This was hell. Or at least some wicked department of the purgatory, there was no other explanation. Why did Rose's relatives have to show up this week, just as aunt Angela and her kind-hearted but no-good brother were going on Sophia's and actually everybody's nerves with their talent show practice? Why did her immune system pick this precise moment to throw in the towel and pay her back for the weeks of never-ending stress at school with this darned flu? The house was not exactly the most quiet place on earth on any day, but now, there wasn't a single corner unoccupied, not a single refuge to be found of the noise, the babbling, the people.
Dorothy had retreated to her room, blinds down, blanket up to her chin and just waiting for it to pass. Indistinctively in the background, she could still hear her roommates and relatives going about their business. Her electric blanket was buzzing slightly, the clock was ticking with irritating regularity, and even her breathing made noise – not that she could breathe much. The books she'd tried to read were piling up on her nightstand. As much as she wanted to make use of the time, her clogged brain prevented the words on the pages from making sense and she'd given up. Now she was just lying here, resigned, with a cool, wet washcloth on her forehead, waiting longingly for the end of her existence.
Okay, maybe that was a bit drastic. But she was feeling crappy, and when she was sick, she got cranky and dramatic. She hated it – she wanted her mind and wit to work, her body to obey her. She despised being helpless, even though her mother took good care of her, dedicating time and work to minimize her suffering by telling stories, applying traditional Sicilian remedies and just being there for her. The time of the day she looked forward to the most, however, was when Blanche got home from work, and stopped by for a bedside visit.
She'd been sick for several days, and each day her best friend had been there for her, keeping her gentle company, fluffing up the cushions, letting in some fresh air and sometimes even entertaining her with anecdotes about visitors confusing a Monet for a Miró. It came as a bit of a surprise to Dorothy, this caregiving side of the usually so self-centered Blanche. Yes, she was a southern belle, who always insisted on hospitality and courtesy, but caring for a sick friend and by doing so risking to get sick herself, when she could be sunbathing or getting ready for a date?
Dorothy appreciated it all the more, and tried to be pleasant company in return. In the beginning she could hardly speak, but she would nod, smile, or shake her head according to the requirements of the story. Now, she was better already, but the flu kept her tied to the bed.
Not that she was missing much, her social life being way on the low side and the night in with a book hardly a switching up of her usual routine. One part that she neglected though was her diary. Instead of writing a few sentences – or a few pages, depending on what had happened- she hadn't written anything at all. She longed to put her thoughts and feelings into words, but in her state she was too afraid she'd fall asleep writing, leave it out and one of the other girls would discover her best kept secret. So the little book remained safely locked up in her nightstand.
On Sunday morning, Sophia and her siblings were at church, and Rose was taking her relatives to the airport. Dorothy had woken up late, when the sun was already trying to shine into her room, but couldn't get past the curtains entirely, but nevertheless she was sleepy. It was the longing for a big cup of coffee that got her to put on her robe and get out of bed. She managed to make a pot of coffee in the sunny, way too bright kitchen, and was surprised to hear the backdoor open just a few minutes later, as she was sitting down with her favorite leaf-covered mug and the newspaper.
"Oh hi honey, how ya feelin' today?"
Blanche was her gorgeous self, full of energy and confidence, in a flowing blue dress, and her smile brightened Dorothy's life more than the sun ever could.
"Not much different than yesterday, but maybe this helps" she replied, before taking a sip. "I just made some, if you'd like to join me?"
Blanche nodded and grabbed a cup for herself. As she sat down beside Dorothy, she raised her hand to her friend's forehead. Dorothy couldn't help but blush at the sudden gentle contact.
"Well, at least the fever seems to have gone, that's good. We've got to hang in just a little bit longer."
"I guess so," Dorothy said, smiling at the joy in the belle's face. "
"What have you been up to so early in the morning?"
"Just took a little walk through the city, enjoying the sun before it gets unbearable, running some errands…" She reached for something in her purse.
"I see."
"Acutally, I got ya a little somethin'", Blanche said as she handed her a small rectangle, wrapped in colorful paper.
"For me?" Dorothy was taken aback. It wasn't Christmas, or her birthday, and Blanche usually only got herself gifts on occasions other than that.
"Of course for you, dummy." Blanche smiled. "I just had to, I saw it and I couldn't help it."
Dorothy took the present in her hands, weighing it. Judging by the shape, it was a book, and judging by the weight, it was not one of those cheesy paperbacks.
"What'cha waitin' for? Come on, open it!" Impatient and curious, Blanche was leaning towards her, elbows on the table and the coffee practically forgotten.
Dorothy took a deep breath as she started unwrapping the paper, trying not to tear it up too much. Her mind was spinning with hope, anxiety, confusion, curiosity and most of all – happiness. No matter what it was, if she liked it or not, Blanche had thought of her, had bought it and wrapped it (or more likely, had it wrapped), and that was far more than she would've ever imagined. Before she could entirely stop herself from getting her hopes up in all the wrong directions, the last piece of paper fell and revealed a beautiful hardcover edition of "Love in the Time of Cholera".
She stared at it wide-eyed and amazed for a moment, then she looked up at Blanche, and was rewarded with the most open, loving expression she'd ever seen.
"Well?"
"I – I don't know what to say, I mean, wow…"
"It was just published, and I know you like the author, right? Please tell me I didn't get the wrong guy."
"You didn't. I love García Márquez. His stories are… magical."
A sigh of relief left Blanche, and she finally reached for her coffee cup.
Dorothy took some time to read the blurb and just admire the beautiful design, trying to slow down her heartbeat. It sped up when she remembered the date.
"But today is the 7th, it was just published today! And you went and got it for me?"
"You would've gone yourself if it weren't for the damn flu, so now at least you have somethin' to do all those hours alone in bed."
"Thank you so much, Blanche, this is wonderful." Dorothy reached across the table to take Blanche's petite hand into her own. "I had no idea."
"No idea about what?"
"That you cared so much, enough to remember the guy, the date, to go, just – everything."
"Well, you're welcome, and I actually do care. A lot."
"You've been so good to me these last few days… you really are my best friend."
They shared a long glance, smiling, their hands still touching, but when Dorothy wanted to break the connection to have another look at the book, Blanche didn't let go of her hand.
In response to Dorothy's questioning glance, Blanche held her tighter. Luckily, she could blame the blushing on the flu, Dorothy thought.
"I don't think you got what I was tryin' to say."
"Uhm…"
"You're supposed the be the one who's good with words, but I guess the flu has taken its toll on you so I'm gonna help you along." Blanche cleared her throat. "Dorothy Zbornak, I have just given you a book with 'love' in the title. I said I care a lot. I spent my free time nursin' you back to health from this nasty flu."
"Are you – are you trying to say-" Dorothy couldn't bring herself to pronounce the words, and she felt like the fever was back stronger than ever.
"I don't know what's happenin', or why, or what you did to me, but…" Blanche squeezed her hand, and directed her clear blue eyes directly at hers. "I like you. Like not just as my best friend. When they play the silly love songs on the radio, I think about you. I try to keep datin' men, but I just wanna go home and be with you. I don't think anyone's ever loved me as much as you."
"You know?"
"I've been suspectin' it for a while, but your mother dropped some hints that erased any doubts."
"She know, too?"
"Honey, you're not as smooth as you think, you know? The only reason Rose doesn't know is probably cause she's always with her head in the clouds or in St. Olaf."
Dorothy shook her head, smiling from ear to ear. "I can't believe it."
"So I take that as a yes?"
She nodded, and held Blanche's hand in both of hers. "Yes. Yes, Blanche, I do love you so so much. I never dared to dream you could feel the same way, and to some point I still think I'm hallucinating, but…" Tears were forming in her eyes and she couldn't finish her sentence, but Blanche just smiled tenderly and leaned in.
Dorothy stopped her with a hand on her cheek, just a few inches from her own.
"I might still be contagious."
"I don't care," Blanche whispered, and closed the gap between them.
This was heaven, Dorothy thought, this was heaven.