Spiral

by Mila Ferrera

  “I don’t think that’s what it is,” I say, stomping down my panic because it won’t help anything right now. “I think it might be lithium poisoning.”

  Dr. Poehler’s brows shoot up. “Aron? Is that what you think’s going on?”

  “Jag vet inte,” Aron mutters. “Jag mår illa.”

  While I hold Aron’s head, I rattle off his symptoms to Dr. Poehler and explain the recent dosage change. The fact that Aron is mumbling in Swedish the whole time helps me make my case. Poehler looks puzzled that I know so much about lithium toxicity, but when your boyfriend has bipolar disorder, researching side effects of his meds with obsessive thoroughness sort of goes with the territory. Whatever Poehler thinks, he seems to believe I might be onto something. He checks Aron’s blood pressure and listens to his heart. He assures me that Aron’s not in life threatening danger at this moment, but he agrees that Aron needs immediate treatment and calls the emergency medical team.

  When Aron sees the paramedic come into the room, he shoots to his feet and staggers, and Poehler and I grab him to keep him from falling. His expression is one of naked fear.

  The last time he faced off with the EMS, it didn’t go well.

  “Aron, it’s okay. It’s okay,” I chant as we get him into a chair again. He’s shaking, but I can’t tell if it’s because he’s upset or because of the lithium. While Poehler answers the paramedics’ questions about Aron’s vitals, I take his face in my hands and try to get him to look at me. “Aron. You’re sick, and it’s going to get worse if we don’t go to the hospital. Please. It’s not the same as last time. Not at all.”

  He’s blinking, trying to bring my face into focus maybe. “Did we finish? Did I finish?”

  I bite my lip and weave my fingers through his hair. “Yes, you finished. And now we’re going to go, okay?”

  “Okay. Take me home, Nessa, tack. Jag vill åka hem.” He clutches at my arms and tries to get up, and because the paramedics are right there, I help him. He leans heavily on me and takes a few wobbly steps to the door.

  “We’ll go home, Aron, but first we have to take you to the doctor.” I catch the eye of one of the paramedics. “I need to stay with him, please. He has no family here and he’s confused. He shouldn’t have to be alone.” There is no way I’m letting him go without me. I’m terrified I’ll lose him again.

  “You can ride in the front,” says the paramedic, eyeing Aron. “That okay with you, doc?”

  “Nessa,” says Aron, his grip on my arms tightening. “I don’t feel good.”

  He starts to sink to the floor, but the paramedics catch him and we half-carry him to the gurney in the hall. Aron barely fights. He’s too busy trying not to be sick—he looks almost green. The paramedics quickly hook up a saline IV while Poehler explains this is what Aron needs most—fluids that will help the lithium build-up clear his system. Aron lies still, his eyes closed, his face ashen. But when they start to move the gurney, his eyes fly open, and his gaze lands on me.

  “I’m going with you,” I say to him. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Okay,” he whispers, his eyes falling shut again. “Thank you.”

  Aron is admitted to the hospital with a serum lithium level of 1.9. I know from my side effect research that the therapeutic level is between .7 and 1.2, so it’s scary to see what happens when there’s too much in Aron’s system. With treatment, his confusion goes away quickly. Mark calls to tell me so after visiting Aron the next afternoon, but I see it for myself as soon as I walk into his room that evening, after a long day at CHOP that included an afternoon session of mind-ninja training with Rohan—which I probably needed as badly as he did.

  Aron’s sitting up in bed, IV attached to his arm, wearing a worn t-shirt and sweatpants. There’s a pen in his hand and an oncology journal open on his lap. “Hey,” he says as I walk in.

  “Hey,” I reply, crossing the room and bending to kiss his cheek.

  But he leans away, just a little. “How was your day?” he asks.

  I straighten, reminding myself he’s been through a lot, which doesn’t quite take the edge off his silent rejection. “Long. Yours? Did you talk to your psychiatrist?”

  He turns his face toward the window. “Yes. I’m off the med for now, but she said I could start taking it again when I’m discharged. She lowered the dose quite a bit, though, and added Abilify instead. She said I’ve lost some weight, and that, with the increased dose and the fact that I wasn’t sufficiently hydrated, was what did it.”

  “Okay … and how are you feeling?” His face is expressionless and his voice is monotone, and it’s scaring the crap out of me.

  “Better. Still nauseated, but I ate a little. My lithium level is down to one-point-five. They want it below one.”

  “Do you know when you’ll be discharged?”

  “By Friday, they think,” he says quietly.

  “Well, good. Movie night? Your place?” My voice sounds annoyingly chipper, even to me.

  “Nessa, I think I need some time. And I think you might, too. This can’t be good for you.” He finally turns back to me, and there’s pain in his green eyes. “I can’t believe I asked you to stay in Philadelphia for me. You don’t need this in your life.”

  “You’re not the only reason I stayed, and by ‘this,’ you mean … what?”

  He grimaces and gestures around the room. “This. Me. All of it.”

  “Don’t,” I snap. “Don’t you dare. You said you would try. And I believed you.”

  “I am trying.”

  “How can you say that?” I ask, my voice trembling. “You push me away every time one little thing goes wrong.”

  Aron rolls his eyes. “‘One little thing’? Nessa. Why would you want to be with a guy who loses his mind—and his lunch—when he doesn’t drink enough water? Do you enjoy riding in ambulances? How about fending off my inappropriate advances when I don’t have enough meds on board? And what if that’s not the worst thing that I do?” His voice breaks and he stares at the journal in his lap. “You should be running the other way.”

  I want to shake him, but instead I say, “Do you respect me, Aron? No, look at me. You said you didn’t like it when I tried to hide, but you’re doing the same thing to me.” He slowly raises his gaze to mine. “Thanks. Now—do you respect me?”

  “You know I do. That’s exactly why I’m—”

  “Shut up. So you respect me. Awesome. Do you trust me?”

  He sighs. “Nessa … yes, I trust you. It’s myself I don’t—”

  “Shut. Up. I get that you don’t trust yourself. I get that this is scary. I’m scared, too, and I won’t hide from that like I might have before I met you. But you just said you respect me and you trust me. Excellent. I have one more question. Do you want me? Like you used to, I mean. Brain, heart, and body. No walls between us, sharing everything.”

  His gaze drops away, sending a cold wave of fear over me. But somehow, I manage to stay very still and silent as I wait for his response. Finally, he mumbles something inaudible.

  “What?”

  “I said yes!” he shouts, coming to life, his fists clenching. “Yes! I want you. All of you. So badly that it hurts. But you deserve better than this!”

  I close the distance between us in an instant and take his face in my hands. “But when I say you are who I want, and that if this kind of thing comes along with it, then I’m fine with that,” I say as tears glaze my eyes, “if you trust me, you’ll believe that’s true. And if you respect me, you’ll know that I have the right to make that decision, and that you don’t need to make it for me. And if you want me, well. That should make this easy, because I’m yours.”

  I kiss him, hard, and after a moment of hesitation, he kisses me back, his free arm coiling around my waist and pulling me close. “I don’t want you to be here because you feel like you have to be,” he says, his voice muffled as he tucks his head against my neck, hiding his face from me. “I don’t want you to feel trapped because you feel sorry fo
r me.”

  Aching for him, I kick off my shoes and climb onto the bed. As I lay my hand on his chest, I feel his racing heart. “I’m here because of you, Aron, not in spite of you. Because I trust you whether you do or not. And I respect and admire you more than anyone else in this world. There’s nowhere else I want to be.”

  “I want to be somewhere else,” he mutters. But then he puts the journal and pen on the side table, allowing me to scoot even closer.

  I snuggle in as he raises his arm and lets me rest within the crook of his shoulder. I plaster myself to his long, lean body, and press my face to his throat, tired of being scared, tired of him trying to push me away. He has all of me, brain, heart, body. But I don’t have all of him. Not yet. “Where would you be then, if you could be anywhere?”

  He leans his cheek against my forehead. “I would be on the Kungsleden, I think.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “It’s in northern Sweden. It’s all wilderness, this long trail through valleys, by lakes, mountains everywhere. Sometimes it leads through swampland, and on those stretches, it’s just narrow planks over the marsh, going on for miles. No buildings, no hospitals. You can go there and be totally alone if you want.”

  “An escape.”

  “Yes.”

  “That sounds nice.” I turn my head and kiss his chest. “And … would you want to be? Totally alone, I mean.”

  He’s quiet for a few moments. And then, “Well, maybe not totally alone. Do you own a pair of hiking boots?”

  I squeeze him. It’s enough. Not everything I want, but considering what we’ve been through, I’ll chalk this up as a win.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I watch Aron like a hawk for the next few weeks, ready for him to run or pull away, but something about our conversation at the hospital seems to have settled him a bit. We get back to our routine, we get Kai through another procedure, we take it easy. Well, sort of. My dissertation defense is looming, and I have to get the draft finished and sent to the committee, then prepare my presentation. Just the thought of working on it makes me queasy.

  So, of course, I avoid it. It’s not like I don’t have other things to do. I have a full caseload of clients. I’m on a bunch of hospital committees. And if Aron’s free, I’m with him, because there’s nothing better than holding his hand, walking through the streets of Center City, hanging out at the pond and watching the turtles while he beats me at chess, or sitting on his balcony as the breeze ruffles our hair. The days creep by, and though Aron was shaken by what happened, he’s working as hard as ever and doing well on his new medication. Better than well, actually. Every day, he seems a little more confident. Most of the residents are terrified of him, not because he’s mean, but because he demands precision and thoroughness—as well as kindness and consideration for his patients—and he’s icy when he doesn’t get it.

  Lisa comes into the intern office one Monday morning at the end of May, absolutely glowing. “It looks like the dissertation defense went well,” I comment.

  She bows. “I just got back last night. My flight from Richmond was delayed, but I barely cared! It’s such a relief, Nessa. When do you defend?”

  My stomach tightens. “In about a month.”

  “Why do you look like you’re in dire need of an emesis basin? Didn’t you send your dissertation to your committee?”

  “I’m getting there. It’s mostly done.”

  Her brow furrows. “I practiced my defense for a month after I sent the final draft to the committee.”

  I wave my hands. “Change the subject or I really am going to be sick.”

  She closes the office door, a gleefully conspiratorial look on her face. “Okay, how about this? I’m pregnant.”

  “Oh, Lisa! Oh!” I jump up and hug her. “So that isn’t just the glow of intellectual triumph.”

  She laughs. “No, I guess not,” she says as we move apart and sit down. “I haven’t told anyone else yet. But I’m actually almost three months along. Due in December.”

  “That’s awesome! But—how’s it going to affect your post-doc?” She accepted a fellowship to work on a research project with mothers of high-risk infants in the NICU, which seems like the perfect fit for her.

  “I’m hoping they’ll help me work it out,” she says. “Seems like they’d understand, but I know it’s hard for some of those mothers whose babies are so tiny and sick to see another woman who’s really pregnant, maybe further along than they got.”

  “Does it scare you, seeing all those babies like that?”

  She shrugs. “Maybe a little. But everything’s going fine so far, and I’ll take it day by day.” She gives me a cautious look. “So now that you’re settled in and have your post-doc all figured out, have you and Aron talked about the future?”

  I twist my fingers together in my lap. “We’re kind of living in the moment.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “Well, I can’t complain—he’s the most gentlemanly of all fish in the sea, after all.” And once again, it’s kind of killing me. Especially because, this time around, it’s not because he’s teasing me. He’s not ready to give me all of him because he’s afraid that it’s not good, not durable or strong, not enough. “He’s regaining his confidence. It’s taking a while.”

  What happened to Aron in the fall is kind of an open secret at this point. Nick, who apparently heard it from one of the residents who heard it from a nurse who heard it from an orderly at Jefferson, made sure of that. It made me extra happy when the only post-doc offer Nick got was in Sante Fe, so come September, I’ll never see him again.

  “It’s understandable that Aron might feel a little shaky.” Lisa’s chair squeaks as she shifts her weight. “But are you getting what you need, Nessa? You’re so caring, but you can’t take care of someone all the time, especially with everything else on your plate.”

  I raise my head and look at her, realizing what she’s saying. “You think my relationship with Aron is one-sided?”

  She puts her hands up. “I’m only asking—who takes care of you?”

  “I do,” I say.

  She nods and grabs her notebook. “Well, then remind yourself to finish your dissertation, okay? Because someone needs to make sure you get that puppy done.”

  By the time the weekend arrives, Lisa’s words have wormed their way into my brain. She’s right—maybe not about everything, but I do need to finish my dissertation or, even after all that work, I can kiss the idea of graduating in August goodbye. My committee is expecting a finished draft in exactly nine days. So I get up early on Saturday, fire up the computer, and haul stacks of reference articles out from under my bed. I root around, find the ones I’ll need to cite in my Discussion section, open my dissertation file, and sit there, hands on the keyboard.

  Staring.

  After a while I get up and make oatmeal, then return to the computer and type a few words. Then I go take a shower. With my hair dripping wet down my back, I sit down and manage to write a paragraph. I check my email, talk to my mom on the phone, and then delete the paragraph because it makes no sense. I spend three hours that way and end up with two whole sentences.

  And then Aron texts me: That movie you mentioned the other day is playing at the Bourse at 1.

  Are you asking me out on a date?

  Oops, no, sorry, I meant to text someone else.

  For that you owe me popcorn. And candy.

  And the negotiations are on. Pick you up in ten?

  I shall have my list of demands ready.

  I sprint to the bathroom, squeak when I see the funky way my hair has dried, and yank it into a ponytail, wishing I’d asked for thirty instead of ten. But when Aron’s knock comes, I’m at the door, pulling it open with my toothbrush in my hand. Aron laughs when he sees my discombobulated appearance. “Did you sleep late?” he asks as he walks in.

  I shrug and hold up my finger, pointing at my frothy mouth, then scurry to the bathroom. When I come out, Aron is s
tanding by my bed, frowning. “You were working.”

  “Oh. Yeah. But it can wait.”

  He picks up one of the articles and reads the title. “This isn’t for anything at CHOP. This is for your dissertation.”

  I join him by the bed, barely able to look at the scatter of articles across the comforter. Before this morning, it had been weeks since I worked on my dissertation. Actually … it’s been since before Aron and I got back together. And now I’m so behind that whenever I sit down to finish the damn thing, the anxiety is like a screeching chorus of feral cats in my head, making it really hard to concentrate. Conveniently, the cats fall silent when I start to do anything other than work on my dissertation.

  Aron gives me a concerned look. “Didn’t you tell me last week that you had booked your ticket to Madison for the end of June?”

  I nod. And swallow. Hard.

  His eyes narrow. “When is the final paper due to your committee?”

  I fold my arms over my middle. “A week,” I mumble.

  “What?” His voice has turned sharp.

  “A week. But it’ll be fine. I just have to dash off the Discussion section. Can we go?” I grab his hand and start to tug him toward the door.

  He lets out a bark of laughter. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Er.”

  He tilts his head. “Intern Cavenaugh, are you using me to procrastinate?”

  I bite my lip. “No, I’m using you for popcorn. And a movie. And candy.”

  “Nice try. We’re not going anywhere. You’re going to work on your dissertation.”

  I slink toward him and slide my arms around his waist. “But … candy.”

  He pulls my arms away from his body, his serious expression telling me he is not the slightest bit amused by my utterly adorable attempts to distract him. “This isn’t like you, Nessa. What’s going on?”

  I sag onto the bed. “I’ve been putting it off, and now, every time I open the file, my stomach tries to turn itself inside out.”