Black Locust

The fever comes on quickly, 102 within the hour, and you shiver beneath the sheets. You reach a hand for me. I strip down to my bra and undies, and you tuck yourself so tightly against me sweat instantly forms at our seam. I rake my fingers through your hair until your breathing slows, then slowly 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 backwards to sclera. I say your name, and you garble 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 wildly my shins before giving up with one great sob. Tears splash against my chest and the fever dream spills forth: You've murdered me. You can't bear the sight of my ghost.

Hey now, I whisper, scooping wet hair from 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 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 exhumed. You’re sleeping quietly, finally, 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 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 raspberries.

"I'm thirsty," I croak.

"I'm 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 bitter sleep.

A few hours later, I shuffle to the bathroom to brush my teeth. You’re outside the bathroom, 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 hat and scarf and head out the door.

My plod along the trail behind my house is as waterlogged as the late 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 manage to stiffen into rigor mortis while giving the bird. The thought makes me laugh - a deep, wet sound that scares robins out of an old maple.

Indulging the details of my death makes me wonder if your crazy is a gift 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. Sharp and bitter, like the tincture I swallowed in attempt to rid my fever.

I continue down the trail, but cut the walk short, turn back around. On the way home, I pass her again, pausing 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 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 likely logging the 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.

Their horns are most impressive in youth, I learn. As they grow, you may not - without careful attention - even notice them.