Black Locust
The fever comes on quickly, 102 within the hour, and you shiver beneath the sheets. I strip down to my bra and undies, and you tuck yourself so tightly against me sweat forms at our seam. I rake my fingers through your hair until your breathing slows, then unstick you, sneak out of bed to 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 back to scleras. I say your name, and you garble a stream 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 collapsing with one great sob. Tears splash against my chest and the fever dream spills forth: You've murdered me and you can't 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 could rain. It’s Friday, and surprise, I’m alive. I hold a saltine to your lips, 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 back in 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 too 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. At 5am, a city truck brakes, compressed air hissing through the open window, and I'm 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 begins. 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.
"Thirsty," I croak.
"Thirsty," 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 a 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 red and I feel my fever spike. I should go back to bed, but 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, and I wonder what would happen if I died on this trail - a widow maker, 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 out of a red maple.
Indulging the details of my death makes me wonder if your crazy is from me. Guilt needles my lungs, and I’m halved by a fit of coughing. Crouched down on the trail, catching my breath, I see 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. She’s sharp and bitter - like the tincture I swallowed to lower my fever.
I cut the walk short, turn back around, but first 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 mid-summer. Covered in unremarkable leaves, someone might brush against her, 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 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 probably logging the details of how awful I am, how I cough when I am sick - disgusting! - how this makes you mad. I make a mental note to read it once you’re sleeping, then collapse on the couch to read about the black locust. Their horns are most impressive in youth, I learn. As they grow, you may not - without careful attention - even notice them.