by Becky Wade
A day had passed since she’d finished moving into the cottage, and she was lying in bed, shaking and sweating. She didn’t know whether to throw the blankets off or pull them tighter, but she was convinced neither would help.
Nausea and vomiting had overtaken her body. Terrible stomach pain. A fast, thumping heart rate.
Even harder to bear? The panic. When it gripped her, it gripped hard. More than once, she’d cried because she’d had no other outlet for her sorrow and terrified anxiety.
Squeezing shut her eyes, she pleaded with God to heal her body and remove her misery. But trying to find Him in the midst of this was like stretching her fingertips into darkness—straining to touch the thing she knew was there—and having her fingers rake nothing but empty air. The empty air had never been more harrowing than it was now, when she needed Him so desperately.
Maybe it was too much, to try to correct all her bad decisions with one mammoth step back in the right direction.
Yesterday she’d dumped all her pills into the trash along with the remains of the salad she’d eaten for lunch before driving to Sugar Maple Farm to talk with Sam.
How could she have been so foolishly confident? If she still had access to her pills, she’d have already taken some in order to minimize these symptoms.
Her doctor’s office in Nashville had closed for the day. At this point, she had no choice other than to endure the night until they reopened in the morning—
Loud knocking jolted a gasp from her.
“I’m leaving supplies outside the door,” Sam’s Australian voice called from her front porch.
She couldn’t muster a response. She’d texted him earlier, like she’d told him she would, but she hadn’t expected a delivery.
After her next trip to the bathroom, she dragged herself to the door, which seemed a mile away. He’d left a reusable grocery sack outside for her. She pulled it indoors, crumpled into a seated position next to it, and looked inside. It contained a six-pack of cucumber electrolyte water and a six-pack of organic protein shakes. Also, envelopes containing supplements, ibuprofen, and instructions on when and how often to take each.
Fabulous. She was at the mercy of a health nut.
The rest of her world—her family, her work, her friends, her loft in Nashville, her plans—had vanished.
The only things that remained: sickness, fear, the inside of this cottage, and her desperation to escape all three.
Later that night, Sam stood at his bedroom window.
His bed waited behind him, covers a mess because he’d just been lying in it, trying to sleep. He couldn’t see the guesthouse from the first story. But from here, on the second story, he had a distant, downward view of the guesthouse’s roofline and front wall.
Genevieve had left the porch light on.
Somehow, she’d changed the feel of his farm. She was only one petite person. But it was as if she were transmitting invisible air waves that altered the whole place.
Tonight, those air waves carried suffering.
Before she’d come, Sugar Maple Farm had been full of solitude, his grim thoughts, and work. But at least he’d been able to concentrate enough to read before bed, to sleep.
Now all those things had become difficult for him.
She was sick, and no one but him knew why.
All his brain and body could do was worry.
Genevieve called her current pain specialist. His office agreed to log an Oxy prescription at the Riverside Pharmacy in Misty River.
As soon as she disconnected the call, she curled into the fetal position. It helped to know that, should she reach a point when she could no longer stand this, she could get access to pills.
So far, she’d been able to stand it. Barely. But she’d done it by forcing herself to remember hitting that stone planter with her car. Then waking up in Sam’s cottage, ignorant of how she’d gotten there. Over and over, she confronted those memories.
Also, practically, she didn’t feel close to human enough to drive to the pharmacy.
Also, she’d let a lot of people down. God, most of all. Her family, her friends, and the thousands of women who looked to her for inspiration. She didn’t want to put herself through the pain and disgrace she’d face if she was caught doing something stupid while taking Oxy. But even more than that, she absolutely couldn’t stomach the thought of subjecting her family and friends to pain and disgrace. She refused to hurt them like that.
Three brisk knocks sounded on her door. “I’m leaving supplies,” Sam called.
She’d come this far.
She could make it just a little bit longer. She’d broken chunks of survival into small amounts. Another fifteen minutes. Another hour.
Just a little bit longer.
Sweetie,” Mom crooned, smoothing a wet washcloth against Genevieve’s forehead. The coolness of it seeped into her heated skin. “I’m so sorry that you’re sick.”
Genevieve had kept her mother at bay as long as possible by telling her she didn’t want her to come by because she didn’t want her to catch the flu. Sadly, that type of logical reasoning only worked against her overactive maternal instincts so long.
“Where do you think you caught this?” Mom asked.
“I don’t know.” Pride and guilt formed a powerful muzzle.
“I’m going to bundle you into my car and take you to see Dr. Honeycutt.”
“No,” Genevieve gritted out. “I don’t have the strength to move from this bed. Plus, I don’t need a doctor. I just need to ride this out.”
Mom’s face pinched. “Dr. Honeycutt is excellent—”
“No.”
Caroline sighed and mounded her hands on top of her crossed legs. “I hate that you’re both lonely and feeling poorly out here on this remote piece of land. A husband would be such a comfort to you at a time like this.”
Genevieve grunted. Morphine would be a comfort to her at a time like this.
“Come home with me, and I’ll take care of you.”
“No, thank you.”
“Then I’ll pack a bag and stay here with you until you’re well. It’ll be just like that time when you were three and I nursed you through pneumonia. That’s such a sweet memory. You slept in my arms.”
“No.”
“But—”
“I’m staying here, Mom.” Her uneven inhale ached. Having to hold up half of a conversation was taking more out of her than she had to give.
God! Please give me the strength to make it through this.
Please, please, please.
She felt nothing in response but distress and heard nothing in response but her mother’s voice.
On the fifth day of detox, Genevieve transitioned from intense anguish to moderate anguish.
For the first time, she moved from the bed to the love seat. She sat, curled up on its end, sipping cucumber water and nibbling saltines. Desperate for something to distract her from her discomfort, she binge-watched one cheerful romantic movie after another on her computer. Ever again achieving the health and happiness of the smiling people onscreen seemed as possible as jumping to the moon.
Knock, knock, knock. “Supplies.”
The next day she crafted social media updates. Her followers expected her to post several times a week, and sickness only granted a person a small amount of leeway. When walking through a difficult time, one simply micro-blogged in vague terms about hardship, then concluded with deep and meaningful thoughts.
For a while now, she’d suspected that she’d run out of deep and meaningful things to say. But her people awaited content, so she shared pictures of the cottage that made it look like an idyllic escape instead of the dungeon it had actually been for the past six days.
The next evening, when Genevieve spotted Sam’s truck bouncing toward the cottage, she rose and gingerly crossed the space. As soon as she heard the newest delivery land on her porch, she swung open the door. “Supplies, I presume?”
He regarded her with surprise as he slowl
y straightened. He wore a black baseball cap with overlapping letters on the front, a gray T-shirt, jeans. His no-nonsense, hard-wearing clothes assured her he was a man who worked. Hard. And not behind a desk.
“Supplies,” he confirmed.
“I wanted to let you know that I’m finally feeling a little bit better.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Thanks for the text correspondence and for the daily deliveries.”
“You’re welcome.” He took a step back. “G’night.”
She darted out a hand. “Actually. Sam. I was hoping you’d stay for a while and . . . visit?”
He looked like she’d proposed he eat dirt.
He was so taciturn! And his social skills were questionable. But he’d also been kind enough to check on her via text messages and spend his money buying her food. “I haven’t conversed with a non-family member in a week. I’m an extrovert, and the isolation is starting to make me a little crazy. So . . . hang out with me for a bit?”
He hesitated. “All right.”
“I’ll try not to take your lack of enthusiasm personally.” She chuckled ruefully.
He followed her inside to the mini-kitchen. His tall, powerful body gave her the sensation that her cottage was shrinking. “I’m in the process of making tea and toast. Would you like either?”
“Tea.”
“Anything to eat?” She indicated the food selection on her shelves.
He chose one of the organic protein bars he’d given her a few days before and stuck it in his back pocket. “You shouldn’t have this many electrolyte waters left,” he told her. “You need to work harder at hydrating.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Is that what you say when you’re not interested in taking advice?”
“Mmm-hmm.” She glanced over at him in time to see a sudden grin transform his face. Grooves fanned out from his eyes and down the sides of his cheeks to bracket his matched set of deep dimples. She’d bet those grooves had indented his face this exact same way when he was eight.
“What?” he asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you . . . smiled.”
“I smile.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“I’m astonished.”
Her toast popped up and a rumbling jet of steam shot from her kettle. She prepared two mugs of tea.
“I don’t suppose you have any Vegemite?” he asked.
“No, indeed.”
“It’s good on toast when you’re trying to recover from something. I can nip up to my house and get some for you if you’d like.”
“The only thing I know about Vegemite is that it’s brown. Oh, and isn’t there a song lyric about a Vegemite sandwich?”
“From the song ‘Down Under’ by Men at Work.”
“What’s in Vegemite?’
“Yeast.”
She managed not to wince at the prospect of brown yeast on toast. “Thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll stick with butter and jelly.”
He spread butter on her toast. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Ignorance is sometimes bliss.”
A week had passed since she’d begun detox. Instead of pajamas, she had on clothes for the first time. Yoga pants and her softest T-shirt. Still, it felt like a victory. Earlier, she’d even blown her hair dry and put on a small amount of makeup.
At long last, her stomach had calmed. Her body temperature had returned to its proper setting. Recovery was beginning. Very gradually. Yet it was beginning. A slight sense of normalcy had climbed out of its burrow like a rabbit today, looking around with wide eyes, skittish, poised to vanish at any moment.
What she’d been through had been so awful that she mostly felt dazed and bruised and sad. Her link to God remained severed, and Genevieve wanted Oxy desperately, even now. She really needed another human being to talk to. “How about we sit outside?” she suggested. “The weather’s nice.”
“Sure.”
She only had one patio chair, so he carried the ottoman outdoors.
Genevieve followed with the tea. “I’ll sit on the ottoman.”
“No. The chair’s yours.” He brushed off the chair for her, then went back inside and emerged with her toast.
He wasn’t a warm or open personality type, so she didn’t quite know what to do with this evidence of his gallantry. Should she file it under quirks: occasional gallantry? Or under character: hidden gallantry?
He sat on the ottoman, leaned his shoulder blades against the house, and crossed an ankle over the opposite knee.
The days were long in August, and the sun would linger for another hour yet. Genevieve let the warmth soak into her skin and savored the scent of distant woodsmoke and summer grass.
Short, hardy shrubs with pale green leaves lined the base of the cottage, interrupted only by one ambitious vine of morning glory. The vine framed the window in front of her desk, then followed the building’s roofline up toward its central point. Early tomorrow, its sky-blue petals would open to celebrate another morning.
One minute drifted into the next as she drank tea and listened to the buzz of a bee, whispering leaves, a car coasting along the road.
Usually she felt compelled to fill silence with words. But not this time. Selfishly, she wanted to trap this moment in a mason jar.
“You’ve made it a whole week without Oxy,” he said.
“Yes.”
He rolled his head toward her. His baseball cap’s brim slanted shadow over a section of his face. Darker green ringed the pale, mellow green of his irises. “You’ve done well so far.”
She gave him a look of mock amazement. “Did you just compliment me?”
“No.”
“Because it kind of sounded like a compliment.”
“If so, it came out of my mouth wrong.”
“You did well taking care of me,” she told him.
“Did you just compliment me?”
“No.”
“Because it kind of sounded like a compliment.”
“If so, it came out of my mouth wrong.” She smiled and took a bite of toast. Delicious. The crisp bread, butter, and tangy raspberry jam had all come from him in yesterday’s delivery, wrapped in containers labeled The Kitchen.
Her stomach didn’t revolt. Her taste buds approved.
“Time to schedule an appointment with a psychologist,” he commented.
Man, he really knew how to squish the levity out of a conversation.
“Do you have one in mind?” he asked.
“Yes. Dr. Quinley counseled me for a few years back when I was in middle school. I trust her.”
“How soon do you think she can fit you in?”
“She likes me. So I’m guessing she’ll be able to squeeze me in before the end of the week.”
“Is she certified in addiction treatment?”
“I don’t know.”
He pulled out his phone and appeared to run a search on Dr. Quinley.
“Back when we hashed out our agreement,” she pointed out in a friendly tone, “you didn’t specify that the psychologist had to be certified in addiction treatment.”
“Well,” he said as he scrolled down, “she is certified in it, so we’re good.”
“You might be good,” she said wryly. “I’m a mess.”
He pushed his phone into his pocket. “Once you have the appointment scheduled, let me know. I’ll drive you there.”
“That’s okay. I have a car. And a license, even.”
“And I have a suspicious nature. I want to be sure that you meet with her.”
“Oh.” Genevieve was accustomed to people liking her, admiring her, and believing her to be better than she was. Blunt Sam, in contrast, knew the worst thing about her. She didn’t have to pretend with him, which was both humbling and incredibly freeing. “In that case, I’ll reach out to you when I have the appointment scheduled.”
He resettled his baseball cap and tilted t
he back of his skull against the house.
She considered him, this man who owed her nothing and who’d been there for her nonetheless. She couldn’t help but like him a little. He was very easy on the eyes, for one thing. For another, it was difficult to dislike a man who baked bread this yummy.
“Are you familiar with the Bible?” she asked.
“Why’d you shift to that topic?”
“I followed my thoughts there. Are you? Familiar with it?”
“Somewhat familiar, yes.”
“You’re a Christian.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah.”
She could often tell a believer from a non-believer. Even when the believer was a virile, straight-talking man who didn’t seem like the type to raise his hands when worship music played.
“Do you remember when Joseph’s brothers threw him into the pit with the intent to kill him?” she asked.
“I do.” He hesitated. “Are you about to compare Joseph’s time in the pit with your time in the pit this last week?”
“Yes, lucky you.” She might not be scheduled to preach on a stage for the next few months, but that didn’t mean it was possible for her to stop preaching. “God knew how everything would play out, so His rescue plan was already underway long before Joseph was thrown in the pit. Joseph’s brothers wanted to kill him, but then, lo and behold, a caravan bound for Egypt arrived on the scene. The caravan had been on its way for days. Think about that. The brothers decided to sell Joseph as a slave to the people in the caravan instead.”
Sam nodded.
“This cottage and you, Sam, were my caravan.”
Sam didn’t roll his eyes or shake his head. He simply met and held her gaze.
She’d lost hold of her connection to God, but Genevieve could recognize His hand at work.
“That’s the first time anyone’s called me a caravan,” he said, deadpan.
“You were on the way before I stopped in front of your farm the other night,” she said. “You’re the vehicle of escape He provided.” Goose bumps skittered down her arms.
“You’re giving me too much credit. I didn’t even want to let you stay here, remember?”
“Thank you for everything.”