by Hurt
All morning he stayed there, in that chair next to her bed, and the only people who came and talked to her and touched her were the staff and, once, when it was almost noon, her surgeon. Because she hadn't told them. Her friends. Her family. No one knew she was there.
It's okay to hurt, he reminded himself over and over as he walked, dazed, over the waxed linoleum, out of her room, down the hall, watching the luminous rectangles reflected in the tiles sliding along with him, but not keeping pace.
"Hi."
The woman behind the counter said, "Yes?" without looking up.
"Hi," he said again, thinking how little it sounded like him. Shy. Uncertain. "I'm a friend of Vanka Klimov's."
"Yes?" she said again, still not looking up.
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"Would it be possible to move her? Into one of those large single rooms with the big windows?"
"No. I'm sorry."
She sounded more indifferent than sorry. She looked up. Finally. From her expression it seemed like she got about a hundred, or maybe a thousand requests every shift that were either annoying or impossible. She looked like she'd been programmed, through long, dull repetitious habit, to say 'no' to everything.
The words “no, I'm sorry,” were already leaving her lips, stained with lipstick worn almost away, left behind on soda cans and styrofoam coffee cups, as her eyes left the form she was hurriedly scribbling on and settled on his face.
In one second her expression changed from irritation to uncertainty to recognition to shock.
"You're Galen Ross," she told him bluntly, a smile curving her lips, possibly for the first time that day.
"Yes."
He tried to smile back.
She grinned at him in surprised silence for a long moment or two.
"I'm sorry," she laughed. "What was your question?"
"I was wondering if it would be possible to move Vanka Klimov into a different room. I noticed two empty rooms—singles with large windows. Could she be moved?"
"Oh . . ." The woman began shifting awkwardly in her rolling office chair, nervously clicking her ballpoint pen.". . . I'm afraid these beds are . . ."
"Are they reserved?"
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"No," she confessed, "but . . ."
He leaned toward her, spoke in a soft voice that could have been either confidential or intimate.
"Is it an insurance issue?"
She evaded his eyes.
"I'll pay. Just bill me for the difference."
"It doesn't work that way. I'm sorry."
"Don't people incur expenses, get drugs, treatments that aren't covered, all the time?"
"Yes, but. . . ." She sighed.
"Please."
His vision blurred, and when he blinked he felt a tear slide down his cheek, but he didn't care. Even when the woman, who must see people cry all the time, working her shifts in the oncology ward, looked started, then almost alarmed. He didn't care.
"Please. I think it's the only thing I can do for her."
* * * *
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For this."
Vanka gestured toward the big window, which looked down on the lawn and trees of the park adjacent to the hospital.
"When they moved me, they said it was because some woman was afraid to be alone, so they needed my bed. That your idea too?"
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"Yes."
"Well, thank you.”
"You're welcome."
* * * *
Vanka stared at the door. She shouldn't have let the nurse go. She shouldn't have agreed to let Galen come over. With the nurse, she could be still and silent. Now, she'd have to smile, have to talk. The bell chimed a third time.
“Tonight I'll be doing a convincing impression of a delicate flower,” she warned Galen as soon as she opened the door, excusing her instinctive impulse to back away from the hug he knew he couldn't give her.
“So, no wrestling tonight?”
“I'm afraid not. In fact, you'll be lucky if I don't enlist you to lift my glass to my lips each time I desire a sip of water.”
"I don't mind it a bit, actually," he sighed with a smile, slinking up to her, his thigh brushing hers as he ran the tip of his finger under the hem of her short sleeve. “With you so fragile, I won't have to go to the trouble of getting you into restraints when I get a wicked impulse.”
He was just being playful. Obviously. But it was so like the old him—or rather, the old them—that it hurt. She backed away. It was instinct, now, not moving her upper body unnecessarily.
"I got The 400 Blows and Breathless, he said, affably.
"Truffaut and Godard? Nous attrapons la nouvelle vague, je vois."
"Mais, oui. I didn't know you spoke French.”
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“And I had no idea you knew cinema history. Khalid's influence?"
Galen scoffed.
"Hardly. Though he did help with the French, a bit. I lived in Paris, you know, for eighteen months, shooting a film. That's where we met." He laughed. "But we became .
. . friends in spite of my involvement in film, not because it's something we share in common. I defy you to get the man to set down whatever novel he's immersed in at the time to watch something on a screen. Even if I play the main character."
"I'll scrap my plans to invite him to join my cinephiles' club, then."
They settled in for their double feature, Vanka self-conscious of how slowly and carefully she lowered herself onto the sofa, using her thighs and abs to keep her back straight, to avoid flexing any muscles near the incisions. Galen loaded the DVD and fired up the projector, then settled in beside her, descending almost as cautiously as she had so as not to jar her. But almost as soon as the movie had started, she felt his gentle touch as his fingers caressed her cheek, then combed up into her hair, tickling with their teasing of her tresses, then tingling her as his nails raked her scalp before his fingertips began circling, massaging.
"Mmmmm. That feels so good, I think I'm slipping into a coma. I thought only heavy doses of painkillers could make my lids this heavy."
"Maybe it's not me. Maybe it's Truffaut."
"I'm sorry. Should we have made it a Jerry Bruckheimer marathon?"
"Now that would have been cruel. But maybe it should be Kirasawa next time.
Truffaut's work is sadly bereft of swordplay."
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They resubmerged in the realm of strict schoolmasters and self-absorbed mothers for a while, until Vanka had to change positions. Galen helped her to lie down, propped on pillows so she could see the projection while comfortably reclined. Sitting at the end of the couch, Galen took her feet on his lap and, after long minutes of sensuous caressing, began diligently rubbing them until her whole body—which had been a knot of pain and fearful rigidity for days—felt like it was melting into a tranquil puddle.
She turned from the black and white images sliding over her wall, to Galen, watching them, lit by them. Galen, who'd never known her, except sick. Galen, whom she'd distrusted and feared the night they met, and for weeks after. He'd scared her.
Hurt her. He'd known her such a short time, but understood her the best of all her friends and family. And now, it was his hands softening her body made taut by weeks of stress and fear and days of awful pain.
Seeming to feel her eyes on him, he turned toward her and smiled. Not one of his teasing or bemused grins. His smile seemed like one of simple happiness.
She was happy. She was enraged. She loved him. Now. Now that she was unlovable.
She kept it in.
"I should go to bed," she told him when the antihero of the second movie had died.
"It was naughty of you to stay up as late as you have."
He got up, moving almost as carefully as she did these days, so he wouldn't jostle her. He zigzagged efficiently through the room, turning off the projector and DVD
player, gathering up dishes and ferrying them off to the kitchen, getting Vanka a fresh
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drink to take to bed. He helped her up to sitting, up off the couch. She was ready to see him to the door but he turned her gently into the hallway.
"What are you doing?"
"You don't think you get a top-notch date like that, and not put out, do you?"
She laughed.
"Does my limited mobility make you horny, baby?" she asked in a passable Austin Powers accent.
"Now, now. Don't try to turn this around and make it about my bizarre sexual proclivities."
"It's a wonder they didn't cast you in Cronenburg's Crash.
"As what? A thirteen-year-old with an accident fixation?" He was moving her gently down the hall. "Be a good girl, now, and let me help you get to bed."
She stopped dead.
"I'm fine, Galen. I can take care of myself."
He touched her shoulders and kissed the crown of her head.
"Yes, you're good at that. It's letting people help you that you need to work on.
And I'm here to help you mend your evil ways."
Apparently his plan of rehabilitation did not require that he be allowed to attend her in the bathroom. She brushed her teeth—slowly and carefully, the way she did everything now in an effort to avoid sudden rending pain—and peed, then found Galen in her room. Even after everything he'd done for her the last few days, how tender and sweet he'd been, the sight of him standing by her bed frightened her. Judging by the quality of smile he gave her, he could tell.
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"What attire will the lady be donning for her evening's slumber?"
"All my negligees are at the dry cleaner's, so I think I'll just sleep in the T-shirt I'm wearing."
"Very good, madam. Allow me to help you out of your sweater and trousers, then."
He looked her up and down, then looked at the bed, which the home nurse had made that afternoon, and turned the covers down. In a slow, gentle dance he turned her until the backs of her legs touched the mattress.
"Cardigan first, madam. Arms nice and relaxed by your sides, please."
She hadn't told him, but he seemed to know, to have guessed that any movement of her shoulders stirred some kind of pain, from a deep ache like sore muscles, to a searing agony that tore through the veil of pain killers. Brushing her teeth had reddened her eyes with stinging tears as she'd watched in the mirror.
She'd been dreading undressing, even unzipping the cardigan and working it off her shoulders and down her arm. But now he did it for her, pulling the garment out from her chest before unzipping, sliding it off her shoulders and down her arms so gently that she didn't feel so much as an unpleasant twinge from her tortured torso.
"And now, the lady's pants, if she pleases."
He unbuttoned and unzipped her fly, and eased the pants over her hips and down her thighs. Then he had her sit on the bed and, crouching down, he lifted one foot, then the other, sliding her pants the rest of the way off.
"Now. Bedtime meds?"
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She told him what she needed and he brought her the colorful pill cocktail and her drink. One by one she put the pills on her tongue and sucked juice through a straw to wash them down. When that was done, Galen put one arm behind her back, lowering her gently to her pillows, while with the other arm he lifted the weight of her legs up onto the mattress. He pulled the covers up and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
Only now that she was safely, comfortably tucked into bed did she feel how much she'd been dreading it—the frustrating agony of doing such tiny things. She felt so grateful, so relieved that she wished he would hurry up and go so she could let go and cry.
But he wasn't leaving. He stood there, gazing down at her, and with dawning horror she watched as he pulled his shirt over his head.
"Galen. What are you doing?"
"Getting undressed."
“Galen. I want you to go. Please."
"This way, I'm here if you need anything."
"What are you going to do? Sleep on the couch? Listen for me crying out in the night?"
"No. I'm going to sleep here. With you."
She laughed. He gave her a steady look.
"No.
"Yes."
"You won't get any sleep. I'm not still. I'm not quiet."
"I can miss a night of sleep. It's not like I have to be at the office in the morning."
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"I get night sweats. The sheets get soaked."
"You're embarrassed. You're afraid. I get it, Vanka. But there's no good reason to push me away."
"I can take care of myself. I have to be able to take care of myself."
"Not all the time. Not now."
He walked around to the other side of the bed, took off his shoes and pants, and slid into bed beside her, somehow just barely making the mattress shift. He moved close, kissed a spot of shoulder not hidden under the blanket, found her hand, down by her hip and took it in his.
"I miss feeling you next to me while I sleep. I don't want to go home. All right?"
"Yes."
"Good."
For the first time in days, she fell asleep almost instantly, the warmth of his hand in hers and the faint tickle of his breath on her shoulder occupying just enough of her notice to keep her mind from its usual dark thoughts.
* * * *
The pain woke her after seemingly endless dreams of pain. She heard herself groan as she woke, and a hundred groans echoed in her memory, and her eyes and temples and the scalp above her ears were wet. She'd been crying and crying out in her sleep.
Morphine. She wanted the morphine, but the thought of moving terrified her.
When it hurt like this, just lying still, moving was torture. Like being ripped open. She 206
sobbed, letting herself cry and wallow in this easier pain for a moment before forcing herself to reach for the pills.
"Vanka?"
Galen. She'd forgotten.
"Are you awake?" he whispered from the wrong side.
"Yes."
She hadn't meant to sob like that. Sleep weakened her defenses. Just one of the reasons she hadn't wanted him to stay.
The bedside lamp clicked and lit up.
"What do you need?" he asked. Soft. Calm.
"The morphine. The little bottle. Two tablets."
One by one he picked up the smaller of the amber-clear plastic vials, scanning labels, then worked the child-proof white cap off of one and tapped two tiny white pills into his palm. With a hand at the back of her skull he gently lifted and tipped her head forward.
"Stick out your tongue."
He placed the pills on her tongue, and a second later had the straw at her lips.
She sucked and swallowed.
"Thank you," she said as he lowered her carefully to her pillow.
The tears were just flowing now, determined not to be dammed up. Sleep and the pain had worn down her walls. But something else was making her cry.
"Ssshhhh. You're welcome. Just be still. You'll be better in a few minutes."
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He leaned over. Kissed her forehead. His lips felt cool. She knew she was burning. That her head was hot and wet. And the tears were still rolling, rolling, tickling her temples and her scalp as they ran into her hair.
"I've got a cool wash cloth here. For your head."
He pressed the cold we cloth to her forehead. A soothing chill rippled down her burning body.
"Better?"
"Yeah."
He left the compress for a moment, then lifted it, and she could hear the faint slosh and drip as he made it cool again with fresh water in some receptacle he'd brought to her bedside. He pressed it gently to one cheek, then the other, then lay it over her forehead.
"Do you want the covers off?"
"Please."
He lifted the blankets carefully from her chest before pulling them down, below her feet. Cool air chilled her hot, wet skin. She felt like she'd been airlifted from hell.
"More juice?"
"Please."
&
nbsp; He brought the straw to her lips and she drank. Her sweats left her desperately dehydrated. Now, cooled by the air and the compress, her thirst slaked, she could focus on the pain burning and throbbing in a roughly straight line across her chest.
"What else can I do?" he asked, refilling her glass from a pitcher he must have found in the kitchen.
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"How about a swift mercy killing?"
"It's a bit premature. Don't you think?"
It wasn't the words. It was the tone and the look that went with them. He'd thought about it, too.
He smiled and touched the lamp, making it click and dim, leaving them in the pale and blue of the moon. His tread sounded softly toward her feet and around to the other side of her, then the bed squeaked a little as he lowered his body onto it and moved toward her. With a pleasant tickling touch of fingertips he stroked her arm, her palm, her fingertips, meandering slowly down, then up, then down again, distracting her a little from the pain until his tingling tickles mingled with the nerve-numbing morphine streams and she slept.
* * * *
In the morning he made her breakfast, watched her not eat it, washed her dishes, washed her bedding, and did her laundry—the precious few articles of clothing that were comfortable enough and easy enough to get in and out of while she healed. She was grateful, but an impish little part of her was amused. Galen the houseboy. Too funny.
Of course she was going nuts cooped up in the house, and of course he noticed.
They went for a slow stroll around the block. It made her feel human. Less sick.
Outside. Moving.
“How about if I give Khalid a call? See if he wants to come over for a while?”
Galen asked that evening.
“I'm tired. Maybe tomorrow.”
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“You said that yesterday”
“I'll try to be more perky tomorrow.”