“You shouldn’t get out of bed,” he says. “Really, you shouldn’t.”
There’s no help for it, so she says, “I have to pee.”
“Oh,” he says, then seems to come to a decision. “Well then, by all means.”
He pulls back the duvet, then slides her legs over the side of the bed. Miranda has no clue how she’s going to take the necessary steps to the bathroom. When she shifts in the bed, she realizes there are layers of colorful towels between her and the white sheets on her mattress. Brushing her hand across them, she looks up at Tom in confusion.
His face is a bit pink when he says, “Yes, well, you weren’t waking up to go on your own there for a while. We made do.”
“Oh God,” she moans, covering her eyes with a shaky hand.
Tom crouches so that he can look up at her. “Don’t. There’s no need for that. I’ve been a doctor for eighteen years. I can assure you that your dignity was preserved and you’ve nothing to be the least bit embarrassed about.”
Peeking at him through her fingers, she says nothing. Is he being serious? Of course, she’s embarrassed. After all, someone must have cleaned it up and that would have been him.
He gives her a little smile and says, “You know, we adults get so few excuses to wee in the bed. You got lucky.”
Letting her hand drop to her lap, she says, “You’re very kind.”
“Not a bit of it. All lies. I’m a terrible old grouch. Ask anyone.”
Getting to the bathroom feels like a trek across the wilderness instead of a moderately sized bedroom. Tom takes much of her weight, keeping her upright and on the right track. Tears sting her eyes as she nudges down her underwear, leaving Tom holding her around the back. He looks away, but even so, she’s humiliated to be so weak.
He leaves the bathroom and pulls the door almost closed behind him when she’s seated, leaving her some modicum of privacy, while also making sure he can hear it if she falls. Once she’s done, he bustles back in and sees her staring at the bathtub. She can tell he’s washed her by the smell of soap near her face and the way her hair is pushed back, but she feels dirty. Slimy almost.
“You want a bath?” he asks, seeing the direction of her gaze.
“I feel dirty,” she whispers.
“Entirely natural. The human body is wired to want to get rid of the remnants of sickness.”
She looks up at him from her perch on the toilet. “I didn’t know that.”
Nodding, he considers her, then the bathtub. His expression shifts, as if he’s the one now uncomfortable. “Listen, it’s perfectly safe for you to take a bath, but getting in and out might not be easy for you at the moment. I’m not saying I’d be embarrassed, because I wouldn’t, but…”
“Awkward?” she offers when he doesn’t continue.
“Yes, that’s the right word. I wouldn’t want things to be awkward for you.”
Miranda considers his words, then the gaps in her memory where two days of her life now live. This man she doesn’t know has been caring for her, cleaning up her bed when she pees in it, and almost certainly washing more than her face. That she doesn’t remember it is only a small factor. That he’s a doctor is a much larger factor.
“I feel really gross. I’d like a bath,” she says, at last.
That decides it. Tom twists the taps to the water flow. Even without touching the water, Miranda sighs at the sound of fresh, clean water hitting porcelain. He gathers a couple of towels, a fresh washcloth, and brings a stepstool from the kitchen into the bathroom. While he works, she sits on the toilet, only moving to nudge her underwear back up, lifting one hip and then the other to slide them that last bit. Her legs feel like the bones have gone soft, so standing up to do that is out of the question.
The tub fills slowly. The taps are older, as is the tub. It’s large, high-sided, and uses an amount of water that is decidedly unfriendly toward conservation. Tom considers her, taps a finger against his chin, then says, “How about you try to sip some broth while you’re in there. Do you think you can do that? Is your tummy ready for that?”
She remembers the vomit then, realizing she has yet one more reason to be embarrassed. Her stomach feels emptier than it ever has now that she thinks of it. Placing a hand on her middle, she can feel the way the flesh below her ribs sinks in, creating a hollow that shouldn’t be there.
“I think I can, yes. I’d like to.”
He nods, satisfied. “That will do a lot for feeling steady. I’ll just get you in the tub first.”
In the end, Tom says he has to wash her gown anyway, so why not simply get into the tub with it on. It feels strange to do it, but the way the white cotton billows in the disturbed water is quite pretty.
Tugging the curtain closed for her, she takes off the now heavy gown and her underwear, then wrings them out as much as she can. It’s not enough. Her hands and arms are simply too weak. He pokes an arm around the curtain at her call, then she hears him wringing out the cotton over the sink, the water streaming out of the cloth against the porcelain sink.
Miranda sighs and sinks down into the water, immediately feeling ten times better. The sensation of sheets of tiny germs sloughing off her skin is entirely in her head, but it feels good all the same.
When Tom says, “Knock, knock,” she smiles and almost answers, “Who’s there?” She refrains and settles for a small sound that won’t hurt her throat.
“Miranda, I’ve left the cup of broth on the stool
