Sloth

by Ella James

“Liar. Fuck you, Manning. I want to see Truman.”

  Manning arrives with the dog the next day. Truman is wearing service dog clothes. “He’s a PTSD dog. Kellan’s service dog.”

  I hug the dog. I fall asleep in the waiting room while Manning talks about... something.

  I wake up in my hotel room. Manning wants me to eat soup.

  I laugh. “I need a feeding tube, or TPN. An IV. I think I have cancer too.”

  Manning’s freckle face goes serious and frowny. “Cleo, you have to stop. He wouldn’t like this.”

  “Wouldn’t? Or doesn’t? Is he dead? Manning, tell me please!” I start to sob. Manning shakes his head, like it’s a shame, what’s happened to me. I shove him. “Just go away! If you know nothing, go away!”

  That night, when Manning flies back home to man the grow house, I hatch a plan. I wait for my ex-friend the receptionist to leave her desk, and then I hit the “open” button on her desk and dash through the doors.

  I run straight to Kellan’s room—our room. I throw the door open and nearly pass out from the rush of seeing—

  Nothing.

  Holy fuck. Our room is fucking gone. The bed is stripped.

  Kellan is dead.

  I scream and wail. The noises are so strange. They don’t even sound like me. A second later, nurses burst into the room. I don’t even look at them, just throw myself on our bed, clutching the railing as I curl into a ball. “I want to sleep here! One more night... please!”

  “NO! NO, NO! CLEO! Look at Arethea!” Tight hands grab my wrists. “Kellan is not here.”

  “I know,” I sob.

  “No! He is discharged! He is discharged!”

  “What?” I sit up slowly. My chest is heaving. “What did you say?”

  “He is discharged,” she says more quietly.

  I note the nurses’ faces. Sad and sympathetic. They file out. The room goes still. I’m tired, so I lie down on our bed. No more sheets. Arethea reads my mind. She grabs a blanket from the closet. She lies on the bed with me and holds me while I cry.

  “He doesn’t love me.” I sob violently. “He didn’t want me.”

  “It’s not true. I held him while he cried for you. It happened many times.”

  The apartment I’m renting is on the twenty-first floor of a new high-rise overlooking Central Park.

  It’s strangely designed, with just three rooms, all made of mostly glass. The bed is just your basic full, and pushed into the corner of two glass walls, at the corner of the twenty-first floor. I could tint the glass, hide myself from binoculars and birds, but I can’t bring myself to do that. Not sure why.

  I sit on the bed and look out over the city. The park is a dark splotch, with gold freckles: twinkling lights. All around it, buildings glisten. Between sky-scrapers, the sun rises and falls, tossing streaks of color at my windows.

  Tonight I watched the sunset sitting cross-legged on the bed, and since then, haven’t really gotten up. I watch the world move out my window and am glad I’m so high above the city, so no one can see me.

  I found a shirt of Cleo’s in my bags—a t-shirt that says GREEK SING—and I’m wearing it, even though it’s a small and I’ve already gained enough weight back to need a medium.

  The t-shirt pushes my central line against my chest, and that’s uncomfortable. But I don’t care. If I had her pants, I’d wear them too. As it is, I wear the pants she bought me. Longue pants in green and black and blue. I never noticed what she did until I got packed up to leave the unit. How there are three pairs of each pant. I thought about why, and the only thing I could come up with was that she wanted it to be easy on me, wasting away. When I started dropping weight, she would just rotate the pants out.

  I drop my chin down to my chest and inhale. Do I smell her? She never wore her Green Tea perfume in the hospital, but she still had a distinct scent. I tell myself I’m inhaling it right now. I rub my thumb and forefinger over the seam of my left sleeve and picture her arm in the shirt.

  When I had Cleo removed from my visit list, I sent her stuffed sloth and most of the pink fleece blankets with her. I kept one, and Cleo’s pillow. Selfish. No surprise there.

  I sleep on the pillow every night, and wrap myself in pink blankets. The apartment has a living/area kitchen, too, as well as a large bathroom, but I mostly spend my time in bed. Maybe it’s a side-effect of spending so much time in one room for so many weeks.

  I sigh. I stretch my sore legs beneath the covers, and in the process, I knock over a bowl half-filled with rice, ground beef, and gravy—all of which I made myself.

  “Well, fuck.”

  I scoop the food into the bowl and set it on the night-stand. Then I hang my legs off the bed’s side and take my breathing mask from atop another pillow. Twice a day I have to do this. Attach a cylinder of chemicals onto the bottom of the mask, strap the thing around my head, and breathe as deeply and as slowly as I can.

  My lungs are still healing. Willard thinks they’ll recover over time, but no one knows for sure.

  I was intubated, on a ventilator, for six days, with only moderate sedation, meaning I remember every bit of how it felt to have the tube down in my throat. Sometimes at night, I wake up clutching my mouth, trying to pull it out. Funny, because my nightmares from the first transplant weren’t very different really—focused on the mouth sores that, at that time, were the worst thing I’d endured. Before my relapse, I would often wake up with a phantom aching throat.

  I chose the moderate sedation as opposed to deeper sleep because I could still move my arms and legs a little. Several times a day, a PT came and made me exercise, which cut down on the muscle loss. I dropped twenty-seven pounds my twelve days in the ICU, and since then, have tried hard to gain them back.

  I do what I’m supposed to do, since I got discharged last week. Eat, sleep, lift weights, run on the treadmill in the living room. I have doctor’s appointments constantly. I have a personal shopper, because I can’t really leave this space without risking an illness. Sometime in the next six months, that should get better.

  After my breathing treatment, I lay down on my back and read a few unfolded sparrows. Even though they’re worn and ragged now, I still think of the sheets of paper as sparrows.

  I read through them all two times before I curl on my side and lift out the one I’m reading most often right now. It’s a poem called “Longing” by Matthew Arnold. The words make tears fall from my eyes. It’s nothing new. I cry a fucking lot since I moved out of the unit.

  My “outpatient life” counselor keeps pushing me to do a screening for depression, but I know I don’t need that shit. I don’t need a pill, or some kind of therapy where I talk about my shit with someone who doesn’t know shit about me or my life. It’s fucking simple really. I like crying over Cleo.

  No, it’s not my thyroid. My testosterone is fine as well. They test all that shit, all the time. I’m healthy, in those ways at least. I’m A-okay. So what if I never use my dick? I still wake up with wood. My balls ache, telling me to let them blow sometimes, but I don’t care. One time I ignored them for six days and woke up in a pool of my own cum.

  Pathetic.

  Just like last time after discharge, I avoid the mirror, though this time, the reasoning is different. My hair’s growing back in—thick, soft gold—and I’m filling out from all the lifting, but I just... don’t want to see my face. I think it will make me think of her face. Of her hands in my hair.

  I scoot to the bed’s edge and press my hand against the glass wall. The cool is soothing. I scoot closer and let my forehead touch as well. It almost feels like a cool hand. Her hand.

  I look at the clock: 1:46 AM. I have a blood draw at 8 AM tomorrow morning. I need to go the fuck to bed. I tug the blankets up to my neck and curl onto my side. Then I push a pillow behind me.

  “Goodnight, Cleo. I love you.”

  Tonight, the darkness seems to leak into my heart. I ache terribly for her. I hold her pillow to my chest and start to cry, so hard and
fast it’s sobbing.

  She’s not coming back.

  I clench my hands and look at them, and see her hands around them. I need her. I can’t fucking breathe without her.

  Why am I here?

  Without her... I pick up her stack of sparrows and I hug them to my chest. I get my breathing back under control. I swallow an Ativan. Maybe I’m wrong, about the crying feeling good. Right now, I just want to go to sleep.

  I wake at 3:11 with a nightmare. I summon her voice. “You’re okay. Don’t be scared... I’m here. I’ll be with you.”

  I’m lying on my side, holding my chest, when someone knocks on my door. Bangs. It sounds so frenzied, my heart starts to race.

  Sometimes I think of fires…

  I glance at my shirt as I stride into the living room. I look out all the windows, but I don’t see flame or smoke. I am the end unit. Sometimes people get lost.

  I look out the peep hole imagining her face—so when I see it, I blink once, twice, three times. Then my body goes white hot.

  That is Cleo. Hairless Cleo, swaying on my mat. I’m so alarmed by how pale and thin and…nearly bald she is, I jerk the door open without another thought.

  The second that she sees my face, she starts to sob.

  “Oh fuck, baby…” I reach for her.

  I’m surprised when her thin arms bat me away. “What did I do? You don’t want me?”

  “Cleo... Jesus Christ. What’s wrong?” She sobs so hard she pretty much collapses. I reach for her. She’s so fucking skinny I can even pick her up. I haul her into my kitchen and sink down to the floor with her. “Cleo…are you sick?” My voice is shaky with a well of tears.

  She folds her arms around herself and shakes her head. “You,” she weeps. “You wrecked me…and my heart.” I smell a bite of alcohol and look down at her hands. They’re marked with thick, black Xs.

  I feel cold inside. Her hair…her face. Even her green eyes are darker somehow. Kind of…numb. I swallow back my tears and open my mouth.

  “What? Just say it!”

  I heave a breath out. “Fuck. The ventilator is a sign. It predicts death. Read any research on transplants. Goddamnit, Cleo—I didn’t want you to see me die.”

  “I died without you!” She roars. “I died for twenty-four days!” Rising to her kees, she shoves me hard.

  I almost fall over, because I’m shaking. I feel sick with shame. Regret. “Cleo... come here and let me touch you.” I hold my arms out. She backs away, and I reach my hand out to her. “Baby… Have you been sick?” She’s so fucking thin. She looks worse than I do.

  “I’m not sick. My heart is sick!” She fumbles to her feet and grips the counter. “I kept giving blood for you.” She grabs hold of my refrigerator door and sobs. I scoop her up again. How good it feels. I bring take her to my bed.

  The room looks different. All the lights outside the windows…

  I feel warm again. Her blood in my veins buzzes.

  KELLAN. I HOLD HIM, CLAW AT HIM. Wrap myself around him. “I’m so sorry. I missed you. You smell good.” I kiss him between the words. He kisses me. Our passion starts out slow but builds faster. I grope his cock, his rock-hard cock. His hand delves into my pants.

  He pushes some papers off the bed. His fingers wriggle in my pussy. He’s leaning down to lick me... Tonguing me gently, whipping me with his tongue.

  I come, and then he turns me over and pushes into me.

  I’m so full. He’s so thick. I’m wet. My clit throbs.

  “Kellan!”

  We come at the same time. He jets into me. He sags against me, and the weight of his body, his familiar feel and smell, make me feel like I’m about to cry again.

  He eases me down on the bed, belly first, and gets up. He returns with a warm, wet towel. He cleans me tenderly. I sanitize my hands. He puts more in them and threads his fingers through mine.

  After that we turn to face each other. Kellan pulls me into his arms. He pushes his face against my neck. I can feel him shaking, causing tenderness to roar through me. So many memories: us in bed.

  I squeeze him gently. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” he says thickly. “I’m fucking good.” I can hear the tears in his voice.

  “Oh, my baby…” His body shakes. I hold him tightly in the dark, with the city winking all around us. I cry, too.

  I can’t stop running my hands over him. He can’t stop doing the same. I run my hands all over his body. I even stroke the central line... so familiar, like a friend.

  I kiss his throat. I taste his salty skin.

  He’s quiet. I’m quiet...

  His lips are on my temple. His mouth by my ear. “I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry, Cleo. I didn’t know what to do...” His voice cracks. “I kept thinking of you there, and me sedated, on the vent, if something happened… Whitney. On that day.” I feel him shudder. “I thought you would go home. Why didn’t you just go home?” His voice cracks, and he draws me up against his chest.

  “I told you I would never leave. I would sit there every day and watch for body bags.”

  “Christ.” Another shudder and some little moaning sound. “I’m so fucking sorry. So, so sorry.” His lips are everywhere. My face and hair… He wraps me tight against him. “I did everything wrong.”

  “You did what you thought was best. I talked to Arethea... she told me you were on the ventilator for six days and the first two were pretty touch and go. I’m sorry, baby.” I stroke his face as hot tears spill down mine. “I’m sorry you were by yourself.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Arethea said Willard was bullshitting us that day you got the fever. She said you were lucky to pull through.”

  His forehead pushes against my fingers. “I kept seeing you. On the surface of the water. All your hair. I tried to swim to you.”

  I curl up against him.

  We talk all night, and make love two more times. We fall asleep together, tangled and soul-weary.

  The next morning I see all of him in the light. His hair. His pretty limbs. His chest and shoulders, and his perfect Kellan face. He’s so beautiful.

  “How are you? How do you feel?” I kiss his abs.

  He guides my hand between his legs.

  “No…really.”

  He pulls me against him, his chin rubbing my hair. “I have a lot of joint pain sometimes. My lungs aren’t 100 percent. I have a hard time with weird shit, like pig latin. And remembering everything at the store without a list. Even the online store.” He gives a little laugh. “But I still know my antiderivatives, and I know every origami sparrow you hung on the ceiling. I would make the ICU nurses read them to me.”

  “You missed me?” Tears shimmer in my eyes as I look at his face. All the emotion there…

  “I missed you every day, and every night. When I got moved back to our room... I had a bad time. I struggled about calling you, but I didn’t think it was fair to jerk you around. I knew if I got close to death again, I would want you to go again. And then one time I thought I was... My heart did something. Sort of like a hiccup from the chemo. And I wanted you. Arethea laid in bed with me. I would have been embarrassed as fuck if I wasn’t missing you so bad. But that was my last night inpatient. I came here, and I just…couldn’t call. I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

  I pinch his arm. “How could you say that, crazy person?! You said you would take me all around New York. Kellan... I would take your call from anywhere. You know I can’t leave again. I can’t. I won’t. If you want me gone, you have to tell me now.” My voice cracks.

  He lays his cheek against my cheek, kisses my temple. “It won’t be normal—ever. I still take sixteen pills a day. You can still trace both of my hip bones... I can’t run for more than fifteen minutes. Still can’t breathe enough.”

  “Kellan, please. I love you so much. I would want you with no legs and arms.”

  “Let’s not wish for that.” He strokes my cheek. “I love you too.”

  “Stay w
ith me? Forever.”

  He smiles a little, then it slips away. His face is gravely serious. Then he laughs.

  “Cleo…”

  I TAKE HER HAND AND LEAD HER TO THE LIVING ROOM COUCH. She sits on the edge of it, and I struggle not to kneel in front of her. I laugh again.

  “I have something to show you.” I sit beside her on the couch and pull her up against me. My hands stroke her belly through her shirt. “The only catch is,” I whisper against her throat, “you read the instructions.”

  She turns to look at me with wide eyes. “What is it?” She pets my short hair. I rub my palm over hers.

  “Nice haircut by the way.” I kiss her jaw. “Trendy.”

  “Kellan…” She pushes at me. “I don’t like suspense. Or surprises. Remember?”

  I get a good laugh out of that before I open the trunk-style coffee table just in front of us and close my hand around it.

  I turn to her and open my palm. “I found this blue sparrow. Recently. I didn’t unfold it…” I inhale, and try to still my racing pulse. “I didn’t want to touch something you did.” I grin, then laugh. So not fucking smooth. Cleo blinks. With her hair so short, her eyes look luminous.

  I hold the sparrow out to her.

  “Do you want to open it and read it to me?” I shift onto the floor, so I am looking up at her.

  She curls her fingers loosely around the sparrow, and swallow hard and clamp my teeth together. I fake a smile. I wrap my arms around her legs and press my cheek against her shins.

  I shut my eyes. I can feel her tense up as she sees the ring.

  I’m not sure I can handle looking at her face, so I roll the words I wrote inside the sparrow back through my head. I read it many times before I folded it.

  She pounces on me and I feel her arms lock down around me. “Kellan!” Her fist hits my shoulder. “That’s the worst proposal I have ever read!” I open my eyes in time to see her thrusts the ring at me. “What finger do you want to put it on, you crazy lunatic?!”

  She holds her hand out, all the fingers shaking.