To See You Again (23 page)

"Rachel, you're going to do fine." Beckett eyes me
as he straightens his tie behind me in the bathroom mirror.

"I wasn't even nervous last night, but this
morning I just feel ill." I study my reflection closely. My eyes are sunken in,
and I feel like my coloring is just…
off.
Bottom line: I look like crap.
Why the hell is this happening on what is arguably the most important day of my
career?

"Did you eat any breakfast?" Beckett asks.

That does it. At the mere mention of food a wave
of nausea consumes me and I barely make it to the toilet in time.

"Whoa!" Beckett shouts. "Rachel, are you OK?"

I flush the toilet and glance down at my suit which
is now splattered with vomit. "No, Beckett, I'm clearly
not
OK!" He
hands me a wet washcloth and I wipe my face with it. Then he bends down
touching my forehead with the back of his hand.

"Whoa! Rachel, you're burning up."

"Oh, God," I whine, just before emptying my
stomach yet again into the toilet.

"I'd stay with you, but I have to go on this
business trip. I just don't think I can get out of it this late in the game.
I'm sorry, baby," he says, kneeling next to me. "Are you going to be OK?"

I wave him off. "I'll be fine, Beck. I'll take
some Advil." I glance down at my now completely ruined clothes. "And another
shower. And I'll make this day happen." Much to my surprise that answer seems
to suffice. Beckett kisses me on top of the head and tells me to take care of
myself. A few minutes pass, I puke some more, and he's out the door on his way
to O'Hare, like it's nothing.

Another hour passes and I've done everything I can
think of to get myself together and
nothing
has worked. I can't even
seem to keep water down. I stare at my phone, cringe, and then call Tim.

He answers on the first ring.

"Talk to me, Rachel."

"I'm, um, really sick. I think it's the flu."
There's an interminable silence and I feel another strong wave of nausea
overtake me. I lie down on my kitchen floor, new suit and all, and take a deep
breath. "I've been trying to leave my house for over an hour, Tim, and I just
can't," I gasp.

"Rachel, we have a presentation, a very
important
presentation, in less than two hours. It is my expectation that you are going
to be at the office ready to go in less than an hour. Can you make that happen
or not?" His words feel like a lashing.

I roll to my side and take a deep breath. "Yes,
Tim. I'll be there."

"Good," he replies tersely and he's gone.

I slowly sit up, and then very shakily stand,
willing myself to make it to the car.

I'm halfway to work when I feel bile rising up
into my throat again. I scramble around in the car, searching for an empty cup,
bag or anything that I can get sick into and not ruin my clothing. I find a
plastic bag and dry heave into it. My head is throbbing and my hands are
shaking so hard I can barely keep them on the wheel. The car behind me honks
and I lurch forward, feeling more dizzy and feverish, than I ever have in my
life. I get to the next stoplight and all of sudden my vision starts to get
blurry. Darkness covers my periphery and I feel like someone is drawing
curtains together on either side of my eyes. I've felt this way one other time
and it was moments before I passed out. I immediately pull the car over and
park. It's an illegal spot, right in front of a fire hydrant, but I think I
would welcome the police at this point. I roll down the window and allow the
cold air to blow into my car and I feel the dizziness subside slightly. There's
no way I can present like this. I glance at the clock and realize I'm just
minutes from the deadline that Tim laid out for me. The thought of canceling
today is heartbreaking, but I don't know what else to do. I'm not even sure I
can make it a few more blocks to work. I pick up the phone and dial Tim,
knowing full well that this very call might get me fired. I'm unable to reach him
directly and instead get his assistant, which may even be worse. She will be
sure to spread this around like gossip in the seventh grade, before even
bothering to inform Tim.

By some miracle I make my way home. Kneeling by
the toilet I manage to text Vanessa.

Me: I have the flu. Tried to drive to work and
couldn't make it. Career over.

Vanessa: Oh my God! No! What can I do to help?

Me: Don't worry. I'll be fine. I just needed to
share my misery for a moment.

Vanessa: Let me know if I can do anything! Feel
better!

Me: I'll be fine. I just need some sleep. TTYL

Vanessa: Ok. Call me later to let me know you're
ok.

Me: K

I just finished my presentation at Marshmen Corp.,
and the words "nailed it" pretty much sum it up. We've basically had this
account since I talked with their CEO about six months ago. I feel bad that
Rachel isn't going to get what she wants, but business is business. This wasn't
her account to lose. Her team wasn't ahead of us. I know this because I arrived
twenty minutes early, so she must be after us...but where the heck is she? I
stroll back out into the waiting area to see the guy, who I'm pretty sure is
her boss, and some other woman, who is definitely
not
Rachel. What the
hell? I'm positive she told me that she was on the sales team for this one. She'd
made it sound like a pretty big deal to her, so I'd be surprised if she'd tried
to get out of it. I pretend to check my phone and wait for them to be called
back.

Within minutes, Maxine's right hand man arrives.
He shakes hands with Rachel's boss and then asks, "I thought there were going
to be three of you?"

"Ah yes, I do apologize, our third became ill
suddenly." His irritation is evident in his posture and voice. This is not
good. I feel myself fill with worry. Rachel? I immediately begin a text message
to her, but reign in my impulsivity just before hitting send. It's been weeks
since I last saw her. The only contact I've had wasn't really even true contact,
because she returned the clothes when Reba was there, not me. Although it wasn't
lost on me that I could've been home, she probably thought I was. So, that's
something…
maybe
. Reba claims she thinks Rachel misses me, but that could
just be Reba being Reba.

I've thought about calling a hundred times, especially
after my girlfriend dumped me in the middle of the street, literally. There's
been no word from Leighton, either, but I'm guessing she wanted me to make the
next move. I sent her a text that afternoon to make sure she got home OK, but
that was it. I guess I'm probably a dick, but then again, I'm not sure I want to
get back together. Before she ended things she was pressuring more than ever,
and I don't think I can handle it right now. I would have no clue how to
explain any of this to Rachel; she'd probably accuse me of trying to manipulate
her, or the situation. She said we needed to get back to our
separate
lives.
I've been trying hard to respect that.

Screw it.

Me: you ok? just saw your boss and overheard that
you're sick?

Much to my complete shock, she texts me back
almost immediately.

Rachel: I think I'm dying, or maybe that's just my
career. Tim will never forgive me.

I stare at my phone, trying to sort out what to
say to her. My mind is racing. How sick is she? She's worried about her job?
Before I can respond though, another text comes through from her.

Rachel: don't worry…not actually dying. stomach
flu. it started early this morning and Beck's out of town so I couldn't get to
the doctor or anything. doubt it would've helped anyway.

Me: what can I do to help?

Rachel: nothing. thanks for checking on me

Me: are you sure? my afternoon is pretty open.

That's a lie, but I'll reschedule all of it to be
with her in a nanosecond.

Rachel: that's ok. thanks

I close out the chat and think to myself that she
didn't sound upset to hear from me.

*** *** ***

Thanks to the Internet, it was creepily easy to
find Rachel's address. A little over an hour later, I'm standing outside of her
townhome, knocking for the second time. No answer. I risk it, and call her.

"Hello?" Her voice is raspy, like she hasn't used
it for days.

"Do you hear that knocking?"

"Oh God, that's you? What are you doing here,
Collin?" She sounds as though every word she speaks takes painful effort. That
decides it. I'm not leaving here without a fight.

"Um, what kind of friend would I be if I heard you
were seriously ill and totally alone, and then I just went about the rest of my
day?"
C'mon give in.

"You should go, Collin. Trust me, you don't want
this!" She sounds like she's trying to be forceful, but she can't quite pull it
off.

"I'm not afraid. Please open the door for me and I
promise that'll be the last thing I'll ask you to do today."

"'K," she mumbles. She must really be sick as
hell, because that was a whole lot easier than I thought it would be. I hear
the door unlock and then the sound of footsteps retreating. The hell?

"You're insane if you think I'm letting you see me
like this." Her voice echoes from an adjacent hallway.

I turn the corner to see her standing there
covering her face. "Rachel, I thought you were versed on the concept of object
permanence. I can still see you, even if you can't see me."

"Yes, but I don't have to see
you,
seeing
me."

She looks so pathetic; I can't help but laugh a
little. I put my arm around her. "C'mere. Where were you resting?"

"The couch." She gestures with one tired finger
across the room to an oversized beige couch.

I give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Alright
then. Mosey over there and I'll be there in a minute."

I stay in her kitchen and watch as she traipses
across the room calling out to me as she goes. "The only reason why I'm not
fighting you on this is because this fever and the endless vomiting has sucked
away nearly all of my life force." She slumps down on to the couch and
haphazardly pulls a blanket over her.

"Just relax, Rachel." I begin unpacking my bags. I
brought chicken broth, saltine crackers, Gatorade, ginger candy, Tylenol, two
washcloths, a folding tray, and a bucket. "Where's your thermometer?"

"Bathroom counter," she mumbles, limply gesturing
toward a door.

I retrieve it and bring it to her. "Open up."

"This is humiliating," she whines, but she cooperates,
accepting the thermometer beneath her tongue. It beeps a few moments later.

"It's pretty high, Rachel, you must be feeling horrible.
Have you taken Tylenol?"

"Can't keep it down."

"OK. Well, then our main objective is to get some
fluids in you. Let's get you propped up." I help her sit up and then I place
two large pillows behind her. She lets out an unhappy groan. I head off to the
kitchen and fill a small bowl with broth and grab a large package of crackers.
Next, I place the tray I brought over her legs. Her eyes are closed and she
seems so out of it, I don't even think she notices.

"It isn't
my
chicken broth, but it'll do."
I bring a spoonful of it to Rachel's lips. She shakes her head.

"Collin, I'll just get sick. I don't want to puke
in front of you."

I laugh. That's what's she's worried about? Has
she forgotten how much we binge drank together? "Rachel, I'm a big boy. I can
handle some puke. Besides, we went to college together—it wouldn't be the first
time I've seen you get sick. Just let me help you. Please."

She shakes her head no.

"I've got a bucket right here." I point to the
small red one I brought that's sitting on the floor. "So we're all good if you
get sick."

"Oh, God," she moans.

"Rachel," I whisper.

She keeps her eyes closed, but finally whispers, "OK,
let's try it."

I place a cool washcloth on her forehead, and then
begin to slowly feed her a spoonful of broth alternated with tiny cracker
fragments. Neither of us talks for a while. When the bowl is nearly empty, I
ask her, "How are you feeling now?"

"Better. Thank you." I can tell she's improved and
just seeing her feel a little bit healthier is so satisfying. I haven't felt this
gratified about anything in a long time.

"Good. Tylenol time." I head to the kitchen
counter and grab the bottle of painkillers. Rachel follows me with her eyes.

"Where did all that stuff come from? Did you bring
all of that?" She looks down and for the first time notices the tray I used for
the soup. "And this?"

I smile at her. "Let's just say, this isn't my first
time being a nurse."

A smile works its way across her weary face. "I
feel sure there are about a million sarcastic comebacks I should be responding
to that comment with, but I'm too run-down to think of any of them." We both
laugh and then I see pain wash over her face.

"Does it hurt to laugh?"

She nods her head slowly.

"Here you go." I hand her two Tylenol tablets and
cup of water. While she drinks I remove the cloth from her forehead. In the
kitchen I rinse another cloth under cold water, wringing it out until it's cool
and damp, but not dripping.  I place the washcloth on her forehead and gently
remove the tray. She makes a small, contented noise.

"Any nausea?"

"Yes," she groans. "It's better, but not gone."

"Try this." I hand her an unwrapped ginger candy.

"What is it?"

"It has real ginger in it. It should help with the
nausea pretty quickly." She takes it from my hand and carefully places it in
her mouth, closing her eyes.

"How do you know all this?" she asks.

"I've helped my mom through some pretty rough
chemo treatments. She had some great nurses—they taught me a lot."

"Your mom has cancer?" Her eyes open, wide,
staring back at me. She reaches up and gently touches my face. "Oh, Collin. I'm
so sorry. How's she doing?"

"Not well. We've transitioned her to in-home
hospice now."

"I had no idea," she says, and tears immediately
flood her eyes.

I reach over and stroke her hair. "Hey, it's OK. Don't
cry, Rachel. You just think about feeling better, for now. We can talk about it
more another time." She blinks and the tears release themselves from her eyes,
racing down her fair cheeks. She got to know my mother like few people in my
life have, and though it's been a decade since they've seen each other, I know
she still gets it. I hand her a tissue. "Do you want to lie down now?"

She nods her head. I shift the pillows to the end
of the couch and help her recline, covering her with the blanket.

"Go to sleep, Rach. I'm right here if you need
me." Within a few short minutes her breathing changes and she falls asleep. I
study her face while she rests.  Her lips are parted slightly, forming her face
into the expression I love. Her dark hair flows like a curtain over her forehead,
cheeks and shoulders. Even sick with the flu, she's beautiful. She's
incredible.

I sit down on the chair adjacent to the couch and
tap out emails for about a half hour.  After the most important stuff is
covered, I get up to get some water. On my way, I briefly and gently press my
hand to Rachel's forehead. She doesn't stir from my touch and she's still quite
warm. I think she's likely to be out for a while. As I return from the kitchen,
I take my time and casually check out Rachel's place. I'm trying to avoid
creepy, stalker-esque behavior, so I'm careful not to disturb anything, but I
can't help a little exploring. Her kitchen is small, but nice. It's painted a
warm, sage green with white cabinets. Her countertops are basically bare except
for what looks like a lot of paperwork from her job and a few knick-knacks.  Besides
the major appliances, she appears to only have a coffee maker. Checking her
fridge feels too far, but I'd place a solid bet that she has nothing that would
qualify as real food in there and only ready-made crap in the freezer.
Oh,
Rachel.
Her family room is painted beige, except one wall, which is dark
brown. An enormous dark-wood shelf filled with books, music, and loads of
trinkets and doo-dads covers the largest wall. I run my finger along the books
and cds and can't help but smile. So many of these titles she had when we lived
together. Back then they were stored in rustic wooden crates that she'd stacked
in her bedroom. Her things are fancier now, that makes sense, but the
artsy-bohemian style I associate with her, still feels intact, and is reflected
in the artwork she has hanging on the walls.

Rachel stirs a little and I take that as my cue to
sit back down near her. Before I do, I gaze at her once more. She looks a
little more comfortable than she did even twenty minutes ago. Her long, dark
lashes splay out over the top of her cheeks and I think how dramatic they look
against her pale skin. I fear if I indulge in too much more staring I will be
fully in the creep department, if I'm not already. So, I log back into work and
focus on getting as much done as I can.  Rachel sleeps soundly for a couple of
hours. I check her forehead again after awhile, and feel by touch that her
fever has gone down. Around five-thirty there's a soft knock at the front door,
followed by a louder one, almost immediately after. Rachel doesn't respond, but
I jump up and sprint to the door.

"Collin?" Vanessa stands on the front stoop
staring up at me in shock.

"Hey Vanessa, it's been a while," I say, opening
the door wider for her to enter. This is unexpected. I feel my pulse
accelerate, but I keep my voice and expressions neutral. Thank God with most
people I'm damn good at the nonchalant act.