I awoke the next morning with a scratchy throat and eyelids that didn’t want to open. Against my body’s will, I pushed back my bed covers and sat up.
Every muscle ached. I couldn’t breathe through my nose, and it felt three times its normal size. I rose and showered anyway and dressed in the most comfortable yet professional clothes I could find.
I shivered and reached for an extra cardigan, followed by a scarf. I skimped on makeup for the day, only using a bit of eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick. Maybe the bit of lipstick was a vanity, but at least it would help my lips from getting more chapped than they already were. I felt dried out.
Jayne stumbled out to the kitchen just as I’d finished preparing a corn syrup and warm water gargle. “Please tell me you’re not putting that in your mouth,” she said, her eyes glued to the cup I’d just poured the ingredients into.
“It’s for my sore throat,” I croaked. Ouch. That was the first time I’d tried to speak all morning, and it hurt!
“You have a sore throat? I’m so sorry! I have drugs—what do you want? Throat drops? Decongestants?”
I didn’t know what any of those were. “Thanks. I’ll just use this for now. It’s what my mom always gave us.”
Jayne wrinkled her nose. “Okay,” she said, even though she clearly thought it was nasty.
I didn’t think it was bad. But then I was raised on it.
As I drove to work, I noticed a lot of cars seemed to be passing me. Was I driving slower than usual? Hard to say. My nose started dripping then, and I fumbled with the glove compartment in search of something I could wipe my nose with that wasn’t my coat sleeve.
Because that would be gross.
I finally found a Starbucks napkin just in time to catch the precipitation coming from my nostril.
I knew what Rebecca would say if she knew I was sick. She’d say it was because I wasn’t outside and working hard. She’d blame it on my fancy living. And then she’d make me ginger tea.
Whatever. Rebecca wasn’t here. I knew she got her own colds from time to time. It happened. It wasn’t a punishment. But I began to feel it was a punishment as soon as I got out of the car and was faced a second time with the brisk Portland winter winds.
I didn’t see Will when I stepped inside, so I unlocked the front door and got the computer and register running. When I heard the footfalls on the steps I knew he was on his way, remembering that he lived just upstairs.
“Oh, you’re here,” he said when he came in, looking around the store, likely making sure I hadn’t damaged it in his absence. His eyes stopped when he saw me. “You look awful.”
“Thanks,” I said, and to make matters worse, I sneezed.
“I mean, you look fine, better than most people, actually…”
I barely paid attention to his words. My nose was running again, and I couldn’t find where we kept the scratchy tissue. “Okay. I’m sick. I know. I’ll be very careful to keep my hands washed.”
Before I knew what he was doing, he reached out and touched my forehead. I would have jumped back about twenty feet if I could have moved at all. But I couldn’t.
“You’re warm,” he said.
“No, I’m actually kind of cold.”
“I mean, you’re running a fever.”
“Oh.”
“I have some ibuprofen upstairs. It’s a fever reducer. Want some?”
Instead of waiting for my reply, he put the Be Back in Ten sign in the door window and walked toward the stairs, clearly assuming I would follow. So I did. I followed him upstairs, my head growing stuffier with each step. William unlocked the door at the top and waited for me to finish my climb.
“Did you come down with this last night?”
“This morning.”
He closed the door behind us. There was a kettle on the stove. He poured out the old water and filled it back up, replaced it, and turned on the burner. He reached into a cabinet and rifled through a shoebox he found inside.
Standing made me tired. I looked around the apartment.
It was basically two rooms—a kitchen, dining room, bedroom, and living space all out in the open, with what I assumed was a bathroom behind a partially open door. I blushed when I saw the bed. I’d never been in a man’s home before, at least not one he didn’t share with eight other family members. It didn’t seem to bother William, who was still opening cabinets and rearranging his kitchen clutter, so I decided not to let it bother me. The table and chairs were close by, so I pulled out a chair and sat.
Then put my head down on the table.
And closed my eyes.
Moments later I heard the light tap of pills being placed inches from my nose and the faint ring of porcelain on wood. “Are you awake?”
I opened my eyes and sat up, slowly. “Yes, sorry. I was…resting my head.”
“Here’s some chamomile tea, two ibuprofen, and five hundred milligrams of vitamin C. The tea’s not too hot, so you should be able to drink it okay.”
A small wisp of steam rose from the mug. The mug looked like a William mug. Brown and sturdy, with crackles in the glaze. I shook my head. Illness made me think odd things. I tested the tea; William was right, it wasn’t too hot. I lifted the pills to my lips and followed with the tea. William watched me until I finished the contents of the brown mug.
I set it down and stood to leave. William held out his hand.
“Honestly? I can’t put you to work like this. You’ll scare the customers. I’d send you home, but I don’t trust you to drive. I saw you pull in.” He nodded toward the window. I could see it overlooked the alleyway where I parked my car every day. “My grandmother drives faster than you were this morning.”
I opened my mouth to say I always drove carefully, but I thought better of it as William continued. “I’ve got a couch, and it’s comfortable. Why don’t you lie down until the drugs kick in, and if you’re feeling better and look less like a zombie you can work the register. If you don’t, I’ll call Richard and you can take a sick day. Sound okay?”
The couch sat against the wall. It didn’t seem to be growing anything. In fact, the whole apartment seemed cleaner than I would have guessed. Rather than answer, I stood and felt my feet shuffle toward the couch.
Somewhere between the shuffling and laying down, a blanket appeared. I kicked off my shoes and pulled it over my chilly body.
I fell asleep within moments.
The light seemed different. My room never got so much light, at least not in the mornings.
But I didn’t have heavy brown curtains.
I sat straight up and instantly regretted it. My congestion returned, accompanied by memories. William making me tea, giving me medicine to help my cold. I pushed the blanket away. I didn’t feel feverish anymore, but my nose was so stuffed that my eyes watered from the pressure.
What time was it? I couldn’t see a clock anywhere. Sitting up straighter, I saw numbers on William’s oven. Surely it couldn’t be right. I folded the blanket with some urgency, slipped my shoes back on, and began the descent to the bookstore.
“There you are,” William said when he saw me. “How do you feel?”
“How long did I sleep?” Tension curled in my stomach.
“Three hours.”
Then the oven was right. Horror washed over me. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
“I tried. You hit me.”
My horror tripled. I put my hand to my mouth. “I hit you?”
“Don’t look like that. You’re a bad shot when you’re essentially unconscious. And your unconsciousness wanted to sleep longer.”
“Has it been busy?” I looked around, spotting three customers from where I stood.
“Not enough to worry me. Richard’s been here for two hours. Go home. Running yourself ragged won’t make you any healthier.”
I wanted to say thanks but sneezed instead. William took me by the shoulders, turned me around, and walked me toward the back door, where my coat and scarf waited. “Try to drive faster than my grandmother,” he said in lieu of goodbye.
I really did try to drive home faster than I arrived, though I had no idea if I succeeded or not. The moment I got home, I shrugged out of my coat and went straight to bed.
When I awoke for the third time that day, the room was dark, and a faint savory scent made its way through my clogged sinuses.
I found Gemma and Jayne in the kitchen, chatting. Their conversation ended abruptly when I entered the room. “She’s alive!” Jayne exclaimed, turning a bit on the barstool she sat perched on. “How are you feeling?”
“Better, I think.”
“That’s good. I’ve never seen you so down. Checked on you earlier, you were stone cold out of it. I called Gemma because I thought she might want to feed you.”
“Chicken soup?” Gemma lifted a ladle from the Dutch oven on the stove.
“Is it French or Italian?” I asked.
“Neither. It just tastes good.”
“Which is not to say there’s not apple and Gruyere in there,” Jayne said. “What Gemma means is that the soup is of indeterminate nationality.”
“It tastes good. The soup does not need to be subjected to racial profiling. Sara, would you like some?”
I nodded, watching as Gemma poured a small amount into a bowl for me. “Finish that,” she said, “and you can have more.”
She watched as I lifted a spoonful to my mouth. My eyebrows lifted as the liquid hit my tongue.
“I can taste it,” I said after swallowing. I smiled as Gemma gave a small victory dance. “It’s very good. I’ll have more in a moment.”
“Would you like some toast with it? I brought some crusty herb bread with me.”
I shook my head and patted my throat. “Too scratchy. Maybe tomorrow. You can leave the bread here.”
Gemma waved her hand. “It won’t be fresh tomorrow. I’ll send Jayne home with a new loaf.”
“This may horrify you,” Jayne said as she faced Gemma, “but we have been known to eat day-old bread in this apartment. And lived to tell the tale.”
“Of course you can eat it,” Gemma countered. “The question is if you should, especially when you could have a fresh loaf.”
“But we don’t want to be wasteful with bread.”
“Aha.” Gemma lifted a finger. “And I bring the good news of great joy concerning the miracle of croutons. And bread crumbs. And Tuscan bread soup. European cuisine doesn’t recognize wastefulness. French cuisine was based on using everything edible available. And I do mean everything.”
I sat back and listened to them squabble amicably over bread as I sipped at more soup. It really was very good, completely different from anything I had grown up on.
Sometimes I felt as if instead of moving seventy-five miles north of home, I’d actually changed planets. The food, the speech, the clothes—and even though I didn’t let my mind rest on it, even God seemed different.
The last point set my mind on edge every time I thought of it. I wished that even though my world changed around me, the God I had been raised to understand at a distance remained unchanged. But I knew it was not the case. Jayne, Levi, and Gemma described a God very unlike the one I’d been told about for eighteen years. I knew I needed to reintroduce myself now that we were meeting under different circumstances. Maybe a part of me was waiting for Him.