The back of my throat suddenly feels sore. There see, more proof I’m sick. That’s all this is. I’m not crazy. My mind’s just playing tricks on me. I need lots of cold meds and sleep.
My body instantly relaxes with the declaration, releasing the tension that’s been building, and I take one last look around the landing. Boy, sickness sure did a number on me.
I shake my head, pocket my cracked phone—it’s not the only thing cracked—then climb the ninety-nine steps and slough my way through the drizzle and mud, back to the command tent.
Thankfully only Jude is around when I enter.
“The cistern is secure, but I’m not feeling well. I need to go.”
Jude looks me up and down but doesn’t ask any questions, only replies, “Then get some rest, and we’ll see you tomorrow. A little avgolemono soup will fix you right up.”
“Thanks, I’ll give it a try,” I say, waving as I leave.
_______
I feel my forehead again, then sneeze as Grumpy, the old black beater I got a deal on, gives another sputter as I drive. I don’t know how many more days he has in him, but I hope he’ll last the rest of this dig because I don’t want to have to ride share with any of the guys. But however long he has, I pray he doesn’t die today, not with the rain pelting like it is.
Grumpy lurches and chuffs as I pull into a parking space in front of my room at the ramshackle motel. I pull my hood up, then grab my take out—Jude’s suggested remedy—and a few other Greek cold meds, which never work as well as Nyquil, from the passenger seat, and make a run for the door whose bright blue paint is peeling.
The musty smell of the old, gold shag carpet greets me as it always does as I slam the door shut and lock both bolts. I kick off my muddy boots as I set my packages on the desk next to the door, twist close the bent, formerly white mini blinds, then make a bee line to the thermostat, zipping it up. No doubt whoever ends up upstairs tonight will complain about the heat, but I don’t care, I’m freezing. And sick.
The metal radiator against the far wall starts hissing as I throw my wet coat on the extra twin bed and head into the bathroom. The place is a dump, but its one redeeming grace is that it has scalding hot water, exactly what I need to get warmed up and forget my episode of crazy.
Steam begins to fill the closet-sized space as I strip off my sodden clothes and slip into the stream of hot water, ignoring the brown that colors the grout between the avocado tiles.
“Ahhhh.” It comes out a moan.
Refusing to think further about my hallucination, I welcome the image of the pair of eyes that always comforts me. It fills my mind almost immediately as I pick up the soap and start washing my body. “You’d never believe…” I chuckle. “I imagined an entire breathing, talking guy with your eyes. Granted he was sexy and cute, but still. What’s my subconscious trying to tell me?”
Now that I’ve rationalized the situation and know I was hallucinating from this cold, I feel safe remembering my fictitious encounter as I lather my hair.
“This gorgeous guy was dead serious as he leveled an accusation at me.”—I try to mimic his tone—“You read the scroll aloud, didn’t you?” I laugh. “I really hate being accused of anything. I can’t believe my subconscious turned on me like that.”
I pause lathering. Even though I know my mind has made it all up, an uneasy feeling besets me. I try pushing it back as I resume massaging my scalp with my fingernails.
“You brought to life the being whose secret that is.” I again mimic Mister Sexy’s serious tone. Another accusation, this one with dire consequences if sphinxes are real, thank god they aren’t. All the same, my legs start fidgeting.
“I’ll be waiting for you to come to your senses.” Kind of creepy but he’ll be waiting a good long time at this rate since it’s just my insane imagination talking. All the same, my stomach starts churning.
“Okay, enough already.” I can’t believe my body is so triggered.
I force myself to stop rehashing and turn my full attention to rinsing my hair, then toweling off and dressing in my comfortable navy hoodie and sweats. The sooner I get some hot soup in me and take my cold meds, the sooner I’ll feel better.
Several minutes later, wet hair wrapped in a towel turban, I nest one leg beneath me on the uneven chair and set the other foot tapping beneath the desk that proudly bears its history in a plethora of nicks and dings. I slurp broth from a plastic spoon while I open my browser to a US news site on my laptop.
The lead story is titled, “Inspector General’s Report Reveals Irregularities but No Criminal Charges Filed in the Latest Scandal to Rock Washington.” I click Play on the video, then scan the text as it loads, which will take a while with the motel’s internet.
“What? No charges filed?” Broth splashes as I drop the spoon in the container. I know precisely which scandal they’re reporting on. I’ve been closely following as it’s unfolded over the past several months. Scandals always wind me up.
I had to fight tooth and nail for fairness at the group home. The image of one such occasion, this one with my best friend, Margo. She’s crying as I force her to tell me how Mr. Foutsey—mister footsy and handsy more like—the group home director has gotten “friendly” with her, comes to mind unbidden. The memory never
