I'm jarred awake by a loud thump. My eyes pop open, and there's Delia, lying on the floor at my feet. For an instant, I'm frozen to my chair, to horrified to move.
Oh God, she did it. She killed herself.
The rush of blood from my frantically pounding heart then shocks me fully awake, and I drop to my knees beside her.
"Delia? Oh God, Delia!" I shake her shoulder roughly. "Answer me!"
Damn it, Delia, if you've done something stupid like kill yourself, I'm never going to forgive you for as long as I live. And I'll never forgive myself for not being able to stop you.
No response. I dig my fingers into her neck and relax upon locating her pulse.
She's still alive, thank God.
A closer examination leads me to the conclusion that she must've tried to get out of bed and either fainted or hit her head when she fell.
She begins to stir, and I gently shake her shoulder once more. "Delia? Delia, can you hear me?"
Her eyes slowly open. "What…what happened?"
I then proceed to give her the third degree for scaring me half to death. I know that I shouldn't be so harsh with her, but damn it, I'm tired and the shock of thinking that she was dead has nearly caused me to have a heart attack. My pulse rate still hasn't returned to normal yet.
What in the world was she thinking, trying to get out of bed in her condition, I fume as I head downstairs to get her something to eat.
As I put the teakettle on the stove, the phone rings. "Hello?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought this was the Ketchum residence," apologizes Officer Jenny as she appears on the videophone's screen.
"No, this is the Ketchum residence," I reply while I place two slices of bread in the toaster. "Mrs. Ketchum is resting right now. Can I help you?"
"I just wanted to let her know that we're planning a memorial service tomorrow for her son and the other people that died aboard the St. Anne. A police boat will be departing from the Vermilion City Port tomorrow at eleven AM to take the victims' family members out to the spot where the ship sank. Then everyone can mourn their loved ones or leave memorials."
The toast is done and I start spreading strawberry jam on it. "How many other people died aboard the St. Anne, Officer Jenny?"
"Five people and their Pokémon. Ash Ketchum, Misty Waterflower, Brock Slate, James Morgan, and Jessie Rochester."
"I know the first three, but who were the other two?"
"Apparently they were members of Team Rocket, but that's all we know. Anyway, please give Mrs. Ketchum my message when she wakes up."
"I will. And thank you for calling, Officer Jenny."
I pour a cup of hot tea, place it on the tray next to the toast, and head back upstairs. At least Delia has taken my advice -- either that, or else I scared her into submission -- and is lying quietly in bed when I return.
My anger abates when she takes a sip of her tea. Her willingness to eat is a good sign – she's not so despondent that she's going to try to starve herself to death.
But when I mention that she ought to get in touch with Ash's father, she goes pale and I fear that she may faint once more. Needless to say, I'm stunned by her revelation that she used to be a member of Team Rocket and that Ash's biological father is none other than the head of Team Rocket himself, Giovanni. But I'm also touched that she trusted me enough to share her secret with me.
Delia urges me to go home and take care of my Pokémon, but I'm not entirely certain that I should leave her alone just yet. But she insists that she's feeling better and pushes me toward the bed, insisting that I take a nap. Too tired to resist, I lie down on the bed and fall asleep in a matter of seconds.
---
I awake nearly two hours later. My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven't had breakfast, or much of anything else in the way of food, in the last twenty-four hours. I head downstairs to the kitchen and hear the sound of weeping. Delia, who's holding what appears to be a toy Kangaskhan, is sobbing on the couch in the living room.
"Oh, Delia." I sit down next to her and take her in my arms.
"Look. A mama and her baby," she sniffs, showing me the toy.
I hold her close as she cries once more. And my heart breaks for mother who no longer has a child to care for.
After Delia falls asleep, I quietly make my way into the kitchen. The neighbors have been more than generous, and there's no lack of food in the refrigerator -- the problem is deciding what to eat first. I reach for a slice of apple pie, and there's a knock at the back door. The visitor is Mrs. Farmington, who used to be Ash's kindergarten teacher. I gratefully accept the still-warm lasagna and tell her to stop by again later when Delia's awake and feeling better. I select several other dishes from the refrigerator and begin eating in earnest.
Delia wakes up a little while later and proceeds to devour a huge helping of lasagna, which does my heart good. And as we do the dishes, she almost seems like her old self again. She even insists that I go home and get cleaned up.
I'm reluctant to leave her. She may be stronger physically from having eaten, but she's still emotionally frail. Nevertheless, I know I don't smell too good and probably don't look much better, either. The prospect of a hot shower and shave is definitely appealing.
As I step out the door, I reach up and gently touch her cheek, which now has some color again. "I'll call you later to see how you're doing. And don't hesitate to call me – no matter what the time – if you need anything."
After I get cleaned up, I check in with my lab assistants. They're all worried about Delia, but assure me that everything in the lab ran smoothly during my absence. I pick up a draft of my latest research paper, but I can't concentrate on making the necessary edits because my thoughts keep drifting back to Delia. After ten minutes of reading the same sentence over and over, I throw down the stack of papers on my desk.
"Foster," I call out to my senior research assistant as I head for the door, "keep everyone in line until I get back. I'm going back to Mrs. Ketchum's place."
I'm at her front door in less than five minutes. When she opens the door, I notice that she's been crying again – her eyes are red.
"It's just…it's too quiet," she admits.
And then I know that I've made the right decision by returning. I make myself a bed on the couch and tell Delia that she needs to get some sleep too. When she doubts that she'll be able to since all she's done is sleep for the last twenty-four hours, I offer her one of the sedatives. But as she reaches for the entire bottle, I snatch it away. Yesterday's events are still all too clear in my mind.
But Delia assures me that she's not going to try to overdose on the medication. Reluctantly, I hand her the bottle. After reading the label, she hands the bottle back to me. "I'll see if I can get by without these tonight."
"Remember, if you need me for anything at all, don't hesitate to come down here and wake me, all right?"
"Thanks. Well, I guess I'd better head upstairs."
And as she looks at me with those red-rimmed eyes of hers, I want so badly to follow her upstairs. I want to hold her, comfort her, take away her pain. But I can tell that she's not ready for that, so I back off. "Good night, then."
I watch her go upstairs, then settle myself on the couch. I turn on the television, but after scanning through all the channels several times, I come to the obvious conclusion that there's nothing worth watching. I turn off the television and wander over to the bookcase on the opposite wall. I scan through the titles until, to my surprise, I come to a book of poetry.
I didn't know Delia was fond of poetry, I wonder as I thumb through the slim volume. I've always enjoyed poetry – I even write some myself, although it's not very good. I return to my spot on the couch and lose myself in the words of Tennyson, Byron, and Whitman.
A creak on the stairs causes me to look up. "Delia. Are you all right?"
"I couldn't sleep," she admits as she sits down in the chair next to the couch. And she looks it. "I thought I'd try one of the sleeping pills."
While she goes into the kitchen to get a glass of water, I attempt to read the label on the pill bottle. Damned eyes of mine – guess I do need to make an appointment for bifocals. I squint until I make out enough of the fine print to read "side effects: difficulty breathing, severe drop in blood pressure, arrhythmia…"
And then I panic. Yes, I know that the odds of something bad happening are rare, but considering the extreme physical and emotional stress Delia's been through the last twenty-four hours, I start to worry. When she returns, I immediately offer to stay with her until she falls asleep. She gives me a strange look, but then I quickly add that it's because I want to make sure she doesn't have a reaction to the pill.
She agrees and we head upstairs. Delia curls up on the bed, and I settle myself in the chair next to her. For a few moments, we say nothing. Then our eyes meet and a look of mutual longing passes between us.
"Samuel, could you…could you just hold me for a little while?"
Oh Delia, all I want to do right now is hold you. I'll do anything to take away the pain you're going through right now.
"Certainly." I lie down next to her and wrap my arm around her waist. She snuggles against me, and I bury my nose in her jasmine-scented hair. I close my eyes and savor the sensation of having her soft, warm body against mine. It's been a long time since I've held a woman like this.
Her voice snaps me out of my reverie. "Do you think Ash had someone to hold him like this?"
I open my eyes. "Hmm?"
"Do you think Ash had someone to hold him like this? Do you think he was scared when…when…?"
I immediately feel guilty for having the thoughts I had about her a moment ago. My purpose here is to make Delia feel better, not me.
"Ash was with his friends," I reassure her as I slowly stroke her hair. "I think he had some comfort in that."
"I wish…I wish I could've been there with him. Sometimes I wish that I had never let him go on his Pokémon journey."
"Delia, more than anything Ash wanted to be a Pokémon trainer. You had to let him go."
"But…but if I hadn't, then maybe…maybe…"
She starts crying again, and I draw her closer to me. "Delia, you can't blame yourself for what happened to Ash. It's not your fault. If anything, you should blame me for giving Ash his first Pokémon and sending him off on his journey in the first place." That thought has crossed my mind several times during the past twenty-four hours – that I'm really the one responsible for Ash's death. And I'm surprised that Delia doesn't hate me for it. But maybe she hasn't considered it…until now.
She rolls over, and I brace myself for her anger. But to my surprise, her eyes are sympathetic. "It's not your fault, Samuel."
A wave of relief and gratitude sweeps over me. Thank you, Delia.
"I guess Ash would've gone off to be a Pokémon trainer no matter what either one of us did," she concludes.
"That's right, Delia. So you can't blame yourself for what happened." And thank you for not blaming me.
She yawns. "The pill must be starting to work." She closes her eyes and settles back on her pillow while I continue to stroke her hair.
"That's it, Delia. Just relax now. I'll stay right here with you." She presses herself closer to me. I continue to lightly run my hand over her hair for a few moments more. She sighs softly, and I feel her relax against me. Certain that she's asleep now, I lean over and kiss her tenderly on the cheek…something I've been wanting to do for a long, long time. I close my eyes and nestle my cheek against her hair. My breathing slows until the two of us are breathing in unison. We are connected, she and I. We are in perfect synchrony. We are as one.
And with that thought, I drift off into a peaceful slumber.
To be continued…