Daron's Guitar Chronicles Volume 12

995 Gone to Earth

Gone to Earth

You want to know why I didn't call my partner/spouse/other half/love of my life back right away after we had an epic telephone fight? Well, there are a lot of reasons, but the main one may surprise you.

I mean, of course the next day was hectic. Our plan was to move, after all.

And getting Claire's stuff packed up and out of her room was a lot more of a project than I'd been expecting. I hadn't really slept after the fight with Ziggy. I had finished the laundry and packed and then got in bed and I guess I dozed a bit, but I kept waking up with spiky anxiety stabbing me in the sternum. Some time after sunrise, and after Ricky would have gone off shift, I got dressed and loaded my stuff into the car.

Then I went to see if Claire was awake. She came to her door and opened it a tiny crack. "I'm not sure I'm up to having breakfast," she said.

"Are you all right?"

"Well, they say loss of appetite is typical of my condition."

"I mean–"

"I'm not currently... oh, wait. No." She hurried away suddenly. I got a hand in the door before it shut (yeah, that hand) and followed cautiously. She had shut the bathroom door between us but she was experiencing one of the common symptoms of her illness rather noisily. I felt a pang of guilt over the facetious conversation Court and I had after Christmas when Claire had had a hangover. No one deserves to be made nauseous, not even a toxic narcissist, okay?

I went to the lobby and got myself some coffee and sugar-and-milked it heavily so I could drink it fast. Then I commandeered a chocolate chip muffin in a napkin. I also thought about turning in my key and checking out of my room, but then I thought what if she's too sick to move today? I decided to wait and do it later. If she was well enough to go, I could check us both out at the same time.

Back at the room she was lying on the bed looking exhausted. She had gotten dressed but had curled up in the space where she'd slept, the covers bunched up around her but not covering her.

"Ugh," she said.

"Ditto." I looked around the room. "Are you up to getting out of here, today?"

"I hope so. I was too ill last night to do my packing, though." She didn't open her eyes but waved her hand vaguely toward the rest of the room. "The only time the nausea stops is when I lie perfectly still and do nothing but breathe very, very slowly."

"Okay, you just breathe then and I'll see about packing up your things, all right?"

"All right."

I concentrated on my own breathing. Deep breath in, let it out, deep breath in, let it out. I started with the dresser drawers.

Remo, I discovered, had left some things behind in the closet. A brown flannel shirt, a fawn-colored ribbed turtleneck. They smelled faintly of booze and cigarettes, even though Remo didn't smoke. I packed them, figuring I'd have to try to remember to give his clothes to him later.

At some point I realized Claire was snoring. Well, at least one of us was getting some rest, and while she was asleep she wasn't nauseous, so that was something.

I packed all her things. It took a long time, or at least it seemed to. I had to improvise the best way to get all her little bottles of cosmetics and things into her suitcase using a couple of small shopping bags that hadn't been thrown away yet.

When she woke up, she sat up, and her eyes were yellow.

"You don't look so good," I said.

"Well, you're not exactly a sight to behold either," she sniffed.