When he moved down to my hands, I tried again to push him away, but he encircled my wrists in a loose grip and I didn’t have the strength to wriggle free. Using a fresh washcloth, he moistened the bandages and began pulling them off one by one. His touch was light, but I clenched my teeth at the ripping sensations.
“Please.” Even my begging had no force thanks to my traumatized diaphragm. “I’m fine.”
Mercifully, he stopped. The washcloth trailed onto the sheet, oozing a chilly dampness through to my hip.
“Would you rather me wake your child to do it?”
At my shocked silence, he eased off the last of the bandages and inspected my hands. I held my breath, waiting for a tingle; but instead he rose, went over to one of my malnourished houseplants, and plucked an aloe spike. Kneeling again, he peeled the tough skin from one side of the leaf and smeared its pulpy goo on my cut palm.
An audible “ahhhhh” escaped me, and he obliged by sliming all the cuts before rummaging in the bathroom again and coming back with a roll of gauze. I winced, but didn’t protest as he bundled my hands with loose, swooping wraps. Handy to remember. I’d thought aloe was only good for burns.
He went to the kitchen again, quietly poking around until he found what he wanted. Walking past with a roll of paper towels and a spray bottle of cleanser, he was cleaning my vomit from the floor before my first embarrassed tear could drip.
Aliens screwing up our lives? Got it. Night terrors and the flu? Bring it on. Compassionate alien playing nursemaid? More than I could handle. Thank you, God, for letting Eileen sleep through this.
Sal even took out the smelly trash and washed his hands before kneeling in front of me again. He’s housebroken? More tears.
“Lila?” He leaned over me, his features a blur of concern. “Are you still in pain?” He patted my eyes with the hem of the sheet. “Would you like some more water?”
“Stop being s’nice.” I barely managed a hoarse whisper, but he pulled back as if I’d yelled.
“Will you be able to forgive me?” He looked away, “You do not have to, of course.”
“Wh . . . ?” I swallowed and tried again, “Why?”
“Because I did not know!” His eyes met mine for the briefest of seconds before resting on my hands. “Please believe that I would have prevented this . . . ”
“What?” I struggled to sit up, but he held my shoulders.
“You are still not well . . . ”
I squirmed away and pulled myself upright at the other end of the couch. I’d been so selfish! I hadn’t asked!
“What happened?!”
“Please, you need more seawater . . . ”
“Adam!” I rasped.
“What do you—”
“Talk to me!”
“Lila, calm yourself. Your body needs—”
“Stop treating me like a child!”
“Be quiet or you’ll wake your child!”
We were glaring at each other now, and if there’s one useful thing about anger, it’s that it overwhelms silly little problems like a stomach bug. I pushed myself off the couch and lurched over him.
“You promised!” I hissed, “What happened?!”
Instead of answering, he cocked his head as if listening to sounds from my bedroom.
“She is waking.”
Damn it! Of course we’d woken her. Could I have been any louder?
“I could . . . ”
“Don’t even think about it,” I growled, “Now just tell me if they’re safe!”
“Yes! I promised you . . . ?”
Jesus, was that so hard? Getting a straight answer out of him was like talking to my grandmother.
I went to my bedroom door and listened. Nothing, and then a soft squeak from the mattress springs. She was restless, but I doubted she was awake enough to have been listening. I centered myself with a slow breath and went into mom-mode before opening the door.
Luckily my shadow loomed across her, blocking the light as I slipped inside and quietly closed the door behind me. I heard her roll over again and felt my way to the bed, finding her sprawled diagonally across the mattress, per usual. She was hot, also as usual, but shivered at my light touch.
“Shhhh, baby. Just me.” I groped in the dark for my robe and left it at her side just in case. Finding fresh clothes in the pitch black of my closet was much more difficult, but finally, my gauze-wrapped fingers recognized the squish of fleece pajamas. My whole torso ached, so changing into something soft was a must; plus, a sour stink had permeated my clothes. I sniffed. And my hair. My nose wrinkled, but luckily the urge to gag did not follow, so whatever had plagued me was over. Not the flu, then. An upset stomach from the bad dream. Weakling.
Eileen was peaceful again, and I slipped back out without waking her.
Sal had dimmed the lights and was closing the front door, Pebbles curling around his ankles. I hadn’t even thought of her all day, but apparently, he had. He looked over at me, eyebrows raised in a question, and I nodded. No doubt he knew where the cat food was.
I’d depleted my brief surge of energy, and now I just wanted to clean up and go to sleep. But that wasn’t going to happen, so I wobbled to the bathroom for a refresh. The longer I could avoid sleep, the better my chances that I’d be too tired to dream.
I yearned for a shower, but was afraid the noise would wake Eileen, so I settled for soap and water and pulling my hair into a knotted bun. Brushing my teeth was such an amazing experience that I did it twice—and tried to gargle, but that was a bad idea. My hands were throbbing
