Such Dark Things

by Courtney Evan Tate

  “Do you need anything?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  He presses his mouth to my forehead, and his lips are cool. “You don’t have a fever. You’ve probably just worn yourself out finally. I’ll get some ice water and put it on the nightstand. If you need anything else, just shout.”

  I nod and close my eyes. But then open them.

  “Wait!”

  Jude pauses at the door. “Yeah?”

  “Why were you running late? I never get home before you.”

  He hesitates, and there’s something on his face again, something that niggles at me, and then it’s gone, the same look he had before.

  “I had dinner with a colleague. I told you about it last week.”

  I don’t remember that at all.

  “You did?” I ask groggily.

  He nods. “Yeah. You don’t pay attention to me much anymore, Co.”

  He’s wounded, and I’m sorry.

  I tell him that.

  “Just get some sleep.” He turns the light off on his way out, and sleep takes me quickly.

  When I wake, the clock says it’s 6:00 a.m.

  I sit up, taking note of how I feel.

  The room isn’t spinning anymore, which is a good thing.

  My stomach, however, is a different story.

  I run for the toilet and dry heave.

  “Fuck.” God. I lean on the sink for a minute, examining myself in the mirror. I’m paler than normal, and dark circles rim my eyes. Perfect.

  I brush my teeth and make my way to the kitchen, expecting to find it empty, but it’s not. Jude is at the table with a cup of coffee and the morning paper.

  “Hey,” I greet him, confused. “Why aren’t you jogging?”

  Now he looks confused. “Because you’re sick. You never get sick. I was worried, so I’m staying home.”

  “Seriously?”

  I’m astounded and it must show. He rolls his eyes.

  “Corinne, we’re married. I’ll take care of you. In sickness and in health and all that. Sit down.”

  He pours me a cup of chamomile tea and makes a piece of dry toast.

  “No butter for you,” he tells me as he sets it down in front of me. “It’ll just make your stomach angrier.”

  “Not possible,” I groan. Jude rubs at my back, then holds his hand against my cheek.

  “Still no fever,” he says. I could’ve told him that, but he’s trying to be nice, so I don’t mention it.

  “I think I might be dying,” I say instead. “I hope you have my life insurance paid up.”

  He chuckles. “Drama queen.”

  “I feel bad that you’re here babysitting me,” I tell him hesitantly. “Although it’s nice to spend time with you.”

  “It is nice, isn’t it?” he says easily. He doesn’t point out that we could’ve been doing this all along if I’d just chosen to come home at decent hours.

  He’s being so sweet and understanding that it makes my heart twinge a little. This is my Jude. This is the Jude I fell in love with and married.

  “Thank you,” I say limply. “I don’t know why you’re being so nice, but who am I to question it?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Let’s get you on the couch and we’ll start a movie.”

  “I’m not going to argue with that,” I tell him.

  I get settled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, and Jude sits by my feet. His hand rests lightly on my calf, and he looks at me.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you even still like me?”

  Shock slams into me, and I stare at him wordlessly.

  After a minute, I gather myself.

  “Do you really feel like I don’t? Have we really been reduced to that?”

  Jude looks away. “I don’t know. You just never want to come home to me, Co. What else am I supposed to think?”

  His hazel eyes are clear and bright, and my heart breaks a little at the thought that I’ve made him feel this way.

  “You are my entire life.” I reach over and take his hand. “This is.”

  Something crosses his face, something I don’t quite recognize, but it’s there for only a minute. It’s probably shock. He nods.

  And I have to vomit again.

  “God,” I groan as I jump up and run for the powder room. I kneel, and as I vomit, I feel Jude’s hands holding my hair out of the way. I motion for him to leave, but he doesn’t. When I’m finished, I sit back and lean against his chest.

  “This is how you know it’s love,” I tell him wryly.

  He grins. “I’m not gonna lie, though. I’m gonna wash my hands now.”

  I giggle in spite of myself, and he helps me back to the couch. “God, the room won’t stop spinning.”

  “You’re probably dehydrated, Dr. Cabot.” He looks at me. “Take a drink of Gatorade.”

  “I hate Gatorade.”

  “Yeah, but you hate being dehydrated even more. That’s probably why you’re dizzy. Come on, take a drink for me.”

  I scowl, but he’s right, so I take a sip from the straw. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

  He smiles. “It’s in my job description.”

  That might be true, but he has never done this before. I have to say, I like it.

  “Do I get soup for dinner?” I ask as I snuggle into the cushions. Jude looks at a loss but quickly nods.

  “Of course. I’ll just...Google how to make it.”

  I giggle again and close my eyes. “It’s not hard. You’ll have to use a can opener, though.”

  “I’ll manage.” He’s droll and I laugh, and somehow, even though I feel like death warmed over, I like this. We feel like a unit again, for the first time in a long time.

  “This is nice,” I tell him. He agrees, and I’m comfortable next to my husband. I fit exactly right in the crook of his shoulder, and his hand rubs light circles on my back. It lulls me into sleep.

  I sleep on and off all day. I wake up when I hear his phone ringing against the coffee table. The vibration is loud, and Jude is nowhere to be seen.

  I sit up and rub at my temple, and his phone buzzes again. It’s a number I don’t recognize.

  “Hello?” I hold it to my ear. Silence. “Hello?”

  The call ends, and Jude walks through the door, staring at me questioningly.

  “Wrong number, I guess.” I hand him his phone, and he hands me a bowl of soup in exchange.

  “This looks edible,” I tell him.

  He’s smug. “It happens to be delicious,” he answers, sliding his phone into his pocket. “I tried it.”

  “You’re husband of the year.”

  “I am, aren’t I?” he agrees. He’s so cute it’s ridiculous.

  I reach over and grab his hand, pulling it to my chest. “Snuggle with me.”

  “You should eat,” he says, but he obliges and wraps his arms around me. “Fine. Let’s rest for a bit. Rest is important for you, too.”

  “You just want to nap,” I mumble, but I don’t care because he’s warm and we’re comfortable. We must sleep undisturbed for a few hours, because when I wake, it’s evening.

  Something woke me, but I don’t know what.

  Then it happens again.

  Jude’s phone buzzes with a text, then buzzes again and again against my hip. He’s snoring in my ear, but whoever it is seems insistent, so it must be important.

  “Jude.” I nudge him sleepily. “Your phone is blowing up. It’s probably your office.”

  He snores again.

  “Jude.”

  His phone buzzes again, and he startles awake.

  “It might be an emergency,” I tell him again. “You should get it.”

  He nods blearily and gets t
o his feet, while I close my eyes again. God, it feels good to not be the one handling a crisis for once.

  He slips out to handle his emergency, and I slip back to sleep.

  22

  Six days, nine hours until Halloween

  Jude

  With my wife curled up in our home, I stalk down the driveway, pacing by the mailbox.

  What do you need? I text Zoe, without even reading her texts.

  Three bubbles appear, then disappear. Then a frowny face.

  I was thinking about drinking your cum, and it was sooooo good.

  I pause, phone in hand, as I stare at the dying landscape around me. Dead leaves blow across the yard, and I can’t think of what to do.

  Last night was a mistake, I text. I’m sorry.

  My phone rings immediately.

  “Hello,” I answer gruffly.

  “You can’t mean that,” Zoe says, and she’s urgent. “It wasn’t a mistake. You didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t touch you, Jude. You touched yourself.”

  “I always tell my patients to define wrong as this—if you wouldn’t do it in front of your spouse, or if you feel you have to hide it, it’s wrong,” I tell her plainly. “I would never let someone drink cum out of my condom in front of my wife. So it was wrong, and it was a mistake.”

  “But just think about it,” she answers, and her voice is thin. “Where was your wife last night? You were with me because she wasn’t home with you. She neglects you. You deserve someone who treats you with respect, like you’re their whole world. You could be my whole world, Jude.”

  I’m startled now, and I’m frozen in my tracks, because all of a sudden, the way she views me clicks into place.

  “I thought you were just having fun,” I say slowly. “I thought you were just stroking your ego with me. Making yourself feel good. Surely you didn’t think it was anything else, right? You’ve known all along that I’m married. I was very plain about that.”

  She’s silent. A second ticks by, then another and another. Finally, she answers.

  “Yes. I knew that. But you’re an amazing guy, and you deserve better than her.”

  I don’t even know what to say. I’m floored by this turn of events, and I have no words.

  “Look, Zoe...”

  “No, you look,” she says sharply. “You’re not thinking clearly right now. You don’t want to hurt your wife, and I get that. I respect it. But she doesn’t deserve you. Give it a little bit of time, and you’ll see that. Just give me a chance to show you what I can do...what I can be to you. I promise, you’ll be happy.”

  “Zoe, no,” I answer, and something deep inside of me is on guard, on high alert.

  “Jude, yes,” she replies firmly. “Trust me, you’ll be sorry if you don’t.”

  She says it as though I’ll be sorry that I missed the opportunity, but her words...something about them...raise the hair on the back of my neck.

  You’ll be sorry if you don’t.

  She hangs up, and I stand frozen in the driveway for the longest time. The cold autumn breeze chills me, blowing right through my bones. When I finally go back inside, Corinne is still curled on her side sleeping. I sit down in the chair facing her.

  She’s so vulnerable when she sleeps. So open and trusting.

  When she’s awake, she’s got her guard up. With her past, with everything with her father, I understand why. I don’t like it, but I understand it.

  She’s afraid of being hurt again by the people closest to her.

  My phone burns a hole in my hand, and I want to smash it into the wall.

  If Corinne knew about Zoe, it would be the biggest pain of all. It would crush her.

  I’m an asshole for letting it even get this far.

  I stare at the flowers on the table. They are wilting, and a dead petal falls to the table’s surface. I close my eyes so I don’t think of it as a metaphor for my marriage.

  I’ll fix this.

  I have to.

  23

  Five days until Halloween

  Corinne

  God, I feel like shit.

  I thought I was sick yesterday. Today, I’m twelve times worse. Even now, my mouth pools with saliva, and I want to vomit again. As I talk to Jacks on the phone, my words sound feathery because I feel like I’m going to faint. I lean against a wall as I talk, and I briefly consider going home.

  “Yeah, Jude isn’t the happiest with me right now,” I admit to her. “I’ve been working a lot, and he’s pissed about it.”

  “What? What in the hell?” My sister is outraged on my behalf. “You work hard so that he can piddle around in his therapist job. If he’d gone on to med school, too, you wouldn’t have to work so hard.”

  I take a shaky breath and will the vomit to stay in my belly where it belongs. My breath even smells sick, which makes me feel sicker.

  “That’s not fair,” I tell her firmly. “Jude never wanted to be a psychiatrist. You know that. He feels they just push pills, and he wants to actually help people. Don’t be mean on my account.”

  “I’m not,” Jackie insists. “He just shouldn’t get mad at you for picking up the financial slack.”

  “Jesus, Jackie. He makes plenty of money. That’s not an issue.”

  “Well, whose side do you want me to be on, anyway?” She acts bewildered. “Yours or his?”

  I sigh, exhaling a sick breath. “There aren’t sides. We’ve just been bickering about it. It’s fine. Everyone fights. Everyone gets over them. He took care of me yesterday when I was sick. It was nice.”

  I pause and gag. I put my hand over my mouth.

  “You don’t sound good, Co.” Jackie just now notices.

  “I’m not feeling good,” I admit. “Like, at all.”

  “I’ll let you go, then.” Jackie releases me. “Go get something to drink. Water will help flush out the bug, if you’ve got one.”

  “Yeah.” I hang up and head for the nurses’ station, where Brock looks at me in concern. “You’re white as a ghost, Corinne. You should go home. I’ve got this here.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask tiredly.

  He nods. “Absolutely. Go get some rest. Have Jude make you some soup.”

  I have to chuckle at that because Jude doesn’t cook. “Good idea.”

  I trudge to the parking garage, and my feet feel like they weigh a hundred pounds each, and the breath coming in and out of my mouth tastes sick.

  “Great,” I mutter as I start my car. Wouldn’t you know...the one time I didn’t have time to get my flu shot in years.

  I feel a wave of nausea well, and I barely stumble out of my car before I vomit all over the ground. Orange and pink chunks splatter, remnants of orange juice and grapefruit pieces, and the acid in my mouth is vile. I wipe my lips, and my forehead is beaded in sticky sweat.

  I shiver as the breeze hits my damp skin, and there’s a noise.

  I startle, because I’m alone, but the loud clap came from the shadows.

  “Hello?” I call out, and the darkness is ominous and huge.

  No one answers.

  “Ed?” I call out the parking attendant’s name, and he doesn’t answer.

  There’s another clap and then a crash, like trash cans knocking together.

  I suddenly feel dizzy, so so dizzy, and I lean against my car.

  “Dr. Cabot?”

  A voice rings out through the emptiness, and I open my eyes. Lucy is walking toward me, her purse on her arm. “Are you okay, Corinne?”

  My mouth pools again, and I shake my head before I vomit onto the pavement.

  “Jesus,” she blurts out, and she jogs to my side, holding back my hair.

  “Don’t get too close,” I tell her, wiping my mouth. “I’m pretty sure it’s the plague.”

  “I don’t think y
ou should be driving,” she tells me, looking me up and down. “You look like you’re about to fall over. Should I call Jude?”

  I shake my head. “No. He stayed home with me yesterday, so he’s got a packed schedule today.”

  “That does it. I’m taking you home. Stay right there. I’ll pick you up in a second.”

  I don’t even argue. That’s how shitty I feel. She heads toward her car and comes back a few minutes later. I drop into the passenger side, my cheek resting against the cool window.

  “Thank you,” I murmur. “God, I feel like I’m dying.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get you to bed.”

  I close my eyes, and she drives through traffic, into the suburbs and into my driveway. My sheets have never felt so good as I slide into them.

  “I’ll let your dog out and bring you back some water. Can you call Jude? I don’t want you to be alone.”

  “It’s just the flu, Luce,” I mumble, my face in my pillow because the coolness feels like Heaven. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Just try to call him, okay?” Lucy disappears down the hall, and I hear the back door opening, then closing, as she takes Artie outside. I grab my phone without opening my eyes, fumbling around the nightstand.

  I dial his number through slits in my eyes and wait. He doesn’t answer. I leave a voice mail.

  “Babe, it’s me. I’m at home sick. Just letting you know. Don’t worry. Lucy is here, and for some reason, she doesn’t want to leave me alone. Call me when you get a chance.”

  I hang up and close my eyes again.

  “I’m so tired I’m going to die,” I moan to Lucy when she comes back in with water and aspirin.

  “So your diagnosis is fatal fatigue?” She lifts a sculpted eyebrow, and if I didn’t feel so crappy, I’d laugh.

  “Yes.”

  I take the aspirin and a big drink of water. And then, just as the water hits my stomach, I have to vomit again. I lunge from the bed and race to the bathroom, barely making it. I hug the toilet afterward.

  I heave and heave until there isn’t anything left to throw up. And it’s now, as I sit staring into the toilet, watching my orange-juice vomit float in the water, that something occurs to me.

  My period is late.