foot. “Either my mother, demanding to know why the deputy is at your house in the middle of the day, or Dr. Grant, whom I called.”

  “Why’d you call him?”

  “Because you’re sick. He might have some miracle cure in that little bag of tricks of his.”

  “I could make do on more VapoRub,” she whined.

  Seth laughed on his way to the door. Who knew the way to Iris’s heart was through her feet. She was playing with fire here, he thought. If she didn’t have a completely disgusting virus, he could take complete advantage of her. In fact, he looked forward to it.

  “Hey, Scott,” he said, when he opened the door.

  “Hey, Seth. How’s the patient?”

  “Very low on gratitude. Why don’t you have a look while I dish up some chicken soup.”

  “I’ll do that,” Scott said.

  While Seth was in the kitchen rummaging around for a bowl, tray, other necessary items, he listened to Scott and Iris. “Bad flu, huh?” Scott asked.

  “I think you need higher quality vaccines, Scott. Obviously it didn’t work.”

  “Or maybe it worked and if you hadn’t had the flu shot you’d be way sicker.”

  She coughed and wheezed. “When you get sicker than this, you die.”

  “I’d like a throat culture, please,” the doctor said.

  “Just look at it, check out the razor blades. That should be enough.” She opened and said, “Ahhh.” Then she gagged, which led to more coughing.

  “Ick,” Scott said. “Try not to breathe on anyone. Absolutely no kissing anyone.”

  “Look at me,” she said. “You know anyone that stupid?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “How invested is the cook?”

  “I’m not kissing her,” Seth yelled from the kitchen.

  “Good,” she yelled back. “I wouldn’t let you!” And, of course, she coughed.

  “Can I listen to your heart and lungs, please?” Scott asked. “Deep breath?”

  Seth was bringing the chicken soup into the living room when Scott was putting his stethoscop
e back into his bag. “You have a nice little rattle in there, but I don’t think we need a chest X-ray. If your throat culture is positive, I’ll bring you some antibiotics. For now it looks like you have everything you need. Have some soup and, Iris, would it kill you to drink more fluids?” He pinched the flesh on the back of her hand. “I know it hurts to swallow, but you have a fever, probably because you got a little dehydrated. That happens when you have a sore throat. Drink about a gallon of orange juice and water, all right? And maybe some tea. Any nausea?”

  “Nah. All my troubles are from the chest up.”

  “What’s the bucket for?” he asked.

  “I filled up a trash can with tissues and didn’t have the energy to empty it and the bucket was right under the sink.”

  “Ah. Take a couple of hot soaks or long hot showers—steam is good. If you can stand it, gargle with warm salt water. It will do wonders for your throat. It’s kind of amazing, how it heals. Need anything else from me?”

  She shook her head.

  “Eat some soup,” Scott said, patting her knee. “I’ll let you know about the throat, but I think it’s just irritated from coughing.”

  He got up to leave and Seth walked him to the front door.

  “It was nice of you to check on Iris,” Scott said.

  “We look out for each other when we can,” Seth said.

  “I see that.” Scott smiled. “Lip looks good. Peyton did a good job.”

  When Seth went back to the sofa, Iris was balancing the tray holding the soup on her lap, spoon in hand, tears running down her cheeks. “Aw,” he said. “Sore throat?”

  She shook her head. “I think the Advil kicked in. It’s not too bad.”

  “But you’re crying. Iris, you almost never cry. Like, twice in your life, and both when I’m around...”

  “I just feel rotten....”

  “But you’re going to eat soup, drink orange juice, smear Bag Balm on your nose, sleep through a bunch of chick flicks and feel better,” he said.

  “Uh-huh,” she said, crying through another spoonful of chicken soup.

  “I’m going to be in town late tonight,” he said. “Half my staff is out with the flu, which means two guys, leaving only me and Charlie. I’m going to run over to my house, get some clothes and a clean uniform and spend the night next door. I’ll have my phone on all night. I can check on you later and if you need anything...”

  She looked at him through her filmy eyes with her Rudolph nose shining. “Why did you come over?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I thought you might be really missing your mom today, being sick and all. My mom drives me crazy, but all the things she does make me feel better. After she leaves, at least.” Then he chuckled. “So I’ll leave.”

  “I did. I do,” she said. “I miss my mom. It doesn’t happen a lot but there are times when...” She wiped her eyes with her paper napkin and coughed.

  “When what, Iris?”

  She took a breath. The tears ran. “When I realize...I have no one.”

  He was silenced and motionless for a moment. He had his mom, his brothers, his cranky father and Oscar. There had been times he felt alone, felt he’d let everyone down and had driven them away, but somehow they always reminded him they were still around. When he was literally dying in a Seattle hospital his mother came and sat at his bedside night and day; his dad and brothers had visited even if they didn’t sit vigil like his mom had; his teammates from the Seahawks came; his coach from Thunder Point High was there once. He had family, flawed though they might be.

  He patted her knee. “You have me,” he said. “You will always have me, though I realize that’s not much. Stop crying right now or I’ll hug you and risk contamination and then who will you have?”

  “You brought me flowers,” she said, dabbing her eyes again.

  “Grace said flowers are a hard habit to break. She also said you should drop in when you’re germ-free, or something like that.”

  Iris laughed, which sent her coughing again.

  “I’m going to go,” Seth said. “You finish your soup and juice and get some rest. I’ll be next door if you need me tonight. I can heat soup, take out trash, whatever. I could check on you?”

  She shook her head. “Not tonight, okay? Let me burrow in and kick it.”

  “Sounds like a plan. I’ll call tomorrow. Not early.”

  * * *

  Scott went back to the clinic. It was barely five, but dusk was already upon them and the day had been dark to begin with. The end of the week would bring Halloween and he just hoped it wasn’t cold and rainy—no doubt that would bring another flood of fall colds. He went inside and hung his damp jacket on the coatrack.

  “How’s Iris?” Peyton asked.

  “Miserable,” he said. “I did a culture but I’m pretty sure she has a bad cold that took up residence in her chest. Like half the town that sat through the last football game in the cold rain.”

  “As did you,” she reminded him.

  “I have the constitution of an iron man,” he said. “I think we should lay in some of Carrie’s chicken soup, though.”

  “Feeling vulnerable?” she asked.

  “No, but Iris had some and God, did it smell good!”

  “Done,” Peyton said. “I went next door to buy dinner and she’d just started a fresh batch. She gave me some she had in the freezer. So, Scott, how do you feel about spring?”

  “Like it can’t get here fast enough,” he said.

  She laughed at him. “I agree, but I meant for a wedding. On my family’s farm. First of May everything will be blossoming. The planting will be done. We can call in the family, have it catered by my Basque relatives...”

  “May? Can’t we do it earlier than that?” he asked. “How about a Thanksgiving wedding?”

  She pulled him into her arms. “Paco is being very strong, turning a blind eye to me living with you,” she said of her father. “But when it comes to the wedding, he will have his way. Let’s not ask too much of him.”

  “Oh, he’s being very brave, all right,” Scott said. “He mentions our living arrangement every time we talk. I half expect to hear from the Pope. Or at least an archbishop. Doesn’t your mother have anything to say about this wedding? Don’t you?”

  “I want to be married on the family farm when it’s at its best,” she said. “When I was eighteen I couldn’t wait to get off the farm. Now I want to get married there, wear a dress the color of pear blossoms, eat until I can’t move and have a long weekend of fun. Anyone who can borrow, rent or buy an RV or fifth wheel is welcome, how about that? And really, Scott, you haven’t lived until you’ve been to a Basque wedding.”

  “I just want to get into bed with a Basque woman, how about that? The sooner, the better.” He looked around. “I guess you would have told me if we had patients?”

  “We have kids,” she said. “Devon picked them up and brought them here. They’re in the break room with their little movies.”

  “Ew, I hate having them here with all the viruses we’ve had running through the place....”

  “Scott, most of those viruses came from the schools. They’re probably safer here—we wipe everything down with disinfectant and wash our hands fifty times a day. But if you’re willing to close up, I’ll take them home and get the soup started.” Her eyes twinkled. “I have chocolate cake for dessert.”

  “The kids can have that. I’m having you for my dessert.”

  * * *

  Seth stayed busy in town after fetching some clean clothes. He had dinner at the diner. With his patrol unit parked outside, everyone knew exactly where to find him if he was needed. He left the usual note on the office door when he locked up: For Assistance Dial 911. He didn’t go to his mother’s house until nine o’clock. His father had already turned in but Set
h consoled himself that his dad hadn’t taken an early bedtime to avoid him. Norm typically went to bed early and rose early.

  Seth had noticed one dim light inside Iris’s house, but that didn’t mean she was awake. Likely she was dozing on the couch. He liked the “early to bed and early to rise” philosophy, too. But on this night he didn’t find sleep until almost midnight. He had too many thoughts spinning around in his head to fall asleep. He was remembering when Iris had learned the facts of life, when she’d learned about her father.

  Iris got the biological details about where babies came from when she was around eleven or even younger, but for whatever reason she didn’t put together what that had to do with her parents. When she’d been very young and asked where her daddy was, Rose had a simple explanation. “He’s not with us anymore, angel.” Iris had taken that to mean he was dead. But puberty brought more detailed questions—what was his name, what was he like, where had he lived, who were his people?

  Even though they were best friends, Seth hadn’t had any idea that Iris was burdened with such curiosities. As for the birds and the bees, Seth had been given the facts much earlier because his two older brothers, Nick and Boomer, never spared a single detail—from puberty on they were obsessed with girls and sex, not necessarily in that order.

  When Iris was fourteen and constantly asking questions, Rose had to come clean, explain to Iris the truth about her father. It was a dark family secret, she said. Rose had been a young secretary when she’d fallen in desperate love with her married boss. They’d dallied. Iris’s mother never came out and called it an affair, which it was. The boss was older; his children were teenagers. When Rose got pregnant, they worried about what to do for a while because Rose’s married boyfriend was very successful in the community and respected in his church and clubs. And his wife was mighty angry.

  Ultimately, Rose was settled with a generous sum of money, enough to go somewhere and start over with her child. Rose struggled for a couple of years, alone with a baby and no family support. She finally chose Thunder Point and turned an old print shop into a flower shop. That alone would explain Rose’s struggles to eke a living out of the place—she had no experience operating a small business and she wasn’t much of a flower arranger, at least in the beginning.