The Pace

by Shelena Shorts

  When we reached the couch, I set him down and he immediately fell over. I tugged on him enough for him to make the effort to lay the length of the couch so his feet were comfortably propped up. I was relieved the hard part seemed to be over.

  All I needed to do next was keep him warm and wait, at least, I hoped. I looked around and was happy to find the fireplace switch, but I wasn’t happy with the distance between the fireplace and the couch, so I moved the coffee table out of the way, and then I grunted and pushed the couch right in front of the fire. My next obstacle was deciding on what to do with his clothes. He was wearing his coat still, and it looked very uncomfortable, and even more of a problem, he was still wearing cold, wet pants. They both needed to come off.

  I rolled my eyes at the thought of having to do it myself. I wanted to leave him right then and there. I had done what he’d asked me to do. I’d brought him home, I’d gotten him warm. My job was done. I figured if I just left him there, he would be fine, but as I walked over to check him, I noticed that he didn't look well. His coloring was relatively good, but it didn’t look like he was breathing.

  I stood over him, watching him very closely, and he seemed too motionless. Nervously, I unwrapped his coat and placed my hand over his bare chest. I put my ear to his mouth. It was hard to tell, but it felt like a very faint breath was slowly escaping him. I couldn't be sure, so I searched for a pulse. There was nothing on his neck or wrists. Concerned, I lay my ear over his heart. There was also nothing. I listened harder, and when I still didn't hear anything, I started to panic. I stood up and began pacing back and forth the distance of his living room. What have I done? I hadn't helped him at all.

  I had agreed to bring him home, because he said he would be fine, but that didn't include him dying on me with his heartbeat fading. I was about to call for an ambulance when I remembered something he’d said, in the car, about his heart going so slow I wouldn't be able to feel it. I quickly turned back and knelt over him, placed my ear over his heart, and listened. At first, there was nothing, and then I pressed closer and I thought, I wasn't sure, but I thought that I heard a faint rhythmic flutter. I breathed out a sigh of relief and leaned back on the floor.

  I studied his sleeping face, searching for something to tell me what to do. An image of him shivering on a hospital table and being wrapped in blankets flashed before me, and I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my head. The image was quick, but vivid enough for me to realize what he needed. I hopped up and began searching for blankets.

  Reluctantly, I headed upstairs. I felt like I was trespassing since he hadn’t taken me up there before, but I shook off my worry with the idea that I was just getting him something he needed. I didn’t see any sort of linen closet. I started peeking in rooms, looking for a bathroom.

  I found a study with a sofa lounge, a couple of rooms, and a hall bath, but no blankets. I went up another flight of steps and came to a loft area that led to the master bedroom. The back wall of the room was full of windows that overlooked the blackened sky. I felt awkward being in his room, so I went straight over to the bathroom without delay. Inside, there was a gorgeous walk-in shower and beautiful marble floor. Upon entering, I was overtaken by the smell of him.

  I inhaled the sweet scent, and my eyes followed it to a red bar of soap resting by the sink. I shook away the thought of the luscious smell and refocused. I made my way over to the linen closet, where I noticed little dials on the wall. A closer look confirmed they were controls to turn on the heated floors and overhead heat lights. His bathroom had all the bells and whistles, and I’m not sure why I expected anything less.

  I found some blankets and headed back downstairs. He was in the exact position he’d been in when I left him. Awkwardly, I began unzipping his jeans. I was surprised at how quickly I became controlled. It was a necessity, I told myself, and so I very professionally pulled down his still-soaked jeans and put them on the floor. His wet boxers were clinging to his physique, but I left them alone. I wasn’t even about to go there.

  I covered him with the blanket and curled up in a chair next to him. After about an hour, I realized how exhausted I was. I needed to get some sleep, but I was at his house.

  I glanced at my watch and saw that it was almost 9:30. I had to make a decision quickly about what I was going to do. I didn’t feel comfortable spending the night in his house, but I felt even more uncomfortable at the thought of leaving him alone all night without knowing if he would be all right.

  That night was the first time I’d outright lied to my mother. I called her and told her I was having a good time hanging out with Dawn after work, and that I wanted to stay over at her house. I was surprised at how easily she believed me. She was either so happy I had a new friend in town, or she was wrapped up in her new personal life. Whatever the reason, I was glad she believed me easily.

  I left him alone long enough for me to run home and get a change of clothes. I almost laughed at myself as I walked through his house with an overnight bag. It was surreal. I was on autopilot, because I didn’t feel like I was making any of the decisions. At least not any rational ones. It was completely senseless. I had lied to my mother, and I was about to spend the night with a guy I barely knew.

  I checked on him one more time that evening to see how he was doing, and he felt warm. I figured the fire was working, so I decided to leave it on all night. Upstairs, I peeked into the bedrooms, and I felt too uncomfortable making myself at home in one of them, so I went to the study. The couch in there seemed much more appropriate. I settled in there and made sure to leave the door open, in case he woke up in the night.

  Of course I couldn’t sleep. I don’t even know why I bothered trying. After about an hour, I got back up to check on him. He was still sleeping, but he looked extremely flushed. I felt him, and he was burning up. I jerked my hand back and hit the fireplace switch to turn it off. He was way too hot now, but oddly, he wasn’t sweating.

  I looked around the kitchen for a thermometer, and there was nothing. Back upstairs, I searched the bathroom. I opened a few drawers, and there was a digital ear thermometer. I rushed back downstairs and placed it in his ear. After a quick beep, I pulled it back. It read ERROR. Trying it again, I watched as it flashed 104 degrees and then read ERROR again.

  I threw the thermometer on the floor in frustration. After about twenty minutes of silence, I grabbed it and tried it on myself. My temperature reading was 98.4. The thermometer was working fine.

  I was two seconds away from being certifiable. I roughly placed it back in his ear, promising to call for an ambulance if the reading wasn’t normal. Lucky for him, his temperature read 103 that time. It was still high, but it was manageable. I pulled back the blanket and monitored him for a little longer. Once his temperature was at 100 degrees, I relaxed. Then, I started to feel bad for almost leaving an unconscious person sitting three feet in front of a burning fire all night. Not very smart. The night was taking its toll on me.

  Chapter 8

  FIRST REVEAL

  The morning brought much greater peace of mind. The first thing I did, after brushing my teeth, was go downstairs and take his temperature again. It was 97 degrees. It seemed a little low, but not enough to trigger an alarm. He looked like he was sleeping peacefully, so I looked for something to do. There weren’t too many places where I felt free to go in his house, but having slept in the study all night, I felt comfortable passing time in there.

  With the full light of morning, I was able to see an amazing collection of books. There were hundreds stacked on two full walls, from floor to ceiling. Most of them were nonfiction books on medicine and animals, but some were fiction titles. One section of volumes didn’t have titles on the bindings, so I found those most intriguing. I pulled a few out and flipped through them. Some looked like accounting books and others appeared to be journals.

  I ran my hands over some more until I came across one that stood out the most. It looked extremely old. I carefully pulled it down and set it on
the desk. It was a leather-bound, relatively thin book, but it was taller than a normal book, so it was easy to see amongst the others. I gently opened the first page, and I saw handwriting that was extremely slanted and hard to read. The fading ink and browning pages didn’t help, but I could make out the words, “Medical Journal January 1, 1916–December 31, 1916, Dr. Oliver Thomas, London, England.” This was the doctor I had read about. I was sure of it. I sat up on the edge of my chair and leaned over in hard concentration.

  January 2 ,1916

  I have been continuing the work of Dr. Oscar Haase, with limited success. The malaria concern is still growing as more soldiers are transporting the disease from places outside of England. In an attempt to save their sons and loved ones from the horrific disease, many mothers are bringing them to me in hopes that my experimental cold-blood transfusion will save them.

  January 31, 1916

  I have been able to keep a few patients alive long enough to see the cold-blood serum reverse the effects of the malaria momentarily, but within a day, the patients become violently ill from a reaction to the blood. It is an awful sight to watch. Much of the difficulty comes from the problem of coagulation during the transfusion.

  February 20, 1916

  After more research, I have decided to add additional blood types to my sample. I am still researching one of the types, and do not feel comfortable documenting the nature until I have further information. The other type, about which I do feel confident, is the alligator blood. The proteins in this particular sample have been proven to kill a wide range of bacteria and viruses. Whether or not it will be successful in the human body remains to be seen.

  April 3, 1916

  Given the complexity of my research and expanding needs, I have acquired the help of a nursing student, Amelia. She is reporting patient conditions to me, as well as caring for them while I continue searching for a breakthrough healing agent.

  May 1, 1916

  Today I leave for a journey to acquire the necessary samples I will need to mix my new serum. I am hopeful that I will return in time to save the waiting patients.

  I turned the page to see what looked like several pages of the journal missing from the binding. Someone had ripped them completely out. I glanced back and forth to see how much time was missing. From the May 1 entry, it skipped to November 15, 1916. Six and a half months of missing journal entries. Why would so much be missing? What had happened to the doctor? Did he return in time? What was the serum he brought back? These were all questions I had, and so, I eagerly kept reading.

  November 15, 1916

  Our last patient died today. We tried our best to care for him. Unfortunately, my sample was of no help to the young man. Like the other patients, the cold-blood seemed to reverse the effects of the disease momentarily, but the patient deteriorated more rapidly than the others. Apparently, the new serum is even more incompatible with human blood. It appears the human blood clots against the cold- blood intrusion causing rapid swelling of the vessels and eventually bursting the vessels to the heart. This will be my last attempt at transfusing cold-blood into humans. I will return to my studies of normal transfusions.

  December 22, 1916

  Amelia brought in a patient today who was suffering from massive internal bleeding. I immediately diagnosed him as a hemophiliac. He was in need of an emergency transfusion to help thicken his own blood. I was not prepared for any new patients so soon, so Amelia volunteered some of her own blood, making it possible for me to complete the transfusion. It seems to be helping him some, but I fear he is too far gone. He will need something else to save him—possibly a miracle.

  December 23, 1916

  Amelia has been talking to the patient. During brief moments of consciousness, she was able to obtain a name, Weston. We will search for his family tomorrow. I am afraid the news will not be good.

  December 24, 1916

  Amelia brought in Mrs. Wilson. She is grateful for what we have been able to do so far, but she worries the outcome will not be good. I have examined the patient, and he appears to be hemorrhaging in his brain. It is only a matter of hours.

  December 25, 1916

  Amelia has offered more of her blood to help with clotting, but it will not help. Mrs. Wilson is pleading with me to try anything I have, but I cannot bring myself to try the cold-blood serum. We will just have to wait to see if the patient pulls through on his own.

  I heard a thump downstairs and jumped to my feet. I peeked over the balcony and saw Weston lying on the floor. I sprinted down the stairs and knelt by his side. He was covering his face with the blanket.

  “Sophie,” he mumbled.

  “Yes,” I replied, even though he hadn’t said it like a question.

  “I can’t see you.”

  I tried to pull the cover back. “That’s because you need to uncover—”

  “No, I can’t concentrate. I can’t see you.”

  I yanked the covers back and put his face in my palms. I lowered my eyes to his. “Look at me,” I said. “I’m here. You can concentrate, if you look at me.” He opened his eyes. They were mesmerizing. “See,” I said. “You can see me. Look at me.” His face was tormented. His eyes were like glass. I was so stunned to see my own reflection that I involuntarily moved my cheek to his. His skin was soft and cool. He didn’t flinch away.

  “I’m right here. I’m right here,” I repeated. He hesitated a moment and then put his arms around me with much more gentleness than the previous evening. I helped him onto the couch, and his closeness filled my soul with a comfort I didn’t know I needed. We lay there for a few moments with my cheek to his. I couldn’t see his face, but I could tell by his hold on me that I was giving him as much comfort as I was receiving.

  I tried to pull back to look him over, and he tightened his arms. “It’s okay,” I said. “I need to check you over.”

  “No, please. Stay just how you are. It’s almost better now, please.” He sounded almost afraid. I rescinded my retreat and lay with him for several more moments. Eventually, he jerked up onto his elbow and began frantically feeling around for something. “Where’s my watch?” he asked, urgently.

  “I put it with your clothes.”

  He started trying to sit up. “Where is it? I need it.”

  At a time like this? “Wes, lie back down. It’s okay—”

  He cut me off again. “What day is it?”

  “Sunday.”

  “No, what is the date?” He was searching my eyes intensely.

  “November 15.”

  “What year?” he countered quickly.

  Confused at his continued delirium, I replied, “2009.”

  He closed his eyes and relaxed. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. You don’t need to apologize, but you do need to let me check you out.”

  He let his blanket fall to his waist. The sharpness to his lean physique was distracting. I wanted to close my eyes to focus, but instead, I searched around for the thermometer, which gave me something else to concentrate on.

  “What are you looking for?” he asked. His eyes completely fixed on me.

  “The thermometer.” I was feeling around with my hands.

  “What for?”

  “So I can take your temperature.” I wondered if I was really meant to answer that. It seemed a bit rhetorical.

  “That won’t be necessary.” His voice was soft and assured.

  “Why not?”

  “Because, I can tell you it will be roughly 80 degrees.”

  “What?” I looked at him, confused. “You think your body temperature is 80 degrees. Right now?”

  He nodded.

  I quickly went back to looking for the thermometer. Once I found it, I hesitantly reached toward his ear. He didn’t pull away, so I continued. His temperature was 80.2 degrees. I looked at him, and he had never taken his eyes off of me.

  “I don’t understand.”

  He looked at me with abashed eyes. “You said you wanted to know th
e truth.”

  “Yes, I do,” I said, assertively.

  He paused. After a few moments, he replied, “Do you mind if I get dressed first?”

  I sort of did mind. I wanted to make sense of it all, but at the same time, it was very hard for me to concentrate with him sitting there bare-chested and pantless. I cleared my throat.

  “No, I don’t mind,” I conceded, but I didn’t release him from my stare. I wanted him to know that I wasn’t going to forget the truth he owed me.

  A corner of his mouth turned up softly.

  “Okay,” he said, standing up. “I’ll be right back.”

  While he was gone, I pondered what he’d said and was trying to maintain a clear head. It was very difficult. I was on the brink of exhaustion from trying to figure him out. My nerves had been through the wringer, and my brain was stressed beyond comfort. I leaned my head on the arm of the sofa and closed my eyes. I took slow breaths, and I told myself to relax. He seemed better now, and for some unknown reason, I trusted him to tell me the truth. After all, I had just saved his life. It was the least he could do.