When I woke, I was back in the white bed, once more swaddled in flannel pajamas. For the longest time, I refused to open my eyes. I'd had such a sweet dream that night – Christine coming home to me and obstinately insisting on marriage. From the color of my eyelids, I could tell it was daytime, and by the smells emanating from the kitchen, it must be morning.
Opening my eyes meant submitting myself to another day of bland convalescence and loneliness, with Nadir nagging me to rest, eat, rest, eat. Since the day would hold nothing for me, it seemed nonsensical to acknowledge it at all.
Bacon?
The morning smell I was detecting was…definitely bacon. Which suggested ham. Ham is pork, and Nadir is Muslim.
I was becoming quite excited.
Muslims do not touch – let alone eat – pork. If pork was being prepared, then it must mean that someone else was in the house. And there was only one other person who could possibly be in the house feeling comfortable enough to cook.
It had not been a dream. Christine was home, here, with me. And she was making breakfast in the kitchen.
My eyes snapped open, and I smiled at the whiteness around me. Without looking at a clock, I knew it was 9:30 in the morning, because that is when Christine was accustomed to having breakfast. With some effort, I turned over and found that the blankets to my left were rumpled and the down pillow dented.
She'd slept here, right beside me!
I pushed myself to a sitting position and saw that she'd left the bathroom door cracked. Sweetly scented steam was still wafting into the bedroom. Below the imperative odor of cooking meat, I smelled her soap, her shampoo – and I could make out a glimpse of the towel she'd dropped on the floor.
C major. I could already hear the flutes…or…no. Clarinets. Better it should be clarinets. Yes, clarinets first. Maybe flutes – or even piccolos – later. The music would waft in softly, so that listeners would barely notice it had begun…
Not for months had the music come so clearly to me. With a superhuman effort, I dragged my attention back to the matter at hand. After nearly a year's absence, Christine was home. I wanted to see her and hold her. To do that, I had to make it to the kitchen.
One does not want one's kitchen next to one's bedroom. Who wants to sleep all night smelling stale cooking? Neither does one want to trek across the entire house for one's morning coffee. My design put the kitchen two hallways down from the master bedroom. I felt certain that once I reached the hallways, I would be able to lean on the wall for support. It was getting from the bed to the hall that presented the greatest challenge.
I swung my wasted legs over the side of the bed and slid down until they met the thick carpet. It was a matter of courage, then, to make them bear my weight. As expected they, and the whole of my body, protested at the unwonted exercise. I stood for a moment, gaining my balance. It felt as though the air and light were weighing me down. For a man who used to climb theatre rigging like a sailor, this was an entirely humbling experience. Finally, I felt as though I might risk a step. It went better than expected, so I took another. My knees buckled and I nearly fell. Only the nearby dresser saved me. Doubtless, if I fell I would not get up until someone came to save me. That idea nearly froze me in place.
Soon enough, hunger and desire joined forces to move me on my way. Triumphantly, I gained the hallway. Halfway to the kitchen, I realized that I'd left my mask behind. It was sitting uselessly on the self-same dresser that had saved me from a fall. Oh, the irony.
The sound of rattling dishes and silver informed me that breakfast was being served. I had to move as quickly to avoid meeting my beloved half-way. There was certainly no time for mask-retrieval, and even if there had been, I did not have the strength. I accepted the return of my self-consciousness and forced myself forward.
My tiny reserve of strength was quickly waning, but the wall provided the support I needed to keep rolling forward, however unsteadily. I stumbled through the archway just as Christine lifted the tray. She turned, saw me, and abruptly returned the tray to the counter with a nerve-wracking crash. Orange juice splashed on the tiled counter and dripped to the floor.
"What do you think you're doing?" she exclaimed, at the exact moment I blurted, "Do you honestly intend to marry me?"
"Not if you kill yourself first," she snapped, and then she was hurrying across the room, wrapping her arm around my waist and helping me to a chair. I hated my weakness, but sitting down felt wonderful.
"But if I don't?"
"If you don't, then yes."
"Good. Is that bacon?"
Christine rolled her eyes, then began to clean up the spill. "It's turkey bacon. It's better for you – besides, hog farms are terrible polluters." She brought two plates to the table and let me inspect the oddly colored strips of meat beside the heaps of eggs. "Nadir says you are still too weak to take much food, but I figured you could always stop when you were finished."
I took a bite and found the turkey bacon to be palatable.
"It is good that you've come back," I muttered between bites. "I need staff paper and pencils."
"Nice to know I'm still useful…" Her tone drew my attention, but no hint of sarcasm showed on her pretty features. There was egg on her face…but only in the literal sense. "I'll go down and get some for you right after breakfast. Nadir will be here soon to make sure you don't kill yourself wandering about the house."
"Christine…"
"Mmm?"
"I missed you."
"I missed you, too."
She stood calmly, carried her plate to the trashcan, scraped the remnants of her breakfast, carried it to the sink, rinsed it, washed it, dried it, and carefully returned it to the cabinet.
Then she ran to my side and enveloped me in a desperate, clinging hug. Her face was pressed against my neck; I could feel her tears wetting the skin there. Her shoulders were shaking and her arms kept tightening convulsively around me.
I was startled…no…I was amazed – and I was more than a little alarmed.
"Don't cry…" I stammered. "Don't cry, Christine…Please?"
But she went on like that for five full minutes. Slowly the storm tapered off to sniffles and gasps. She released me and reached for a napkin, with which she dried her tears and blew her nose. When her face was dry and her breathing composed she hugged me again, this time with the gentleness I was used to.
She pressed her cheek to mine and whispered fiercely, "Don't you ever leave me, Erik. Ever"
And I said the only thing I could think of, which was, "If you won't, I won't."
Christine stood and nodded – then headed for the door.
"Where…" I began.
"Staff paper. Pencils." She was smiling a little now. I felt as though I'd weathered a terrible storm and was just seeing the first rays of sunshine.
"Did you say Nadir was coming?"
"Any minute now."
"Would you bring my mask?"
I expected an argument, but got none. Christine either understood, or she had simply picked and won her battle for the day. She retrieved my mask and then went in searching of my composing tools. I sat in my chair, well-fed and quietly contemplative. The truth was that every time Christine won a battle with me, I seemed to win, too.
