Chapter Eight: I Kind of like you
chapter eight
I KIND OF LIKE YOU
Miles
I
should probably let her go home. There’s something endearing about the nervous way she keeps fidgeting with the buttons on her cardigan, sizing up the chair beside my bed. Or maybe it’s the drugs. Regardless, the whole airways closing deal is unnerving, so I wouldn’t mind some company apart from passing medical staff.
I reach for the plastic cup of water on the bedside table and prop myself up enough so I can take a sip, but I end up dribbling the contents all over my shirt.
“Oh! Let me help.”
She takes the water from my hand as I try to dab at my mouth, which feels . . . odd.
She pulls several tissues from the box on the bedside table and moves my hand away from my face. “You’re a little swollen still; it probably makes things awkward.”
“How swollen?”
She dabs at my mouth with the tissues, and then my chest.
The contact sends a welcome shot of warmth through my arm.
“Um, sort of like you hired the wrong plastic surgeon and they went overboard on the collagen injections.”
I grimace. “That does not sound good at all.”
“The swelling has started to go down, so soon you’ll be back to your handsome self.”
“You think I’m handsome?”
She arches a brow. “The compliment has already been given; no need to fish for more.”
I settle back against the pillow, my eyes already feeling heavy. “Well, I think you’re pretty.” The words are thick in my mouth.
“You’re also on drugs.”
I pry my lids back open. “You were pretty before the drugs.”
She smiles faintly and our gazes meet. Her cheeks flush and her eyes shift away. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” I repeat.
Once she’s finished patting me dry, she brings the straw back to my lips. This time I manage to get a mouthful without it dribbling down my chin. I let my head fall back against the pillow. At this point it feels like it’s made of lead.
“Who’s taking care of your dog? Do you need to call someone?” she asks.
I’m not sure if I imagine it, but I swear I feel her fingers in my hair. Opening my eyes is getting harder.
“I should call my neighbors. Joe and Mark take care of Wilfred when I’m away.”
“I can do it for you if you’d like.”
“Just need my phone.” I slap around at my waist, feeling for it.
“It’s right here.” She holds it up in front of my face, which unlocks it.
She even helps me bring up the contact list, but when I try to jab the screen I miss.
“I can take it from here. You just rest.”
I nod once and close my eyes. I can hear her talking, but she sounds far away. I reach out, I’m not sure what for, but fingers close around mine and then I’m sinking into darkness.
The next time I open my eyes it’s to the sound of whispered voices. I crack a lid.
“The swelling has gone down, and he’s breathing normally,” the nurse says quietly. “We’ll give him an EpiPen just in case, and I can show you how to use it as well, so you can administer it in an emergency.”
“Oh, uh—”
I clear my throat, and both of them startle. “Oh!” Kitty flits around the side of the bed, hands fluttering in the air. “You’re awake! That’s great! How are you feeling?” For a moment I think she’s going to touch my face or run her fingers through my hair, either of which would be unexpected, but also not unwelcome. She drops her hands before she makes contact, though, which is slightly disappointing.
“I’m okay. What time is it?”
“Just after ten,” the nurse supplies, gaze moving to his clipboard and then back to me.
“Ten? I’ve been out for hours.” I don’t know how many, but it must be several, since it was around dinnertime when Kitty first arrived at my mother’s.
“The antihistamines were strong.” Kitty awkwardly pats my shoulder, then clasps her hands together again.
“Thanks for staying.” My voice is hoarse with sleep, but my throat no longer feels like it’s trying to close, so that’s great. It’s one thing to sleep with someone beside you who is also sleeping. It’s another thing to be out cold on drugs while someone I don’t know all that well, who isn’t very fond of me, sits by my bedside and watches over me because I had an allergic reaction. Possibly to my mother’s cat.
“It was more for my peace of mind than anything,” she mutters.
I don’t know what that means, and there’s a nurse in the room, whose gaze keeps flipping between us, as if he’s trying to figure out the dynamic. I know I am.
The nurse takes my vitals and gives me the all-clear, but tells Kitty that I shouldn’t drive for at least another eight to twelve hours and that it would be best if I wasn’t on my own, in case I have another attack.
“Shit. How am I going to get home?”
After a few seconds, Kitty says, “I can drive you.”
“I live in the city, though. And then how will you get home? I’ll call an Uber.”
“But the doctor said you shouldn’t be left alone.” She clasps
her hands behind her back. “Unless you have a roommate or a girlfriend who lives with you?” Her cheeks flush.
That’s an interesting reaction. “No roommate or girlfriend, just my dog. Crap. He’s been alone all day.”
“I talked to your neighbors, remember? Or maybe you don’t. But they took him for a walk and brought him back to their place. I told them you’d call when you were being released.”
“Right. Okay. That’s good.” I vaguely remember her offering to call them. It feels like days ago, not hours.
“I think it’s best for me to drive you home and stay to make sure you don’t have another reaction,” she says decisively.
“My neighbors are right across the hall.”
“If your throat closes and you pass out from lack of oxygen, it’s going to be hard to call them,” she argues. “And I’d say you could stay at my place, but I live with my mom and sister.”
“And I’m sure you have at least two cats.” I clear my throat; just saying the word makes my windpipes feel like they’re constricting.
“No cats, just embarrassing family members.”
“You don’t have a cat?” That’s a surprise.
“Not since I was a teenager.” She drops her head, and her expression grows pinched.
I feel like there’s a story there. How can someone who adores cats not own one? That seems . . . preposterous. But I leave it alone, not wanting to add to the weird tension. “Are you sure you’re okay to take me home?”
“I’m sure. Besides”—she gives me a cheeky smile—“your car is fun to drive.”
“Ah, there it is, the real reason behind the offer.” I throw my legs over the side of the bed and look down at my hospital gown–covered torso. “I need some clothes.”
“They’re right here.” Kitty passes me the pile, which was sitting on the small table beside the bed.
I cross to the bathroom. After I’m dressed I sign the release papers and nod and agree with the doctor about allergy tests that have been set up for me, not being alone for the next twelve or so hours, and not getting behind the wheel of a car.
Once I’ve been discharged, we start for the exit, but I remember I was supposed to see my mother tonight so I could prepare her for the trip to visit a retirement village later this week, and she happens to be in this very hospital. Visiting hours are long over, but I want to check in with the nurse to see how she’s doing before we leave.
“Hey, Miles, you’re here late.” Stephanie, the night nurse, who I’ve met on several occasions since I mostly stop in after work, tips her head to the side. Her gaze shifts to Kitty and then back to me.
I motion to my face. “I had a bit of a thing.”
At the furrow in her brow, Kitty pipes up. “He had an allergic reaction. Possibly to a cat. At least I’m hoping it’s the cat he’s allergic to and not me.” She laughs, like she’s surprised that those words came out of her mouth, and her cheeks turn pink.
“I don’t think it’s you,” I tell her and turn my attention back to Stephanie, who looks amused. “Anyway, I just wanted to check in and see how my mother’s day was. I’d planned to visit, but obviously that didn’t happen.”
“She had a few lucid moments. She asked about you, actually. She remembered you were supposed to stop by.”
I nod and rap on the counter once before I jam my hand in my pocket. “I’m sorry if that caused you any issues, my not showing up.”
“Nothing we couldn’t handle. Should I let her know that you’ll be by tomorrow if she asks?”
“That’d be great, thanks.”
On the way to the car, I call Joe and Mark to let them know I’m on my way home. I reassure them I’m okay and that I can manage Wilfred tonight. I fold myself into the passenger seat of my Tesla and press Home on the GPS. “I’m sorry I monopolized your entire night.”
“I would have watched reruns of
Two and a Half Men
if I’d been at home, and I can pretty much recite every single line down to the laugh track, so you saved me from lip-syncing to an old TV show.” She pulls out of the spot and heads toward the exit.
“Why reruns?”
“My mom likes to watch it. It was my dad’s favorite show.”
“Was? What happened to your dad?” This isn’t the first time she’s referred to him in past tense.
She keeps her eyes on the road and her grip on the steering wheel tightens briefly. “My dad passed away when I was a teenager.”
That familiar pang makes my heart sore for a second. “Oh man. I’m so sorry. Was it unexpected?”
“He had a massive heart attack. We didn’t get him to the hospital fast enough,” she says softly.
“That must have been hard.” And explains why she was so intent on getting me to the hospital as quickly as possible, and staying the entire time, and driving me home. Another reminder that I’ve been a jerk to her, and here she is, taking care of me anyway.
“It was. Sometimes it still is.” She glances at me for a second. “Losing someone you’re close to is . . . like having a piece of your soul go missing that you can’t ever get back.”
“That’s an astonishingly accurate way to describe loss.” I rub at my chest, the ache making me want to . . . do something. Like hug her. Soothe us both, maybe.
She hums her agreement. “I imagine it’s equally difficult to have a parent with dementia. It would feel like a loss, but the person is still there, they just can’t access their memories anymore. It would be both frustrating and painful. They look like the same person, but they’re not really there anymore.”
This time I’m the one who makes a sound, and I give voice to the worries that have been plaguing me since my mom went into the hospital. “Lately my mom has been talking to me like I’m still a kid. It’s like her brain is stuck in the past. Maybe if I’d tried harder with her, it wouldn’t be this bad.”
Kitty reaches over and squeezes my hand before quickly with-drawing. “Don’t do that to yourself, Miles. You can’t hold the blame for her memory failing her.”
I wonder if she’d say that if she knew the entire truth. “Sometimes it’s hard not to play the what-if game, you know?”
“I do.” She smiles faintly, but she keeps her eyes fixed on the road.
“Anyway, if I keep up with this introspection, you really are going to have to up your rates and charge me like a therapist.”
Kitty chuckles. “This is why other people’s pets are great. You can tell them all your woes, and as long as you give them pets and treats, they’ll listen. Not great with the actual advice, but cathartic nonetheless.”
“Mmm. That’s a good point.”
“Tabbies are particularly good listeners and exceptionally cuddly,” Kitty says.
“What about dogs? Do they count?”
“Oh yes, definitely. Pugs and bullies are the best. A little snorty and drooly, but the snuggles make it worth it.”
“I hope I wasn’t snorty and drooly when I was all hopped up on those antihistamines.” This conversation I like better. Not me going down a rabbit hole of guilt I can’t get out of.
That earns me a chuckle, and I find I like that sound, a lot. “You don’t snore, but you do talk in your sleep.”
I let the headrest do its job and close my eyes. “I hope I didn’t say anything incriminating.”
“It sounds like you were giving a player a pep talk.” The repetitive
tick, tick, tick
tells me that she’s signaling to turn or change lanes.
I crack a lid and note that we’re getting on the freeway. At least it won’t be too busy at this time of night. “I do that a lot, dream about plays.”
“I dream about talking to cats.”
I laugh and then yawn.
The next time I open my eyes it’s because we’ve arrived, and Kitty is waking me up. I’m groggy on the elevator ride up to the apartment.
“You’re cool with dogs, right?” I ask when we reach my floor.
“I’m more used to medium-size ones, but yes, I’m cool with dogs.”
“Wilfred is big but very friendly.” Except sometimes when he’s on a leash and he sees a bird. For whatever reason, birds get him ramped up. And kids on skateboards. “He’s more likely to lick you to death than anything else.”
“Death by licking?” Her eyebrows rise, and her gaze goes to my mouth for a second before she looks away and her face flushes.
And suddenly I have a very lurid image in my head that has absolutely nothing to do with my dog.
Kitty chews on her bottom lip while her entire face turns bright red. I keep my mouth shut and open the door, shuffling her behind me as Wilfred comes bounding down the hall. As soon as he reaches me, he shoves his nose into my crotch. “Dude, no thanks.”
He backs up and plunks his butt on the floor, tail wagging so hard it’s almost a blur.
“Wilfred, meet Kitty.”
His tail thumps on the ground and he looks from me to her and back again, like he’s waiting for permission to say a proper hello.
She holds out a hand and steps up beside me. Wilfred gives her a cursory sniff, then nudges her hand, looking for pets. “He is so sweet.”
“Until he tries to sit in your lap or steal your dinner off your plate,” I say.
She scratches behind his ear, but her gaze moves to me. “You should probably lie down.”
“I should feed Wilfred first.”
“I’ll take care of Wilfred. You’re slow blinking and using the wall to prop yourself up. If you pass out, I might be able to soften your fall, but I’d prefer if we don’t add sprained body parts, yours or mine, to the list of things that have gone wrong today.”
“That’s a very good point. I’ll show you the spare room?”
“Sure. That sounds good.”
Wilfred trots along beside me as I guide Kitty down the hall. The spare room gets used occasionally when friends come to town or my dad visits. He’s usually here once in the summer and during the holidays. Now that I’m working for the NHL, there might be opportunities for me to go out his way more often, even if the visits are brief.
“I’m just down there.” I point to the door at the end of the hall, then the one across from us. “And the bathroom is just there. I’ll leave you a toothbrush. But you don’t have to stay. If you’d rather grab an Uber, I would totally understand and reimburse you. I don’t want this to be awkward for you.”
“I’ll feel better knowing that if anything happens, I’m here to help. Unless you’d prefer I go home.” She chews her bottom lip nervously.
I’m guessing this need to make sure I’m okay has something to do with what happened to her dad. “I trust you, Kitty.”
“Okay. That’s good.” She gives me a shy smile.
“Wilfred sleeps in my room, so you don’t have to worry about him bugging you.” He’s leaning against my leg, tail wagging, whining quietly. He has a dog bed in my room, but half the time I wake up with his head on the pillow beside me. I shouldn’t let him get away with it as much as I do, but when he gives me his puppy-dog eyes, it’s hard to say no. Also, I don’t have a girlfriend, so there really isn’t a reason to kick him out of bed, apart from his having bad breath, anyway.
“I’m sure he always wants to be where you are. And dogs can sense when there’s something up with their owners. Cats are the same.” Her smile wavers, and she looks down at her hands and twists the ring on her middle finger, then nods toward the other end of the hall. “Anyway, enough of my nattering, off to bed for you.”
“’Night, Kitty.”
“’Night, Miles.”
The exhaustion sweeps over me again as I step into my bedroom. I manage to get my dress shirt and my pants off, but I don’t bother brushing my teeth before I climb into bed, oddly reassured that Kitty is down the hall.