The Man I Hate

by Hildreth, Scott

  I had no idea if Braxton’s dreaming was a product of the fever, or if it was something that happened all the time. I prayed that it wasn’t something he had to deal with day after day.

  “Did it ever get better?” I asked.

  “It did. Over time.” She sipped her tea as she seemed to recall the memories of her late husband. “He’d have episodes from time to time. Eventually, it all but stopped.”

  “I wondered if it was something he had to deal with all the time, or if it was because he was sick.”

  “It’s hard to say, for sure.” She patted my shoulder. “If his breathing is better and the nightmares are over with, he might be on the mend. That’s what matters.”

  “I called him ‘Dear’ on accident,” I murmured. “Twice.”

  Her brows raised. “Pardon me?”

  “Dear,” I said. “I called him dear when I was reading to him. Twice. I have no idea why.”

  She scowled playfully. “I do.”

  “You do what?”

  “I know why.”

  “Why?”

  She grinned. “Because he holds a special place in your heart.”

  “Before all this started, we were nothing but—” I swallowed heavily. “—nothing but neighbors.”

  “Sweetheart, when all of this is over, you’ll be much more than neighbors. Wait and see.” She raised her glass and held it between us. “Here’s to his recovery.”

  I hoped that she was right. Clinging to that wish, I clanked my glass against hers.

  Braxton

  Day unknown

  I wondered if a condition of the disease was losing one’s sanity. I had to piss but wasn’t sure where the bathroom was. Wrapped in damp bed linen, I rolled to my side.

  I glanced around the room. Nothing looked familiar.

  Empty plastic bottles were scattered about the floor. My phone was on the nightstand closest to me, sitting atop the wireless charger.

  I had no recollection of putting it there.

  I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth and tried to swallow but couldn’t produce enough saliva to do so.

  A half full bottle of Gatorade sat on the nightstand, beside my phone. I stretched my arm toward it and fell off the side of the bed in the process.

  I hit the floor with a thud!

  “Mother fucker,” I groaned.

  Tangled in my bedsheet, I couldn’t immediately stand. As I began to unravel myself, a voice from the nightstand startled me.

  “Are you okay? Is everything alright?”

  Confused, my eyes darted to my phone. “Anna?”

  “I’m here,” she said. “Are you okay?”

  “I was trying to get a drink and I fell out of bed,” I said. “Hold on a second.”

  “Oh my God.” She gasped. “Are you okay?’

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I peeled the sweat-soaked bedsheet away from my clammy skin and tossed it aside. I grabbed for the bottle of Gatorade. I took a drink, and then another.

  “I’m sure,” I said.

  I was wearing nothing more than a pair of underwear. Wondering where my clothes had gone, I scanned the room. A tee shirt was draped over the headboard of my bed. A pair of sweatpants were on the floor half the distance to the bathroom, strewn across the carpet.

  I took a step. My legs wobbled.

  I wondered if I could make it to the bathroom. If I had to, I’d crawl.

  “I’ve got to piss,” I said. “Wish me luck.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Forget it,” I said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Like a newborn giraffe, I stumbled toward the bathroom, one awkward step after the other. When I reached the doorway, I wanted to cheer. I didn’t dare, though. I feared I might collapse if I exerted too much energy.

  On my way to the toilet, I paused in front of the vanity. I glanced in the mirror.

  I could count my ribs in my reflection. My beard was untrimmed. My hair was matted to the side of my head. Creases across my shoulder, chest, and forehead marked where the sheets had pressed against me while I slept.

  I tried to count the days. My mind became a jumbled mess.

  Bits and pieces of a masked nurse hovering over me came to mind, but I fully realized I hadn’t been to the hospital. I didn’t think I had, at least.

  I relieved my aching bladder, washed my face, and stumbled into the bedroom. I sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Anna? Are you still there?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, answering almost immediately. “I’m here. Is everything okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I replied. “I think I’m confused.”

  “About what?”

  “Did I go to the hospital at some point?”

  “No,” she replied. “You’ve been in your room all this time.”

  “I have this weird recollection of a nurse taking my temperature with one of those electric thermometers. She was wearing a respirator and her hair was in a bun. She kind of. She reminded me of you.”

  “I’ll be darned,” she said. “Probably just a weird dream.”

  “Speaking of dreams, I’ve been having fucking nightmares. Jesus Christ. Talk about vivid.” I shook my head to clear it. “They were fucking awful.”

  “Is it common for you to have nightmares?” she asked.

  “Not at all. Hell, I rarely dream at all, and never have nightmares.”

  She sighed. “I think nightmares are pretty common with a high fever. At least from what I’ve read.”

  “I think my fever might be gone,” I said. “I don’t feel chills any longer.”

  “You slept well last night,” she said. “Almost no coughing at all.”

  “Before that?” I asked. “Was it bad?”

  “It was just awful on the day before yesterday,” she replied. “Maybe the worst. It might have been three days ago, I don’t know. They’re all kind of squished together. Have you been drinking plenty of Gatorade?”

  I glanced at the floor. “Apparently, I have.” I stared at the empty bottles that littered the floor in disbelief. “I must be going nuts.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t remember buying this shit. The Gatorade. I have no idea where it came from.”

  “You’re probably just confused,” she said. “I’m sure everything will come back to you sooner or later.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Do you have any body aches?”

  “I feel like I’ve been in a week-long boxing match,” I replied. “My entire body aches, but not like before. It was so bad the other day that I was in tears. I think this is residual.”

  “Good, maybe you’re on the downhill slope.”

  I’d read about victims who had felt they were on the road to recovery, only to have their symptoms worsen a day or so later. I took a drink of Gatorade, wondering if I’d slip back onto the living hell I’d been in since the day the books arrived.

  I took another drink. “I just remembered the books. We started reading the one about Christopher.”

  “We did.”

  I took another drink. I glanced around the room. Bits and pieces of memories came to me like snippets of a movie clip.

  “Did you read to me?” I asked.

  “I did.”

  I chuckled. “I have a faint recollection of Leo Gursky and Bruno trying to bake a cake.”

  “I read it to you.”

  “That part?” I asked, taking another drink. “The beginning? That was at the beginning, wasn’t it?”

  “That part? Yeah. It seems like it was at the beginning,” she replied. “I’m not sure. All the days kind of run into one another right now.”

  I was disappointed that we didn’t get to read the books together. It was something I was looking forward to sharing with her.

  “How much of it did you read?” I asked.

  “I read the entire book.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “I
did.”

  “All of it?”

  “Every word,” she replied. “It seemed to calm you. I know it calmed me.”

  I took my phone off the nightstand and cancelled the speaker. I raised it to my ear. “Wait, you read it to me?”

  “I did.”

  “All of it?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Have you cracked the cover of Angela’s Ashes?”

  “I have.”

  I was fractionally disappointed. More so in myself than anything else. “I had visions of reading them together. Sharing the experience.”

  “We did share the experience,” she replied.

  “Don’t tell me you read Angela’s Ashes to me, too.”’

  “I did.”

  “All of it?”

  “Every chapter.”

  “Holy shit,” I replied, rubbing my face with my hand. “I’ve been out of it.”

  “Yes,” she said. “You sure have.”

  “Hold on a minute,” I said. “I’m going to go weigh myself.”

  “Why?”

  “When I was in the bathroom a minute ago, I looked like a skeleton. I want to see what I weigh.”

  “Okay.”

  I finished the bottle of Gatorade and set it on the nightstand. With my phone pressed to my ear I walked to the bathroom. Each step became much easier than the last. Excited that I was getting better, I got on the scale.

  I stared at the digital readout like it was a lie. I got off, reset the scale, and got back on. The same number displayed.

  “I’ve lost 18 pounds,” I declared. “There’s no fucking way. How long has it been?”

  “Since the day you fell asleep?”

  “Since the day we started reading,” I replied. “That’s the last day I remember.”

  “Let’s see,” she said. “Thirteen days since your diagnosis, and seven days since you got sick.”

  “I’ve been in bed for seven fucking days?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “An entire week? Jesus.” I glanced at the shower. “I’m going to try to take a shower. I’ll call you when I’m done. Okay?”

  “I’m sure a shower will feel good.”

  “Talk to you in a minute.”

  “Okay.”

  I started to hang up, and then paused. “Anna?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I enjoyed it.”

  I hung up the phone and placed it on the vanity. After brushing a week of yack from my teeth, I took a long, hot shower. As I washed my hair, I recalled bits and pieces of my time in bed. Hours upon hours of aching, periods of hot sweats, cold chills, and the endless nights of nightmares.

  I stood in front of the mirror, drying myself with a towel. It came to me that my father was in the hospital. I’d all but forgotten. Frantic, I grabbed my phone from the vanity.

  I opened the call log and thumbed through it. Missed calls from Pratt, missed calls from Anna, and calls I’d made to Anna—all of which were accepted—were the only calls on the log. I had no recollection of anything that was listed.

  Dumbfounded, I called the hospital and asked about my father. According to the nurse, he was still listed as “stable”, but that was all she could say.

  I asked about the risk of exposing myself to others. I was advised if someone has been symptom-free for 3 days and they developed their first symptoms or were diagnosed more than 10 days prior, they were no longer considered to be infectious.

  Naked, disappointed, and a little confused, I sauntered into the kitchen. I opened the fridge. It was filled with Gatorade. The milk, however, was gone.

  I searched the trash. An empty milk carton was at the top. Beside it, a plastic bag from Ralph’s.

  I never shopped at Ralph’s.

  I lifted the bag from the container and opened it. A crumpled receipt was at the bottom. I retrieved the receipt, unfolded it, and looked at the purchase.

  30 bottles of Gatorade @ $0.99 each

  1 digital thermometer @ $51.47

  1 8 oz can of Starbuck’s Cold Brew @ 4.39

  I folded the receipt neatly, discarded the trash bag, and got dressed. Feeling like recovery was well within my grasp, I picked up my bedroom, stripped the bed, and began washing the bedding.

  I meandered past the kitchen. The three books I’d purchased were spread out beside one another in the island. I glanced at The History of Love.

  I let out a long sigh.

  Seven days of knocking on death’s door changed my outlook, entirely. I was grateful for my health, my recovery, and above all, Anna.

  I peered out my kitchen window toward my nurse, neighbor, and caregiver’s home.

  I couldn’t believe I’d nearly let her slip away.

  Anna

  Day fifteen

  The doctor recommended waiting three more days before Braxton and I could be face-to-face with one another. I felt like I’d been released from prison but wasn’t allowed to leave the compound. Frustrated, I rinsed my breakfast plate, put it in the dishwasher, and meandered to the bathroom.

  Braxton had exposed himself to me unknowingly. I felt guilty. Like I’d read his diary or peered through his bedroom window without him knowing.

  What I learned opened my eyes.

  He, however, had no idea of the knowledge I’d gained. He knew not that he’d revealed his most sacred inner thoughts, feelings, and weaknesses to me.

  Hoping to rid myself of the guilt, I showered. Feeling no less guilty, I searched for something to wear. My initial COVID-19 attire consisted of sweats, old tee shirts, and flip-flops. Meeting with Marge on a daily basis and making peace with Braxton caused me to realize I was living in a state of depression.

  I now dressed like I was going out, even though I knew nothing could be further from the truth.

  I rifled through my clothes, trying to find something suitable. After displaying all my clean articles of clothing on the foot of the bed, I realized my warm weather attire had nearly all been worn. In desperate need of doing a few loads of laundry, I selected a sports bra and my favorite jeans, knowing I’d change before I saw Marge.

  I carried the dirty clothes to the laundry room and started a load in the washer. On my way to the bedroom, an idea came to me.

  An idea that would either fuel Braxton’s fire, or explode in my face.

  I grabbed my jean jacket, bunched my hair into a messy bun, and put on my favorite pink hat. I planned to reveal a secret of my own and hoped it would make Braxton and I even. It made sense to me, anyway.

  I placed the tripod on the end table in the living room and I secured my phone to it. Then, I called Braxton on Google’s video app, Duo.

  Wearing a grin, he answered. His gaunt face filled the phone’s screen. He appeared happy.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  “Good, thanks.”

  “Did you just wake up?”

  “I woke up before the sun came up,” he replied, standing. “I feel like its dinnertime.”

  He was wearing a pair of gray sweats and a tank top. His beard was in bad need of being trimmed. For once, he looked human.

  His face moved closer to the camera. “Are you wearing a hat?”

  I pulled it low on my head. “I am.”

  “Back up so I can see it.”

  I moved away from the camera, giving him a full view of my layered outfit.

  “And a jacket?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  He smirked. “You look cute.”

  “So do you.”

  “Are you going somewhere?” he asked.

  “No,” I replied. “I just want to tell you something.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “It’s a secret,” I said, feeling slightly embarrassed. “I’m revealing something about myself that nobody knows.”

  “I’ll keep it between you and me. How’s that?”

  “Perfect.”

  He smiled. “I’m listening.”r />
  “When I was in college, I needed money for basic stuff, and I didn’t want to ask my parents. I felt it was time for me to become independent. So, I got a job stripping, in Kansas. I’d drive from my apartment across the border, and strip for tips.”

  He laughed. “Really?”

  “Uh huh.”

  He chuckled. “That’s awesome.”

  I was pleased that he didn’t seem repulsed. The fact that he didn’t call me a whore was a plus, too. I saw the profession as a way to survive the financial strain while in college, and nothing more. Not everyone looked at it the same, though.

  “Wanna hear something funny?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  “I loved doing it.”

  He seemed puzzled. “Why?”

  “It was sensual,” I replied. “Sexy. Nobody touched me, and I didn’t mingle with customers or give lap dances. All I did was strip, but it was so, so sexy.”

  “Down to a bikini?” he asked. “Or nude?”

  “Topless,” I replied. “We had to wear bottoms.”

  “Sounds sexy as hell.”

  “Hold on a sec,” I said, moving out of the camera’s eye.

  I grabbed the television remote and selected the Pandora application. Then, I selected the song Leave Your Hat On, by Joe Cocker. I walked in front of the camera, remote in hand.

  Standing in clear view, I faced the phone. I unbuttoned my jacket, revealing my snow-white sports bra.

  I grinned a guilty grin. “Are you ready?”

  His face lit up. “Hell, yeah.”

  I pressed play and tossed the remote aside.

  His eyes widened as I moved in perfect timing with the song.

  When I stripped in college, I stepped onto the stage a different woman. The instant I was in front of a screaming crowd, I became Kandy Kane.

  As I pulled off my jacket one seductive sleeve at a time, I was none other than Anna Wilson, Braxton Rourke’s neighbor and very confused friend.

  To get us both warmed up, I spent a moment gyrating my hips to the music in my bra. When I was soaked—and his eyes were glued to the screen—I unbuttoned my jeans and slowly slid my hands deep inside them. Watching the look on Braxton’s face morph from a curious one to that of a horny man was worth the risk I’d taken in revealing my past.