by Rosa Sophia
Ian Gardner.
Every so often, she glanced at her watch, wondering how long it would take him to arrive. The pain intensified, and then receded for a moment, long enough for her to listen. She calmed herself, trying to steady her breathing. It didn’t help to panic. Wondering what was wrong with her would do no good, but she couldn’t help herself. Whatever was happening to her, she was at its mercy. It had taken hold and wasn’t letting go.
Time passed, but she didn’t look at her watch again. After what felt like an hour, she heard voices somewhere outside the examination room. She heard the concern in Ian’s tone as he asked the doctor how she was doing. Amalie heard snippets of their conversation. The doctor might have been standing closer to the door of the exam room, because she heard him more than she heard Ian.
“It’s obvious she’s miserable…not sure what’s wrong. Could be…neuralgia.”
Amalie wasn’t sure what he was talking about or what the words meant, but she listened raptly. Knowing Ian waited nearby, she dragged herself up into a sitting position. She saw legs—pastel blue fabric—and knew it was Jean.
“Can you stand?”
Amalie groaned. The pain was so intense it made her sick. She wanted to die; instead she vomited. For the split second it took to void her breakfast, Amalie’s senses were directed to her throat, to the pain in her esophagus, and away from her face. But as quickly as the distraction had come, it was gone, and the pain in her face returned full force.
She stumbled from the chair, apologizing to Jean, who merely patted her on the back and insisted there was no need. The harsh lights in the hallway invaded her vision, and she cringed, her eyes filled with tears. With her left eye shut and her right eye open just enough to see, she walked slowly into the nearby waiting room where the doctor and Ian stood waiting.
Ian immediately put his arms around her. “Come on, we’re going to the hospital.” He glanced away for a moment and said, “Thank you, Doctor, for everything.”
“What about…” Amalie struggled to connect the jumbled thoughts in her mind. “My bill?”
“I paid it,” Ian said, guiding her out the door.
“But—”
“No arguments.” With one hand on the small of her back, and another firmly holding her right hand, Ian guided her to the car.
The ride to the hospital seemed to take forever, and with each bend in the road, Amalie felt more nauseated. When they arrived, she stumbled out in front of the ER at Jupiter Medical Center. Ian rubbed her back as she leaned forward and clutched her stomach.
When she straightened, he helped her walk into the lobby, and someone urged her into a wheelchair.
“I’m sorry for this, Ian, I’m so sorry you have to see me this way.” She spoke through tears and bile, wishing she knew what was wrong and how to stop it.
“Don’t apologize.” A minute or so went by as Ian checked her in at the front desk, taking her wallet to give them her ID, and then someone pushed her into a room just off the ER. The entire time, Ian didn’t let go of her hand. Minutes later, she was lying in a bed. Ian sat beside her and kissed her on the forehead as he slipped her wallet into his pocket for safekeeping.
“You’re the only one I…the only one I could think of calling,” she mumbled.
“I want you to call me for things like this. I’m in love with you, Amalie.”
“You are? You’ve never said that before.”
There was a rush of movement nearby, and someone took her right hand. A nurse was wiping the back of her hand with a cloth. “Amalie,” a woman’s voice said, “I’m going to put an IV in your hand. It’ll sting for just a second, but I want you to keep still, okay?”
Amalie didn’t take her eyes off Ian.
She cringed at the needle entering her skin, but whimpered slightly at the stinging that followed, which was much worse than the needle itself. “What is that?” She gasped.
“Just fluids, but it does sting at first. It’ll pass in a second.”
The pain intensified and Amalie’s vision blurred. She wasn’t sure if it was from exhaustion, or the tears brimming in her eyes. She blinked and—
There was something about him that intrigued her, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. He was clad in black. Why did he so prefer the darkness?
“Ian, you, you look different…”
“Amalie?”
“I sobbed and told him he was breaking my heart, and he is. It hurts, I cannot understand why this love hurts so much.”
As the shocks of pain crossed her face, Amalie’s visions flashed across her mind. She swam in sights and smells, overwhelmed by dreams that made no sense. She saw herself in another bedroom, tucked beneath the covers, and a man sitting beside her on the bed, holding her hand. It was Ian, but at the same time it was someone else. He told her he loved her, and he spoke another name, but Amalie couldn’t remember what it was.
She felt Ian squeeze her hand. She saw flashes of white as nurses passed by, and she thought she heard a doctor.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get to the bottom of this. We’ll find out why it hurts.”
“How do you…how do you know…?” Amalie spoke so softly, she doubted anyone heard her. They all bustled about as if she’d said nothing.
In her mind she saw the Woodsman.
She saw the brooding lover, the man tucked away with his books and papers.
She saw the garden.
She thought she smelled cloves, and then—just as quickly she was on Cliff Island again, standing on the bluffs. The waves jumped as though to meet her, as if to reach up and snatch her sorrow out of her hands. The ocean took everything. The ocean, the mother, took everything back.
As everything else sunk away, there was only one thing Amalie was aware of—Ian’s hand holding hers. She felt her head drop to the side. The pain was too much. It overwhelmed her, and she drifted into a half-sleep in which she continued to hear the sounds around her—the phones ringing, the doctors and nurses talking, the sounds of footsteps on the tiles.
Everything fell away.
In her dream, she was in her bed at home. Nurses walked through her bedroom. Doctors came in and out. The sunshine played through the windows. Amalie’s eyes were barely open, but she could still see the nurses leaning over her bed. A group of them scrutinized her, watched her with interest, frowned at her and pitied her.
A young nurse shook her head and sighed heavily.
“So much pain,” the nurse intoned. “This girl has so much pain.”
The dream dissipated and Amalie was left with nothing. Nothing but a dark, fitful sleep.
Chapter 20
One month later
Jupiter, Florida
Nervousness twisted in her gut, fear rose in the back of her throat, and she wept briefly for the space that had been her home since moving to Florida. She’d spent years there with Zoey, coming home to the tiny studio, making dinner for one in the kitchenette, and watching boats speed by on the Intracoastal.
For a woman who claimed to enjoy change and spontaneity, she wasn’t doing a good job of embracing it. Even Ian had noticed. He helped her carry in the last of her boxes, depositing them against the wall in her new bedroom.
And he’d brought her flowers. Red roses brightened the room, sitting in the window in a tapered vase. He told her it signaled a new beginning—for both of them. No one had ever gotten her flowers before.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I should be okay.” Amalie fought back tears. “Why am I grieving a stupid apartment?” She turned and looked at Ian, who shrugged and waited for her to continue. She sat down on her bed, the first piece of furniture she’d assembled, and folded her hands in her lap. “I used to have this image in my head, I was this nomadic gypsy. I wasn’t afraid of anything. I decided I wanted to spend my life traveling around, never settling down, just going from place to place and being free. That’s what I am.”
Ian’s brow crinkled. He straightened his glasses. Then he carefully knelt in f
ront of Amalie on the sky blue carpeting in his faded jeans. Her head was bowed as she stared at the threads of his blue polo shirt.
“You know what I think? Am, look at me.” Ian waited until she’d caught his gaze. When she started to glance away, not wanting him to see she was about to cry, he chided her. “Hey, don’t look away. I need to tell you something.” The firmness in his tone brought her back. “Amalie, I think there’s a part of you that doesn’t like that old image of yourself. You grew up without stability. You lost your mother, your dad is an alcoholic, and you always had to take care of him. It was the wrong way around. Being a nomad and floating around from place to place isn’t a bad thing, but I don’t think it’s for you. I think it’s what you’d be comfortable with—too comfortable. I think what you really want is stability and something you can depend on.”
A lump rose in Amalie’s throat. She caught a whimper before it could escape, and her eyes welled with tears. “How do you do that?”
“What do you mean?” Ian placed his hand on her thigh. She took his hand and squeezed gently.
“No one’s ever talked to me the way you talk to me. No one’s ever said those things to me before.”
Without replying, Ian wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. She rested her head on his shoulder, breathing in a mixture of his cologne and the scent of clove cigars.
“I hope you don’t mind. It’s just how I am. I’m going to tell you exactly what I’m thinking.”
“That’s good.” She nuzzled his shoulder. “I appreciate that, I really do.”
“Now I’m thinking that…”
Amalie sat up to face him. “I know what you’re thinking.” She kissed him.
“How’d you know?” Ian flashed a goofy grin and bounced back on his knees.
“You dork. Come on, help me unpack a few things.” She stifled a yawn.
“Oh no, no. No more unpacking for now. Tomorrow’s Sunday. It’s nine-thirty. What kind of tea would you like?”
“Ian—”
“I said what kind of tea would you like?” He glared at her with mock seriousness.
“Okay. Chamomile, please.”
“Coming right up. Change into your jammies and I’ll tuck you in,” Ian said, winking.
“What am I, five?”
“Yes. Now get ready for bed.”
Amalie grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him, but he’d already darted out of the room and into the hall. Lying back on the bed, Amalie moved her head from left to right to look at her new room. The soft light from a standing lamp reflected off the clean white walls. She began to imagine where she would hang framed photos, and where her race memorabilia would go. She’d had a special corner of the wall in her old apartment set aside for photos from 5k races she’d run. She immediately picked a spot on the far side of the room, and then turned her head to look at the wooden slatted shutters that covered the wide windows.
Tomorrow she would look at the view. She’d only gotten a quick glance today in the midst of moving, but Ian was right; the view was great. And she’d be able to run at Carlin Park whenever she wanted. The only thing she didn’t like about the trail was the aftermath—picking pieces of wood chips out of her socks and sneakers.
I can start running again. Barring any pain, of course, or blackout sessions.
Ever since it had gotten worse, she’d hardly run at all. At least she was maintaining her weight, which was something she’d never been able to do before moving to Florida. Depression had added fifteen pounds to her usually petite figure. Now she was back to one-twenty. She wasn’t running for weight control anymore. She was running for the sheer enjoyment of it.
Was being the key word. I’m so afraid it’ll hurt. I wish I could make it stop.
“Damn it,” she mumbled.
“What?”
Amalie glanced up to see Ian peeking around the doorframe.
“Oh, nothing, I’m just thinking about the pain. I wish I didn’t have to be on this medication.”
“You’ve been okay the last few days. Last week was the worst I’ve seen you since you were at the hospital.”
“I know. I have a follow-up appointment with the neurologist next month. I guess I should feel lucky that I was correctly diagnosed in the first place. I’ve heard it’s misdiagnosed a lot.” Amalie sat up. “I’m really trying to avoid the medication. I hate this.”
“I know, baby, but at least we know what it is.” He leaned against the doorframe, tucking his hands into his pockets. “The medication will help you.”
“If it’s so good, how come the neurologist said he doesn’t even know why it’s supposed to help? Ian, they know nothing about trigeminal neuralgia. I feel like a science experiment. ‘Let’s throw this pill at her and see if it works.’ It’s awful.”
Amalie thought back to the day at the dentist’s office. She hadn’t known what Doctor Horowitz had been talking about at the time, but he’d already suspected she had trigeminal neuralgia, a disorder of the fifth cranial nerve that supplied the sense of touch to the face. Something was wrong in that nerve—perhaps it was compressed or pinched—and all because of that, Amalie had chronic pain. She was frustrated that despite all the advances in medical science, there was no cure for TN. Before she’d known what she had, she’d been hoping for a quick fix—anything to stop it. She remembered her thoughts in the dentist’s office, the wish she hadn’t shared with Ian: I just want to die. That was the only quick fix there was. But Amalie wouldn’t give in to that. She would fight.
Ian kissed her gently on the lips. “It’ll be okay,” he whispered.
A shrill whistle filled the air.
“Oh! That’s the kettle,” Ian said, turning and heading into the kitchen.
Amalie stared straight ahead at the heavy white hutch Ian had helped her lug up the stairs to the second floor apartment. It was empty now, but it had once held books and crystals. Amalie yawned, feeling exhaustion pressing against her temples. Her eyelids were heavy. She closed them for a moment. When she opened her eyes again, she was looking at the hutch, and a thousand jumbled thoughts were racing through her mind.
“Here you are, Am. Nice hot tea.” Ian was standing a few feet away holding a mug of steaming liquid. “You’re not wearing your jammies yet.”
Amalie shook her head and laughed tiredly. “Hold that thought. I mean, tea. Hold that tea.”
“Holding it.”
She dragged herself off the bed and into the walk-in closet, which was enormous just as Ian had promised. She dug through the first box and found a pair of blue and white plaid pajama pants and a matching shirt. She changed in the closet, feeling her skin flush, knowing Ian was nearby. Until she was wearing the pajamas, she felt vulnerable. They’d been dating for a little over a month, and there was no doubting the fact they were in love, but they still hadn’t been intimate. Amalie had been keeping him at a distance; intimacy frightened her. Her past experiences made it difficult for her to open up, the fear of being hurt always haunted her.
When she reappeared, he was standing in the same spot, holding the mug. Amalie drew back the covers on her bed and sat down, inviting him to sit beside her. When he handed her the mug of tea, she wrapped her hands around it gratefully and took a careful sip.
“Thank you, Ian.”
“Did I do okay? I’ll be honest, that’s the first time I’ve ever made hot tea.”
“It’s wonderful.” The truth was, he’d put a tad too much sugar in it, but Amalie was grateful nonetheless. No one had ever been so attentive to her before.
“You’re not just saying that?”
“It’s fantastic. And thank you for the flowers.”
“You deserve it. I want every moment to be special for you, from now on.” He leaned against the headboard, turning to tuck her hair behind her ear and gently stroke her cheek.
They sat together for a while longer while Amalie drank her tea. She finished half the cup and set it gently on the empty nightstand beside her bed. In
her old apartment, she’d had a cloth on the nightstand, a small vintage lamp, and a few books she enjoyed reading before bedtime. She was exhausted and saddened—her things, her entire life was displaced. But at the same time, she was at ease. Content. For the first time in a long time.
“I’m going to let you get to sleep.” Ian leaned forward and hugged her close, kissing her on the cheek.
Before he could turn away, Amalie kissed him on the lips. “You’re not going to get away that easy,” she teased.
He narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “Go to sleep, Am.”
“Okay.” She slipped under the covers and pulled them up to her chin. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to write. If you need me, you know where to find me.”
Amalie could see his room, just next to hers. Warm light spilled out into the hallway.
“You like to write at night?”
“It’s when I write best.” He kissed her on the forehead and went to turn out the light. “Do you want me to close your door?”
“No.” Amalie had always been afraid of the dark. It comforted her to know he was close if she needed him. “Thank you.”
“Of course. Sweet dreams, Amalie.”
“Sweet dreams, Ian.”
The room was bathed in darkness. The only light filtered in through the slats on the windows, coming from somewhere outside. Ian was a brief silhouette in the hallway until he stepped into his bedroom.
A few minutes later, she knew he’d lit a clove. She could smell it filtering out into the rest of the apartment. The scent comforted her and lulled her into a relaxed state. Then she heard his fingers tapping on the keyboard. Something about the sound was so reassuring.
In days and weeks to come, the sound of Ian writing, creating stories, would become a comfort to Amalie—a reassurance that he was there, close by whenever she needed him. With the scent of cloves surrounding her and the constant soft tapping in the background, Amalie drifted off to sleep and into dreams.
***
She awoke to the rumbling sounds of heavy machinery outside, and the bright sunlight filtering through the slats over the windows. A glance at her cell phone told her it was seven in the morning. She blinked, yawned, and sat up. She heard Zoey rustling around somewhere under the bed; it would take the cat a while to get used to her new environment.