Black Locust
The fever comes on quickly, 102 within the hour, and you shiver beneath the sheets. I strip down to my undies, and you tuck so tightly against me sweat forms at our seam. I rake my fingers through your hair until your breathing slows, unstick you, sneak out of bed to crack a window. Fresh air will cool you off, I hope. But mid-evening, your fever spikes to 104. 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 to sclera. You garble a stream of half-words before your vision flicks into focus, the sight of me draining the blood from your face. You shove me and catapult yourself from the bed, rushing for the door. Catching your elbow, I reel you into a bear hug, and you kick my shins before collapsing in one great sob.Tears splash against my chest while the fever dream spills forth - you've murdered me and cannot bear the sight of my ghost.
Hey now, I whisper, scooping wet hair off your neck. I offer up some mundane details. You’re in my bed. The window is open. The air smells like rain. It’s 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 hot arms around my neck before rolling onto your back. Within minutes, you’re back in the roiling waters of fever-sleep. I stare at the ceiling and wonder if I should call your doctor, request that nightmares and sleepwalking be added to your chart. I wonder if this is just another symptom of the diagnosis you’ve been given, which still feels vague. A best guess, the doctor said. The vocal tics, the rage around chewing, the way you can look without looking, music looping through your head.
Sands of sleep collect in drifts behind my eyes. At 5am, a city truck brakes, compressed air hissing through the open window, and I'm instantly exhumed. You’re sleeping quietly, the top sheet unthrashed. I wriggle an index finger into your armpit - fever is down. Palm on your belly, I fall back asleep.
On the third day, your fever evaporates and mine takes off. When I stop on the stairs, halved by a thorny cough, you scowl from the couch where you sit with the tv remote and a bowl of raspberries.
"Water," I croak.
"Water," you mock.
Your screen time 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. You’re hovering at the door, frowning at the toothpaste foaming in my mouth. Ugh, you grunt, then scurry back to your room, slamming the door. My neck blotches and I feel my fever spike. I should go back to bed; instead, grab a scarf and head out the door.
My plod along the trail behind the elementary school is as sodden as the spring day. Cold sweat blooms beneath my sweater. I wonder what would happen if I died on this trail? A widow maker, or a double pneumothorax. I wonder if I could manage to stiffen into rigor mortis while giving the middle finger. The thought makes me laugh - a deep, wet sound that scares robins out from a maple.
Indulging the details of my death makes me wonder if your crazy is genetically mine. Guilt needles my lungs, and I’m halved by a fit of coughing. Crouched down on the trail, I spot a young sapling I’ve never noticed before. The wood of her trunk is pale and smooth, with long black thorns ready to stick something soft. I take a picture of her before turning back toward home. Still bald from winter, her bones show; she can’t hide her spikes. But if the city leaves her unpruned, a few of her limbs will stretch into the trail 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 ago, before the diagnosis I can’t 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 likely logging the details of how awful I am, how I cough when I am sick - disgusting! - how this makes you enraged. I make a mental note to read it once you’re sleeping, then collapse on the couch to read about the black locust.
Thorns are most impressive in youth, I learn. As they grow, you may not - without careful attention - even notice them.