Black Locust

The fever comes on quickly, 102 within the hour, and you shiver beneath the sheets of my bed. “Snuggle,” you mumble, reaching a hand for me. I strip down to my bra and undies and you tuck yourself so tightly against my torso sweat forms at our seam. I rake my fingers through your hair until your breathing slows, then unstick you. Crack a window. Fresh air will cool things off, I hope. But mid-evening, your fever spikes to 104, and I’m back in bed with you. Under a dim light I stare at the pages of a book I’m too worried to read, listening to you breathe.

At 3am, you bolt upright, eyes rolled backwards. I say your name, and you garble a bunch of half-words before your vision flicks into focus. The sight of me drains the blood from your face, and you shove me, catapulting from the bed and rushing for the door. I grab your elbow and reel you in, and you kick my shins before giving up with one great sob. Tears splash against my chest and the fever dream spills forth: You've murdered me and can't bear the sight of my ghost.

Girrrl, I whisper, scooping wet hair from your neck. I offer mundane details. You are in my bed. The window is open. The air smells like it might rain. It’s 3am on Friday, and surprise, I’m alive. I hold a saltine to your lips and assure you that a ghost would care nothing for electrolytes, only spooking. “I’m glad I didn’t kill you,” you confess, and wrap your burning arms around my neck before rolling onto your back. Within minutes, you return to the choppy waters of fever-sleep.

I stare at the ceiling and wonder if I should call your doctor, request that “nightmares” and “sleep walking” be added to your medical chart. I wonder if this is just another symptom of the diagnosis you’ve been given, which still feels so vague. A best guess, the doctor said. The vocal tics, the outbursts to sounds of chewing, the way you can look without looking. The music looping through your head.

Sands of sleep collect in drifts behind my eyes. Around 5am, a city truck brakes, compressed air hissing through the open window, and I'm rudely exhumed. But you’re sleeping quietly, the top sheet unthrashed. I wriggle an index finger into your armpit - your fever is down. Palm on your belly, I fall back asleep.

On the third day, your fever evaporates and mine begins. When I stop on the stairs halved by a thorny cough, you scowl from the couch were you sit with the tv remote and a bowl of raspberries. "I'm thirsty," I croak. "I'm thirsty," you mock. Your screentime disappears and you kick the ottoman, howling. In my bed, I shiver under damp sheets and swallow Tylenol. Wonder if misophonia justifies this behavior - no, it can’t, the therapist warned - and sink into bitter sleep.

A few hours later, I shuffle to the bathroom to brush my teeth. When I look up, you’re outside the bathroom, frowning at the toothpaste that foams in my mouth. Ugh, you grunt, then scurry back to your room, slamming the door. My neck blotches red and I feel my fever spike. I rinse my toothbrush and sweep my hair into a ponytail. Grab a scarf, head outside.

The walk along the trail behind my house is as plodding as the wet spring day. Cold sweat blooms beneath my sweater, and I wonder what would happen if I died on this trail. A widowmaker, or a double pneumothorax. Who would find me? I wonder if I could stiffen into rigor mortis while giving the middle finger. The thought makes me laugh - a deep, wet sound that scares robins from an old maple. Indulging the details of my death makes me wonder if your “crazy” is a gift from me. Fresh guilt needles my lungs, and I’m halved by a fit of coughing. Crouched on the trail, catching my breath, I spot a young sapling I’ve never noticed before. The wood of her trunk pale and smooth, with long black thorns ready to stick something soft. Her beauty is sharp and bitter, like the tincture I swallowed to lower my fever.

I continue down the trail, but cut the walk short by a mile, turn around. On the way home, I pass her again and pause to take a picture. Still bald from winter, her bones show - she can’t hide her spikes. If the city leaves her unpruned, a few of her limbs will stretch into the trail by mid-summer. Covered in unremarkable leaves, someone might brush against her, feel her bite.

Back home, I can hear you punching the keys of the typewriter I bought you for your birthday a few years back, before you were given the diagnosis I struggle to accept. You used to type out hilarious ransom notes, love letters to your dad, plot summaries of books you wanted to write. Now, you’re surely logging details of how awful I am, how I cough when I am sick and make you mad. I make a mental note to read it once you’re sleeping, then collapse on the couch to read more about the black locust. Thorns are most impressive in youth, I learn. As she grows, you may not - without careful attention - even notice them.