House Calls by the Doctor [8]

Thirty Seven

I didn't sleep well and when I woke at 5:47 I knew there wasn't going to be any more rest for me.  I used the bathroom and got a quick drink before I gave in and went to check on Christopher.  I simply couldn't stay away any longer; I had to be certain he was stable.  I didn't knock.  Not only was it my house but I didn't want to wake him.    I would check that he was sleeping peacefully and then go make coffee and get a shower in a futile effort keep my routine as normal as possible.

The door opened silently other than a soft click of the latch but the bed, where my eyes first fell, was empty and unrumpled.  I don't know how long I stood staring at it but perhaps it was that I was still half asleep or more likely that I refused to accept the alternative.  I turned my gaze towards the wall and stool and there he was, curled on his side on the floor.

My feet were moving without me giving it any thought.  Why was he down here?  I kneeled down, forgetting that I was hurt and angry and sad.  I'd been worried last night what my reaction would be when I first laid eyes on him again; I had never learned to hide my feelings well.  That all flew out the window.  He needed help and I would care for him.  End of story. 

The question was, was he okay?  It was too dark to see details but I brushed his hair out of his eye, trying to wake him slowly.  He should be in bed.  His eyes flew open and he jerked away, then froze.  "I didn't mean to startle you.  You should be in bed."

He didn't answer but I saw his lips peel slowly apart, the chapped and dry skin pulling before he finally managed to pry them apart and attempted to lick his lips and swallow.  And then his eyes closed again and he adjusted his positioning, his head on his small bicep.  No, no, that wouldn't do.  He needed water and comfort.  I scooped him up.  I expected him to hold on to me or to help but all he did was groan in discomfort.  I got him settled onto the bed as gently as I could and reached for a bottle of water.  "Drink."

He took the bottle from me and screwed his eyes shut when I turned on the bedside lamp.  They opened slowly but still he just stared at the bottle.  I had loosened the lid but I took it completely off and finally he drank some.  He started slow, tiny sips spaced apart but soon gulped it down once his body realized what he needed.  In the light I could see the tears that were threatening to fall.

His ribs were angry, the flesh already blossomed into bruises.  "Does it hurt to breathe?"  He just nodded, refusing to look in even my general direction.   "I need to touch them, I won't hurt you any more than I absolutely have to."  He was so, so tired.  His mouth hung open and he looked at the ceiling while I tried to assess the damage.  Fractured, maybe.  Possibly two of them.  "I'll get something to wrap them with and some pain medication.  Stay upright."

I gave him a pill to swallow and then wrapped his torso, explaining that we'd have to take it off for a few hours later to prevent pneumonia but that it would help until the pain medication kicked in.  "Do you need anything else?"  A quick shake of the head.  It would do for now.  "Get comfortable; you need some more sleep."

He was more than happy to close his eyes and I tucked him in, then waited a moment in case he needed anything else before turning off the light.  I left the door cracked open and went into the kitchen.  I had filled the coffeepot and was pouring it into the reservoir when I realized that he hadn't said a single word to me.  He'd been tired, yes, but it still struck me as odd.

He was better now than he had been.  I tried to tell myself that.  He was okay.  Injured and tired but fine.  I scrubbed at my hair as if I were trying to use the shampoo to dissolve it, anger and frustration and a hundred unclassifiable emotions all battling for victory, for the coveted top slot.  There was no room for thought or reason; the monster was at my doorstep.  It wouldn't do today; it simply could not happen until Christopher was handled.

I pulled on running shorts and a tank, then wrote Christopher a note and placed it on his bed before slipping into my sneakers and heading out.  I needed to run until I collapsed; until I was too tired to think about anything at all.  I needed to forget the boy who needed so much but couldn't give me a word, the move that had caused so much grief, my father's illness and the effects on everyone who loved me, a new job and an apartment that still felt so wrong, guilt over hurting Christopher last night and worry about what would face me when I got back to the apartment.  I needed to forget it all at least for a few minutes.  I needed a reset. 

And then we needed to talk.  No matter how long it took I had to understand what had happened last night and why.  I had to make sense of last night or it would haunt me.