Black Locust

The fever comes on quickly, 102 within the hour, and you shiver beneath the sheets. I strip down to my undies and climb into bed, and you tuck so tightly against me sweat instantly forms at our seam. I rake my fingers through your hair until your breathing slows, then unstick you and 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 half-words before your vision flicks into focus, the sight of me draining blood from your face. Shoving me away, you catapult from the bed, rushing for the door. Catching your elbow, I reel you into a bear hug and you kick my shins before collapsing with 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 mundane details. You’re in my bed. The window is open. The air smells like it might 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 falling back into bed and rolling to your back. Within minutes, you’re returned to the roiling waters of fever-sleep. I wonder if I should call your doctor, request sleepwalking be added to your chart. I wonder if this is just another symptom of the diagnosis you’ve been given, which feels too vague. Best guess, the doctor said, a clinical diagnosis. The vocal tics, the bursts of rage at the sound of chewing, the way you can look without looking, the music that loops through your head.

The sands of sleep form drifts behind my lids. At 5am, a city truck brakes, compressed air hissing through the open window, and I'm rudely exhumed. 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 launches. 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 frozen raspberries.

"Water," I croak.

"Water," you mock.

Your screen time disappears and you howl, kicking the ottoman. I climb into bed, shivering under damp sheets. Swallowing Tylenol, I wonder if misophonia justifies this behavior. No, it can’t, the therapist warned.

A few hours later, after a bitter sleep, 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 red and I feel my fever spike. The only sane thing to do is sleep more. Instead, grab a scarf and head out the door.

My plod along the trail behind the grade school is as sodden as the day. Cold sweat blooms under my sweater. I wonder what would happen if I died on this trail - perhaps a widow maker, or a double pneumothorax. Could I manage to stiffen into rigor mortis while giving the middle finger? The thought makes me laugh - a deep, wet sound that flushes robins from a maple.

Indulging the details of my death makes me wonder if your crazy is genetically mine. Guilt needles at my lungs and I’m halved by a fit of coughing. Crouched over, catching my breath, I spot a young sapling I’ve never noticed. The wood of her trunk is pale and smooth with long black thorns ready to stick something soft. Still bald from winter, her bones show; there’s no hiding those spikes. But 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 and feel her bite.

Back home, I can hear you punching at the keys of the typewriter I bought you for your birthday a few years ago, before the diagnosis I can’t seem to accept. You used to type out funny ransom notes, love letters to your dad, plot summaries of all the books you wanted to write. Now, you’re probably logging the details of how awful I am, how I cough when I am sick - disgusting! - how this makes you furious. I make a mental note to read it once you’re sleeping, then grab my phone to help me identify the prickly sapling I encountered on the trail.

The thorns of the black locust are most impressive in youth, I learn. As they grow, you may not - without careful attention - even notice them.