18

On Monday, she texted that she was not well and needed to stay in bed. “This is nothing new,” she said. “I get a bad headache and I’m really tired, it’s normal for the vasculitis.” Her voice was weaker than normal as if she might drop off to sleep.

“Oh…vascu what?”

“Vasculitis. They think that’s what it could be, causing the rashes, headaches.”

“Oh, okay, that sucks. Do you need groceries? I can drop off some cooked meals.”

“Yeah, thank you.”

“Of course, just text me what you need.”

“Okay.”

Half an hour later, she texted him a few groceries. He put three glass containers of his homemade meals in his backpack, two beef stews and one minestrone. Then set off on his bike to the grocery store to get the rest.

When he got to her place, he wondered if he should just leave the food by the door like last time. But this wasn’t a flu or something he could catch and maybe she would need him to come inside and help out.

Him: Here
Her: Coming

It took a few minutes for her to open the door and he wondered where her illness might go, she didn’t seemed worried about it much and then he thought that was strange, maybe she put on a brave face all the time and he should show more compassion, he wanted her to know she could count on him. The door opened slowly. She blocked the opening with her body. A weak smile on her pale face, her curls askew. She wore a very faded green sweatshirt with ratty cuffs, grey sweats, barefoot.

“Thank you!” she said in a thin voice. He passed her the reusable shopping bag, which included the potato chips she’d asked for. He’d rather not think of her eating chips, but that’s what she wanted. She gave him a weak one-arm hug, she smelled of musty sleep.

“Is there anything else you need?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but then shook her head instead as if to save energy. She closed the door a little to indicate she needed to go.

“Okay let me know, anything!” He smiled bright enough for both of them, and she nodded with a quick half-smile, then closed the door.

That evening, she texted:

 

Once again your soup does such wonders. 😘

Him: Good! 😍🥣🥣🥣🥣

 

By Wednesday, she was up and around.

 

Him: Would you like to come for dinner on Friday?

 

Her: Maybe, but I’m helping a friend put up her photography show. It might go late.

 

He didn’t see her until Sunday, the opening of her friend’s art photography show. Sticky grey clouds hung low and dense, so he packed his umbrella. He arrived at her place just after 2 PM. It was a twenty-minute walk to the gallery space. She looked smart in mod jeans, a white button-up shirt, and dressier-but-casual leather shoes he’d not seen before. Her curls were back to their usual bounce, some colour showed on her face, and her eyes had some life.

“Wow,” he said. There had been no mention of this being a ‘friend day’ but when he kissed her, it was routine. “You look great.”

“Thank you, pretty good yourself.” He wore nothing special, a black t-shirt, jeans, and a light navy rain jacket, but it was nice to hear. Drops began to fall, pattering on the maple leaves. He popped out the umbrella and held it over them both, favouring her.

“Always prepared,” she said, almost disappointed.

“That’s me,” he said, almost as an apology. Perhaps getting soaked was the better path. Maybe umbrellas weren’t good for romance. Or soup. Plans. Forethought. Consideration. The dreary day stirred in him a Sunday melancholy. They got to talking about psychology and mindset, a subject that interested him.

With some enthusiasm, he said, “So much of it is what a person decides. Emotions run us down rabbit holes if we let them, but we have the power to decide to see things differently, and that will make us feel different.” The rain suddenly became heavy, his umbrella inadequate, so they stood under a large draping cedar in a parkette.

“No, that’s not true,” she said with frustration. “If something is bad, it’s bad, you can’t change that.”

He paused, embarrassed. “It’s not easy, yeah, not saying it’s easy at all, and I’m not suggesting delusion.”

She didn’t respond.

 

He was quick to criticize her friend’s photography within the confines of his thoughts. Close-up snaps of distressed buildings, concrete, peeling paint, and a complete ignorance of depth of field, focal length, or composition. About thirty people scattered the studio, moving from collage to collage, supportive. He felt observed by Eva. He had to show respect and interest and curiosity, not unlike that night in the furniture store to escape the rain. Align with Eva and get along, be a chameleon as necessary. Get through probation. The back of his neck prickled.

When they left, the rain had eased. She was quiet, and he felt she expected something from him. He wished for a shared understanding, but he was tired of running to catch up with her and allowed a wretched silence to hang between them.

 

The next morning, he texted her:

 

I just love grey Mondays 😭

 

Her: Ha. I actually do 🙂 Low key, no stress to get out there. I worked sitting on the balcony this morning which was nice. What’s shakin’ in your world today?

 

He wanted to say: Nothing. Would you like to come over so we could lie in bed together all day? Instead of anything that smacked of depression, he texted:

 

Saw a small sized woodpecker and a Cardinal on the front tree this morning. Hurdled over some key work things. Did 20 sweaty minutes on the bike. Will get in the shower now and attempt not getting excited thinking about your sexy😘

Her: Sounds like a good day so far… and hmmm, maybe I will join you in that shower sometime. 😉😘

 

Then he read his text and cringed, WTF is this shit about the birds? But he had been playful, and she had responded playfully, be satisfied, get on with your day. He tried, but as the hours passed, he kept thinking of what else he could do. Think of another outing? Text her a kiss emoji? Send a photo? By 6 PM, it got the better of him but he didn’t want another text exchange, he wanted to hear her voice to see what was really going on with her.

 

Call me when you are free to chat.

 

Her: Sure, just leaving the grocery, will call in a bit.

 

She called thirty minutes later. “Hey.”

“Hey, how’s your day?” he asked innocently, trying to convey a perfect mix of casual and interested, but what came out was a tumour of neediness.

“Pretty good, yeah.”

“Got all your stuff done.”

“Yeah, stuff.”

“Stuff! Yeah – Monday stuff, but you wrote.”

“Yeah this morning, editing mostly.”

“Cool. Some days better than others.” There was a silence, he thought the line had perhaps been lost. “Hello?”

“Yeah?”

He scrambled, “Did you talk to your friend with the photography show?”

“Heather?”

“Yeah, how did she feel about the opening?”

“I haven’t talked to her.”

“Right. I’m glad I got to see it. I don’t get out to enough of that stuff.”

“What’s the rest of your evening?”

“Oh…just chillin’ …maybe some reading.”

“Yeah, I’m realizing how tired I am.”

“Yeah, a good night’s sleep – I won’t keep you.”

“Yeah, okay, have a good night.”

“You too.”

“’Night.”

“Bye.”

He hung up. His face was hot, and his eyes felt puffy and strained. “This is fucking awful,” he said aloud and crunched his eyes closed, trying to make it all go away. What is happening? The whole thing’s a mess! He cursed himself for talking on the phone in the evening, always a bad idea, stupid, stupid. That night, he kept waking up as if someone was shoving him urgently, repeating the update: He was 57, sliding. What could he do? he wondered. There must be something, just think. Think!