Marge’s outfit, as always, was awesome. The orange pants and a blue short-sleeved shirt she’d chosen were adorable. I realized I’d yet to see her wear the same thing twice. She took pride in how she presented herself, and I looked forward to seeing her clothing choices each afternoon.
I wanted to be like Marge in forty years. She was part of a generation that was nearly extinct. She came from an era that was easy to admire and difficult to duplicate.
I realized that there were many like her who wouldn’t live through the pandemic. People who were set in their daily routines of eating at five o’clock, watching Wheel of Fortune before bed, and eating toast with their cup of coffee when they woke up.
Men and women who had played their part in forming the country into a great place to call home. People who had made their contribution to the younger generations who lived amongst them. People who had lived nearly a full lifetime but weren’t quite ready to depart this earth, and now simply hoped to exhale and enjoy the last leg of their journey. Many had already been deprived.
Countless more were destined to.
Braxton’s cough brought me out of my dreamlike state. I smiled. “I know I sound like a broken record, but I love your outfit.”
“Thank you. I got this on sale at Neiman Marcus.” She swept her palms across the thighs of her pants. “I buy a lot of my clothes there. Did you see where this is going to cause them to declare bankruptcy? I sure hate to see it. They’ve been around since 1907.”
“That’s sad.”
She shook her head. “The entire thing is sad. They said on the news last night that of those tested, 10% were infected. The more people they tested, the more positive cases they found. They said 36% of those infected have died, and that 88% of the patients in New York that required a ventilator didn’t make it. It’s just awful. All of it.”
I’d all but stopped watching the news, I couldn’t take it any longer. Absorbing Marge’s statistics nearly brought me to my knees. The bottom line, according to the numbers, was that if you contracted the disease, regardless of your physical condition, there was a distinct possibility that you may die.
Braxton coughed. He fought to catch his breath. It sounded like he was blowing bubbles in a jar of mayonnaise.
I tensed from head to toe.
He drew a gurgling breath. He coughed. A few choppy breaths followed. The room fell silent for a few seconds before he settled into his routine.
I exhaled a breath of relief.
“Are you okay?” Marge asked. “You seem, I don’t know. Preoccupied. Worried, maybe.”
I put on a false smile. “I’m fine,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. “I’ve just. I’ve got a friend who is…he’s uhhm.” I swallowed heavily. “He’s ill.”
She gasped. “With the virus?”
I wasn’t sure what to say. If I told her the truth, she might overreact. If I lied to her, I wouldn’t be much of a friend. I struggled with what to say for a moment as I watched the look on her face morph from content to worried.
At the instant I began to tell her an abbreviated version of the truth, Braxton coughed again. I paused. His coughing fit lasted much longer than normal. Eventually, he relaxed into his labored routine of breathing.
I sighed. “It’s Braxton,” I said, gesturing behind me. “He’s…he’s sick.”
I waited for her to gasp, make some distance between us, or explain that it wasn’t in her best interest to continue meeting with me until he was either diagnosed, or better.
She searched my face for clues as to what was wrong. “Does he have—”
“He…” I murmured. “He uhhm…”
I couldn’t say it. I bit against my quivering bottom lip and nodded. Tears rolled down my cheeks. Marge took a step in my direction.
“Oh, Honey,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Marge, no,” I blubbered, taking a step back. “You shouldn’t. We’re supposed to stay six feet apart. You can’t—”
“Honey, there’s a lot of things I can’t do.” She took me into her arms and pulled me against her chest. “But standing here watching my friend come unraveled in front of me isn’t one of them.”
Braxton
Day unknown
The blast from Ketner’s shotgun tore the locking mechanism from the doorframe. Standing free of the trafficway to the right side of the door, Ketner planted the heel of his left boot against the bottom edge of the door, causing it to swing open freely.
I rushed through the door and moved to clear my assigned sector. Each passing second became a moment long. Movements were exaggerated, similar to the slow-motion scenes of the many action-adventure movies I watched as a child.
From the blanket-covered window toward the floor on my left, a single ray of sunlight pierced through the darkened room, diagonally. Like microscopic ballerinas, particles of dust danced within the limits of the beam of light, each a hovering reminder that we were intruders in what was once a family’s safe haven.
There was no furniture or light fixtures. No interior walls. No rooms. Blankets were scattered about the dirty floor, each likely used as bedding for those who dared to occupy the space. The stale smell of sweat and cordite melded with the unmistakable odor of adrenaline.
A man shot to his feet. He reached for a weapon that leaned against the wall at his side.
My finger tapped the trigger twice.
His hand released the rifle. His body remained erect, refusing to comply with the mind’s recognition that his heart had stopped beating. His eyes the only part of him that seemed to recognize the truth of what had happened. Open and confused, they stared back at me.
A second man swung the barrel of a Kalashnikov in my direction.
My finger tapped the trigger twice.
He stumbled.
I tapped the trigger once again.
He slumped into the corner of the room. The weapon clanked against the floor, bounced, and came to rest at his side.
A woman screamed. She rushed to the fallen man’s side. Her hands were obstructed by her hijab, the traditional Muslim dress.
“Raweenee edeek!” I shouted. “Show me your fucking hands! Raweenee edeek!”
Her empty hands emerged from beneath her dress. Relief washed over me. Then, she reached for the weapon.
“Asqat alsilah!” I shouted, standing no more than fifteen feet from her. “Drop the fucking weapon!”
She chose not to heed my command.
Two successive rounds from the M4 flattened the fabric of the hijab to her chest. Her body tumbled, landing mere inches from the man whose death she hoped to avenge. Face up, she remained motionless.
The dusty gray fabric draped her body from her shoulders to her toes. Frozen in place for what seemed like a lifetime, I watched as a river of blood darkened the hijab from her swollen breasts to the pronounced bump of what could only be that of a pregnant woman.
I shook my head from side to side, hoping to clear it of the memories I’d spent years trying to forget. Portrayed in lucid dreams, the events of my time in combat were returning, one after the other.
Jolted from my sleep, I stared at the ceiling for some time. Confused as to where I was and what was going on, I tried to clear my head. After a moment, everything came to me. I was inflicted with a contagious disease and was quarantined to my bedroom.
I glanced around the room. Bottles of Gatorade were placed neatly on my nightstand. I rolled to the edge of the bed and reached for one of them. I struggled with the lid for some time. Upon twisting it free, I realized how debilitating the disease could be.
Unable to sit up and too weak to raise my head, I poured the sweet red liquid all over my face just to get a drink.
I was living wedged between two hells. One of my own making, and one created by a disease that had no cure.
Uncertain of which was worse, I closed my eyes and prayed for it to end.
I then wondered in what manner my prayers may be answered.
Anna
Day
eight
“Where’s the fucking Corpsman?” Braxton shouted. “He’s going to bleed out. I need a Corpsman and a fucking medevac.”
I nearly jumped out of my skin. His voice was much different than normal. Deeper. More authoritative.
There was a brief moment of silence, and then the screaming began again. “God damn it, Wilson!” he bellowed. “I need that fucking Corpsman! I’ve got three wounded! Two critical!”
A few seconds of silence followed. I drew a deep breath, hoping that his nightmare would end.
“Wentz!” he barked. “Grab that M40 and get on that fucking sniper.”
“Hold on, Pratt,” he said in a much calmer voice. “That bird’s on the way. Hear it? It’s coming, Brother. Just hold on.”
“Where’s that fucking Medic!” he wailed, sounding as if he were in tears. “I need that medic, goddamn it!”
He’d been screaming on and off for eight hours. Some of it made sense. A good part of it was in lingo I couldn’t decipher. I paced the floor and prayed that he’d fall back into a deep sleep. I felt miserable that there was nothing I could do.
After a few moments, he began moaning. I had no idea if he was in terrible pain, or if the moans were nothing more than his reaction to less vivid dreams. It continued for an hour.
The room fell silent.
His rhythmic breathing followed, leading me to believe that he’d finally fallen into a sound sleep.
Exhausted, I took a seat at the end of the couch.
I had no idea why our lives had collided, but I was grateful that they had. Despite the disease, his condition, or how he’d treated me before we made peace with one another, I enjoyed Braxton’s company.
His charisma lured the unsuspecting toward him. From my interpretations of his dreams, he must have been a figure of authority in the Marines. I imagined the men who were following him into battle did so without hesitation, question, or remorse.
There was no doubt in my mind that men died in his command. I told myself that had anyone else been in charge, the loss of life would have been much worse.
No matter where we ended up when everything was over, I’d cherish the time I spent with him. Furthermore, I’d never forget listening to him day in and day out while he was sick.
I nestled into the corner of the couch and peeked through the window. Much to my surprise, it was dark outside.
The last I knew, it was 5:00 pm.
I told myself to get up and eat. I needed a little rest first. A small one. Just to close my eyes for a few minutes. I was asleep the instant my eyelids fell closed.
I was awakened by Braxton’s moaning.
I sat up in my seat. The sun was rising over the top of the home across the street. I glanced around the room, uncertain of how much time had passed. I realized it had been hours since I’d heard anything from Braxton. I thanked God that he, too, had a few hours of sound sleep.
“I need a drink,” he moaned. “Pratt, give me…your water…buffalo. Mine’s empty.”
He made smacking noises with his lips, moaned a little more, and then went silent.
It dawned on me that he might not have anything to drink. I assumed he did, but it was highly likely he didn’t.
The only way for me to know would be to go inside his home.
If I did, I’d expose myself to the virus. I could possibly become infected, fall ill, and die. As ridiculous as it seemed to admit, I didn’t care. Doctors and nurses came in contact with infected patients all day, every day. They’d been doing it for months.
If they could do it, I could do it.
All I needed was the courage. I prayed for God to provide me with an answer. A nudge. Anything.
“Pratt. That water…I’m dying, Brother.”
Just like that, my prayers were answered.
Anna
Day nine
Seeming annoyed, the pharmacist sauntered to the counter. He rubbed his bald head as if annoyed. The day was only beginning. He had no reason to have an attitude. At least not yet.
I grinned. “Hi.”
He put his hands on his hips and looked me up and down. “Are you the consult?”
He was 40-ish, tall, and wore horn-rimmed glasses. He was also outwardly angry that I had taken a moment of his precious time.
I shrugged. “I guess so.”
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “How can I help you?”
“Well—”
He glanced at his watch.
I cocked my hip. “First, you could start by losing the attitude. Your time is not more precious than mine. Not one bit. This thing that’s going on isn’t easy for any of us, believe me. If I didn’t have a problem that needed to be solved, I wouldn’t have asked for you.”
He forced a sigh. “I’ve been working overtime for—”
“I haven’t slept since I don’t know when,” I snapped, even though I’d just awaken an hour beforehand. “Like I said, it’s not easy for any of us.”
His face was washed with surprise. “How can I help you?”
“I have a friend who is sick. I need to make sure he’s getting whatever nutrients he needs. He’s too weak to eat, but I think he can drink. What should I have for him to drink?”
“Does he have a fever?”
“I’m sure he does.”
“You haven’t taken his temperature?”
“I haven’t,” I replied. “He took it a few days ago and it was 103.”
His eyes went wide. He took a step back. “Does he have a cough?”
I leaned against the counter just to make him nervous. He was a prick, he needed it. “A raspy cough,” I said. “Oh, and chest pain. He’s got some difficulty breathing, too. And a high fever.”
He took a few more steps away from me. “He needs to be tested for—”
“He’s been tested. That’s an entirely different issue altogether,” I said flatly. “I need to know what to get for him to drink. I see there’s Pedialyte for adults.” I gestured behind me. “But there’s none on the shelf. Any recommendations?”
“We’re sold out of Pedialyte,” he said. “We’re sold out of nearly everything. Pain relief, cold relief, vitamins…” His brows pinched together. “He didn’t test positive. Right?”
“Actually, he did. Don’t be worried. I haven’t been in contact with him yet. He’s in his house and I’m in mine. I’m listening to him through these.” I tapped my finger against my right earbud. “He’s reached a point that I need to check on him, so I thought I’d take plenty for him to drink. I don’t want him to dehydrate.”
“You haven’t been in physical contact with him yet?”
I hadn’t been within a hundred feet of Braxton in three weeks, so the pharmacist wasn’t at risk. I didn’t want to go into details, and I wasn’t in the mood to be hated on, so I gave the quick and easy answer.
“Nope,” I said. “No contact.”
“But it’s your intention to see him?”
“Yes.”
“Is he at home? Quarantined?”
“He is.”
“Does anyone else live in the home?”
“No, he lives alone.”
He raised his index finger. “Just a moment.”
He returned with two bulging plastic bags. “Here. Take these.”
I glanced inside. In one, there was a pair of rose-colored scrubs. In the other, there were two masks, a package of disinfectant wipes, and a wad of blue rubber gloves.
The masks, wipes, and gloves were like gold. Hospitals were crying for the supplies and couldn’t acquire them.
“What—”
“We just got a shipment in of gloves, wipes, and masks. We’re donating everything to the hospitals. You’ll need it as badly as they do, and they sure won’t miss them.” He nodded toward the aisle at my side. “Get some Gatorade. It’s as good as the Pedialyte.”
My heart swelled. “Thank you.”
His lips thinned. “Look, I’m sorry.” He shook his head in an apolog
y, of sorts. “It’s been a tough several weeks. If you don’t have one, grab a digital thermometer on your way out. Be sure to take his temperature. If it’s over 103, call an ambulance.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll grab one on my way out.”
“Take a trash bag with you when you go to see him,” he said. “Put on the scrubs, gloves, and mask before you enter his home. If possible, wear something underneath the scrubs. Once inside the home, don’t touch anything you don’t have to. Preferably, nothing. When you exit the home, use one of those disinfectant wipes to close the door, then wipe the door handles down, both inside and out. Disrobe immediately, if possible. Place the gloves, the scrubs, and the used disinfectant wipe in the trash bag. Set the trash bag aside, put on a new pair of gloves, and then pick it back up. When you get home, handle the scrubs with the gloves. Wash the scrubs. Discard the gloves and the trash bag. Then, take a hot shower with soap.”
“Oh my gosh. Thank you so much.”
He grinned. “I’m glad I could help.”
“Well, again, thank you.”
“What’s your name?”
“Anna.”
“Your friend’s name?”
“Braxton.”
He gave a nod and turned away. “Stop in and see me when he’s better, will you?” he asked over his shoulder.
“I sure will.”
I prayed that one day I’d be able to fulfil the promise.
* * *
I pulled into my driveway. There was a truck blocking Braxton’s drive. A man was standing on Braxton’s porch, pounding his fist against the door like a madman.
I shoved the car into park, bringing it to a screeching halt. I flung my door open and jumped out.
“Hey!” I shouted.
He continued to pummel the door with the back side of his fist. I had no idea who the knucklehead was, but Braxton desperately needed his sleep.
“Hey!” I screamed, taking a few more steps toward him. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing!?”
He faced me. “Oh. You must be—”
“Don’t beat on that door.” I walked in his direction. “You’ll wake him up. He hasn’t slept well in two days.”
The Man I Hate Page 16