Chapter 2

‘Hey.’

He opens his eyes, squints at her for a moment, puzzled, then gives her a half smile. And she breathes; he’s lucid again, and he isn’t telling her to leave. Yet.

‘Um... why don’t you change out of your work clothes, Jim? You look kind of uncomfortable.’ Uncomfortable doesn’t cover it: his hair is wet through and the bits of his shirt she can see are also wet through. It looks like he’s made a failed attempt to take it off; it’s half-unbuttoned, but held in place by his tie which he’s only managed to yank into a tight knot.  

She puts her hands in the back pockets of her jeans to stop herself fiddling with them. ‘I’ll go and call Abi... see if she thinks you need to see a doctor. If that’s okay?’

He’s calmed down for now, but he’s been delirious on and off since she got here and she doesn’t know if this is normal, or if there’s something she should be doing... or if she needs to get help from someone who actually knows what they’re doing. She’s never had to deal with anything like this before and she’s worried about him... he’ll drift off for a while then, out of nowhere, he’s suddenly frantic. Veering between shouting at something or someone he thinks is in the room. Babbling nonsense at her.

Calling for her by name.

A few times he’s tried to haul himself out of bed, but she’s spoken to him... tried her best to sound calm and gentle and not panicked—which is how she actually feels. To her amazement, each time he’s just nodded and lain down again. Thankfully! Because he’s way too big for her to stop if he starts heading for the stairs or trying to get outside. She’ll feel better when she’s talked it through with a doctor.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Thanks.’

So she goes downstairs to the lobby where she’d dropped her purse on the floor and pulls out his address book. She’d grabbed it from his desk before she left the office, along with his satchel and scarf and gloves, all abandoned when he trooped out miserably this morning.

When she’d suggested contacting Abi to Karen, she’d asked her if she wouldn’t rather make the call herself. ‘You’ll know her better than me,’ she told her. She’d hesitated before she replied, ‘No... it’s okay. Probably best if you do it... if you’re going to be here with him.’

She finds his brother’s number. She’s only met him once, but he seemed friendly... open. Easy-going. She doesn’t think he’ll mind her bothering them, but it doesn’t make her any less nervous. She doesn’t know what he’s told his family.

‘Hi... Pete? It’s Pam... from Jim’s work?’

‘Hi, Pam.’ He sounds surprised.

‘Um... I wonder if you could you give me a number for Abi... or maybe you could speak to her yourself? I’m at Jim’s apartment with him. And he’s sick... maybe a virus or something? I’m a bit worried about him. I... uh, I need some advice.’

‘Oh my god... don’t tell me he’s hallucinating again?’ He chuckles. ‘He used to do that every time he got sick when he was young. Right into high school. Has he done the one with the snowman? Make sure you ask him what happened with him and the snowman...’

‘I don’t know, I...’

‘Sorry, Pam,’ he adds, with warmth. ‘I’m forgetting my manners. How are you?’

‘I’m fine, thanks... just a bit worried... he doesn’t look great...’

‘Oh, yeah... actually, you’re in luck. Abi’s just dropped in... I’ll pass you over to her. It’s good of you to do this, Pam,’ he adds. ‘I’m sure he appreciates you being there.’ And she’s surely imagining the emphasis on the you? Post-Stamford Jim would surely rather she quietly slipped off the face of the earth. Weeping. Because she knows there’s some spite tied up in his two months of pretending they barely know each other.

‘Oh, hey Pam. Good to hear from you! How can I help?’ Abi sounds warm and friendly and genuine, and she relaxes.

She’d met her once, when she and Pete came to the office to pick Jim up for some family event. She had a mop of glossy dark curls, a huge smile, and she was bubbling over with infectious enthusiasm. Pam had been immediately drawn to both of them.

She tells her what Karen told her in their awkward exchange at the front door; it came on really suddenly... he had fever and chills... he said his joints ached and his head really hurt. And in his delirium he was making demands, which included a bizarre but urgent request to be looked after by the ‘best friend’ he’s been shunning for the past two months. Although that’s not quite how Karen put it to her, or how she puts it to Abi.

‘Right... you’ve said he’s had Tylenol?’ his sister-in-law asks.

‘About an hour ago, Karen said? I don’t know if it’s helping or not... he’s mainly been asleep or hallucinating since I got here. He doesn’t look great.’

‘Okay... from what you’ve said, it sounds like he probably has flu. Do you know if he had a flu shot this year?’

‘Uh... no. I couldn’t say. I have, though, so that’s not a problem.’’

‘Great. So, obviously I can’t make a proper diagnosis without seeing him, but the symptoms are consistent with that. Fever-induced hallucinations aren’t so common in adults and, normally, I’d be more concerned, but given his history—which they still rib him about, by the way!—maybe it makes sense. Also... he seems kind of... strung out since he came back?’

She pauses, as if she’s waiting for Pam to share. To agree that he isn’t himself... that, yes, he’s lost some weight and sometimes it looks like his will to live has dripped away along with his physical substance. And that often when he appears happy, he looks like he’s acting. But she’s probably just projecting.

‘So... perhaps that’s a factor,’ Abi eventually adds when she says absolutely none of that out loud. ‘Do you have a pen and paper?’

‘Hang on...’ she fumbles in her purse for her notepad and a pen. ‘Right. Got them.’

‘Okay... he shouldn’t need to see a doctor. Rest, pain relief and making sure he’s taking in fluids should be enough, but just in case, I’m going to give you a list of symptoms to look out for. If you see any of these, you’ll need to get him seen. He probably still has the same doctor as his parents and us guys. I can give you the number... are you ready?’

‘Yes, I’m ready.’

She faithfully notes down the number and Abi’s list of warning signs and other instructions and puts an asterisk beside the ‘get him to hospital’ ones.

‘Okay, I’ve got that.’

‘Great, Pam. You sound like you’re on top of things, but call any time if you need advice, and definitely call if there’s any change for the worse. I guess I should also say... if you’d rather, one of us can come and take over instead?’

‘Um... I think I’m fine, but yes... thanks. I’ll call if I’m worried. It’s... well, it’s good to know you’re there... I don’t have a lot of experience... actually any experience with this kind of thing.’

‘It sounds like you’re doing just fine, Pam. I think Jim will be really glad you’re there with him.’

The cynical snort is just in her head, she hopes.

‘Okay... so flu can make you feel really, really bad. Here’s some suggestions to make him more comfortable...’

***

‘Abi says it might make you feel a bit better if I wipe down your top half with a wet cloth.’ She can’t keep the scepticism out of her voice.  ‘Is that okay?’

He doesn’t look up at her. He just lays there, looking bedraggled. Broken. Like something that’s been washed up on the beach in a storm. The only sign of life in him is his breathing, which is still heavy after his panicked rant about a big black box in the bathroom that someone is hiding in (there isn’t. She’s checked.)

In his agitation, he’d pulled the sheet down to the hem of his boxer shorts and his exposed upper body is glistening with sweat... and this is way more Jim than she’s ever seen before. Her heart is banging hard in her chest while she waits for him to give a derisive chuckle and say, ‘You must be joking.’

But he doesn’t. ‘Thanks,’ he says, quietly.

So she slips out to the bathroom, and returns with a small washbasin she found under the sink, filled with lukewarm water. Plus a bath towel and face cloth she picked up from a pile on the bathroom floor that looks freshly laundered.

‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’ she asks him, still unsure. She can’t believe he’s actually letting her do this. Or that Abi suggested it. Or that she’s actually doing it.

‘Mm.’

So she sits on his bed beside him and moves the lamp out of the way so she can sit the basin on the nightstand. She takes a deep breath and tucks the towel around his head and shoulders—for all the difference it’s going to make because everything’s already damp anyway. She dips the cloth in the bowl and squeezes out the excess water. Her heart is hammering in her chest and her ears and her throat as she folds the terry cotton square and tentatively wipes his brow, then gently smooths a wet lock of hair off his face.

Then she stops, still waiting for him to come to his senses. Giving him time. Still waiting for him to snarl at her that she must be out of her mind.

‘Cold water would feel better,’ he says instead.

‘Abi said not to. About it being counter-productive or something.’

He nods, then squeezes his eyes shut and grimaces, like it hurts to move his head.

‘Are you sore?’

‘Yeah.’ He sighs. ‘My head hurts. And everything else.’

‘Have the tablets helped?’

‘A bit. Yeah.’ She almost laughs—she can’t imagine what worse than this would have looked like, so she figures he’s just saying what he thinks is expected of him, trying to be agreeable.

‘Good. Okay... let me know if you want me to stop... I’m not hurting you?’ she asks, still uncertain.

‘No. It helps. Thanks.’

Neither of them speak after that and the only sounds breaking the silence in the room are his still slightly laboured breathing and the gentle rub of the cloth on his skin. This is unbearably intimate. And awkward. They’ve been barely talking for the past two months. Nine months. She can’t believe he isn’t slapping her hand away.

But instead his breathing gradually calms, and she can see his muscles slowly starting to relax.

That gives her some courage and a tiny glimmer of hope... that she can still have that effect on him. Any effect. It warms her. Encourages her to keep going.

Until he’s well enough to remember that he hates her now, it feels a bit like those months never happened. In all this time, she hasn’t been able to tell him how she feels, or how sorry she is about the catastrophically bad choice she made in a moment of hot panic last May, but she can do this for him.

So, with more confidence, she dips the cloth back in the bowl, squeezes it and tenderly wipes his face. She leaves the moisture to air-dry like she’s been told.

Then she slowly works her way down his neck, laying the cloth over him then gently smoothing it against his heated flesh, then rinsing and squeezing again.

Over his shoulders, over the firm flesh of his biceps, down his forearms, hands, fingers, and again on the other side. Rinsing and squeezing and soothing. She turns his hand to find his palm, and the underside of his wrist, his pulse. He’s still lying there silently. Still not telling her to stop.

Each time she touches the soaked cloth against his overheated body, there’s a featherlight, ‘I’m sorry,’ in her fingertips.

A ‘forgive me.’

A fervent, ‘please, Jim?’

Over and over.

She finally drapes the square of cotton over the contours of his chest and she can feel his heart beating under her palm. She wills months upon painful months of pent-up emotion to flow through the lightest touch of her fingers. ‘You were right all along, Jim,’ she’s telling him with her hands.

His eyes have stayed closed throughout, but she hopes he can sense what she’s trying to tell him. She doesn’t know how else to get through to him.

When she’s finished, she drops the face cloth back in the bowl and surveys her work. He isn’t sleeping, she doesn’t think. But he’s calm, breathing steadily and she thinks he’s a little bit cooler.

‘Thanks, Pam,’ she hears him murmur.

She pulls the desk chair over to his bedside, and she sits there quietly for a while. The winter afternoon sky is darkening now, but she doesn’t want to risk disturbing him again by switching on his bedside lamp, so she just sits in silence.

He’s so still. Normally he’s buzzing with pent up energy. Tapping, fidgeting, drumming his fingers. Whatever’s wrong with him has sucked all of that electricity out of him and left him drained.

That’s probably why he still hasn’t asked why she’s here. And why he doesn’t seem to mind, because just as sick Jim’s subconscious seems to have forgotten he doesn’t need her anymore, the conscious version seems to have forgotten he’s evolved.

‘Are you sure he meant me?’ she’d asked a tense-looking Karen, who opened the door with her coat on and her car keys already in hand.

Because during the drive here, the spark of joy and optimism that had flamed in her at the news that out-of-it Jim was asking for her had fizzled out as doubt crept in.

What’s she doing here? You thought I meant Pam from the office? Seriously??

‘Does he know any other Pams?’ Karen had asked, and she saw a flicker of hope in her eyes. Did she know their history? It’s never looked like it. But she finds it hard to figure out their relationship. Sometimes she thinks the distance she senses between them is just him trying to protect her feelings. Then she remembers that Jim’s not behaving like someone who has any interest in her feelings. Other than seeing them stomped into the dirt, perhaps.

‘Um... not that he’s ever mentioned.’

‘Oh. Okay then.’ Karen gave her a half smile and gestured at the door with her keys. ‘So...  I’d better...’

‘Pam?! Who’s there?’

She’d looked toward the stairs, uncertain what to do.

‘Pam!’ he yelled. He sounded desperate. She stood there awkwardly, and she realised she was waiting for permission. She was still clutching her bags, because putting them down... well, it would have looked kind of territorial. Like planting a flag. Like...  ‘I’m here now. You can leave.’

Karen had looked down at her shoes and crossed her arms even more tightly round her ribs. ‘Okay. I’d better go,’ she said. ‘I’d stay, but I’ve got a client meeting I thought I was going to have to cancel. And then this evening...’  She shrugged and made a kind of what can you do? gesture with her hands. She looked uncomfortable, like she’d rather be anywhere else.

‘Oh, yeah. Of course. On you go... I’ll be fine. I’ll call and let you know how he’s getting on.’

As soon as the door was closed behind Karen, she dropped her bags on the floor and rushed upstairs. When she saw him lying there, still in his soaking wet dress shirt and tie, wet fringe stuck to his forehead, panic in his eyes... her heart had lurched. He looked dreadful. Vulnerable. She moved towards his bedside, then stopped short.

‘I’m here, Jim,’ she’d said, cautiously. She couldn’t tell if he could hear her or not. She’s no nurse and she had absolutely no idea how to deal with a delirious Jim, but the tug she’d felt in her chest was visceral.

Honestly, when Karen had said he was asking for her, after the initial surge of joy she could almost taste the anger rising in her throat. For a moment she’d thought about saying, ‘Tell him to suck it. Good luck.’ Because she’s been trying to tell herself regularly that he’s a jerk who doesn’t deserve her misery or devotion.

The embarrassing truth, though, is that she’s been in love for him for so long that there’s a  fossil record. She understands that now. She’s had time to sift through the rubble.

Any lingering resentment vanished as quickly as it rose. She just wants to fix him.

After a while, she’s sure he’s finally asleep. He’s still radiating heat, but he looks much more relaxed, so she goes downstairs to put some stuff in the refrigerator.

It’s absolutely not like she’s trying to set up a rival camp here—she pictures Karen turning up to find that she’s made herself at home (... rearranged the furniture... put the framed picture of her and Jim at the Dundies on the mantelpiece... changed the locks...and she needs to stop this already…). However, she has no idea why she’s really here—and his girlfriend isn’t—or for how long.

It’s not clear if she’s been put in charge of sick Jim just for the afternoon or for the duration, and she felt too awkward to ask Karen when they spoke on the phone. So on the way over, she’d made a flying visit to her apartment to change into jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. She’d grabbed some food and milk, plus pyjamas and another change of clothes. And a toothbrush and deodorant. And contact lens kit. Just in case. And the new lipstick she’d bought when she first heard he was coming back to Scranton. Oh... not because...

Actually, yes. Because. She feels herself blushing as she acknowledges how much she wants him to notice her again. Even though it’s wrong because he’s not available and she absolutely shouldn’t be going there.

It’s kind of ironic that when she finally gets her chance to spend time with him, he’s so far out of himself that he probably wouldn’t notice if she strode into his bedroom wearing nothing other than a black lace bustier and panties and high heels.

She needs to find the kitchen. She opens one door—small bathroom—then another—linen closet—and then the only other door, which takes her into the living-room and the door to the kitchen is at the back. But... oh my God...! She’s anchored to the spot in genuine shock. There’s really no other way to put this... what she sees weirds her out.

Morbid fascination eventually draws her in.

His front room couldn’t be a more obvious example of the concept of metaphor if it were a rubber ducky bobbing about on the high seas, clutching a tiny notice in its beak with ‘Lost’ scribbled across it, for the avoidance of any doubt.

Since he came back, she’s been given to wonder if he passed through some sort of portal when he entered Stamford and stepped into a parallel universe. Or stumbled upon a body-snatcher invasion at the state line. Or ingested some kind of brain-altering bacteria. Such has been the change in him. Here’s concrete evidence.

Style-wise, it’s like it’s been put together by a home designer whose spec was ‘clichéd wannabe macho corporate dude – lean heavy on the aspirational!’ But she knows he did it. With Karen. Because she’d sat at her desk in misery as she was forced to listen to them organizing dates and times for the shopping trips.

‘Have you looked at the style cards I emailed you? It’ll be a hundred times easier when we get there if you have a vision.’

‘We need to go to Philly, Jim. It’s less... suburban?’

‘Yeah—Philly’s a trek, and I know we went last week. Okay…and the week before... but look at the upside: we can make a romantic weekend of it!’

Jim apparently now spends most of his free time in furniture and homeware stores. In Philadelphia.

It has to be said that his vision is... striking? Four big, black and white photo canvases of Manhattan aggressively overpower the tiny fireplace, and everything else in the room is either black or chrome or mustard—including the walls—except for the soft furnishings in various big-cat prints (!).

Gone is the totally un-styled mish mash of things that meant something to him or had been given to him—not just by family and friends, but by people like Phyllis and Creed, for heaven’s sake—in his old house.

His new place is all stark minimalism, punctuated with a few unidentifiable ornaments (all black, and mostly somehow phallic??) which are interspersed with centred mini-piles of books. These are organised horizontally by colour and size.

It’s a tough call, but the icing on the cake might be the foot and a half tall statue of a crouching and murderous looking black panther beside the fireplace. Is it meant to be ironic?

Whatever it is, it’s not him.

And it sucks.

And it makes her angry.

And it makes her sad.

Only months ago, he’d have laughed at this fakery. When did he become this guy?

Actually... that would probably be right about the same time he became an evolved-and-moved-on, weirdly diligent, bottled-water drinking best-friend-denier. (Although... he does look good in the fitted shirts and better cut pants.)

As her brain adapts to the visual assault of his home décor, though, she can see some hopeful seeds of rebellion have been planted.

A black thrusting something-or-other has been shoved unceremoniously out of the way in favour of a picture of his grandmother grinning beside his young niece and nephew, all seated behind a birthday cake they’d obviously decorated themselves. The spine of a coffee-table book from last year’s blockbuster photography exhibition, Wild and Dangerous, is all she can see of it, because it’s groaning under a disorganised bundle of well-thumbed sports and music magazines and a week’s worth of dishevelled newspapers.

Just beside her, inside the door, there’s a big green plastic tub with carelessly tossed, well-used sports equipment and takeout menus. Here and there, there’s a worn t shirt that’s been left lying, or a dish cloth... sneakers. Frankly, it’s a bit of a mess. And there’s dust everywhere.

His refrigerator tells the same story: it’s like a close-up of planets colliding. There’s basically two types of food and drink: stuff that Jim would eat and drink, and stuff that Zombie Jim would eat and drink. Or Karen, presumably.

Certified Super Food ...  Absolutely Chock-a-block with Antioxidants!!! ...  BbbbBoost your Immunity! There’s even ‘Government Approved Vitamin Beer’ (!?!)

Healthier food is a good thing, yeah? So there’s absolutely no way she’s getting any kind of sneaky thrill out of most of the sensible stuff being unopened and out of date…

And it’s not like she’s never thought that Jim’s diet could be improved on—from what she can tell, he eats way too much takeout and processed food—but she gives a triumphant virtual high-five to a couple of take-out cartons, a half-empty jar of frankfurters, and a canister of marshmallow flavoured squirty cream.

When she removes a bag of blackened, oozing, wilted spinach to discover a half empty four-pack of grape soda, she wants to do a victory lap for him. And, you know what? He could actually do with some sugar. And fat. If he gets any thinner than he is right now, he’ll be a liability stepping over storm drains.

She puts away the milk and the food she brought, then hovers at the doorway to the front room for a moment. It’s awkward, she feels like an uninvited guest... an intruder: she’s pretty sure that delirious yelling won’t stand up in court as informed consent. If he was well enough to actually care, he’d likely be standing by the open door, holding out her coat at arm’s length and impatiently tapping his foot.

On the other hand, she doesn’t want to wake him while he’s sleeping peacefully, so she moves the few feet to the table and pulls out an irregular shaped wooden chair (both black. Obviously. Chrome legs.)

She pulls out her cellphone and there’s a text from her sister: Have you been abducted, Pam? Where tf are you?????ANSWER YOUR FREAKIN CELLPHONE!!XXXXX

She’s about to reply, but she’s irritated by the sharp pressure of the seat: it’s at a weird angle and it’s cutting off the blood supply to her left leg. Her ass is numb already…she figures that he... they probably have to eat on the couch. She takes a breath and moves over there instead, and sits down against a furry jaguar-print (she thinks? It’s maybe leopard…) cushion and picks up yesterday’s newspaper from the heap on the table.

After an hour or so of distracted reading during which she takes in precisely nothing— because she can’t stop analysing the fact that delirious Jim wants her here and conscious Jim doesn’t seem to mind either—she decides he wouldn’t grudge her a hot drink so she goes back to the kitchen to make some tea.

She tentatively opens a couple of doors and fails to be surprised that his dishes and utensils are all black—though the city slicker revolution obviously hasn’t made it upstairs yet, because there’s no sign of any ‘vision’, black-plus-wild-animals or otherwise, in his bedroom or bathroom, it occurs to her.

Eventually she finds teabags and puts on some water to boil, but she’s no sooner found where he keeps the black mugs when she hears him again.

‘Pam!’

She rushes up the stairs, alarmed at the real fear in his voice.

‘Pam! Stop the fish... there’s no more room!’ he yells as she arrives, gasping, at the door to his bedroom.

Fish?!

His eyes are darting this way and that as he rants some more about huge fish and too many fish and fish everywhere and even more fish. He’s sitting up and he’s staring wide-eyed at her. Can he really see her? She can’t tell, but she smiles reassuringly at him, just in case.

‘It’s going to be alright, Jim,’ she tells him. ‘I’m sure.’

‘We can’t fit any more, Pam... they’re huge! It’s gonna burst! Stop them!’

‘It’ll be okay, Jim.’ She doesn’t know if touching him is wise, or if it’ll freak him out even more—she should have asked Abi—but she gently places her hand on his damp one and lightly strokes his thumb. ‘Don’t worry. Really, it’s going to be okay.’

His sister-in-law had told her that this might carry on for a while yet. That doesn’t stop it being really worrying... he looks so terrorized!

But after a moment, he nods and lies down again. He gradually relaxes and his breathing returns to something like normal. He’s back. Maybe asleep again? Relieved, she sits beside him quietly for a time while her own pulse steadies.

She takes in the slightly changed shape of his face—just that bit thinner, more angular. He looks tired, older she thinks, but that’s not new. It’s kinda like...

‘Oh no!’ she gasps, and stands up. He looks up at her then closes his eyes again.

‘Don’t go,’ he says quietly.

‘I left the kettle on the stove... I’ll be right back.’ She feels bold enough now to cover his hand with hers again and she gives it a squeeze. ‘Won’t be long.’

When she gets back, his eyes are open and he gives her a half smile.

‘You okay?’ she asks.

‘Never better.’ He huffs out a laugh, and she laughs too. He’s a washed-out, sodden mess. Like he’s just run a marathon in full diving gear, wearing a backpack stuffed with rocks. In July.

‘Abi suggested you could have a lukewarm bath... if you feel up to it. Or a shower, if you think you could stand for a moment? Actually, no. Don’t.’ He is clearly not up to standing in the shower. ‘Do you have a change of bed-linen? Because I could get the bath ready for you, then change the sheets while you’re in. I could get these ones washed? And get the room freshened up.’

‘That bad?’

She grins. ‘No. But it looks pretty uncomfortable in there. And you can either lie in wet sheets in a muggy room, or I can change them and you can lie in dry sheets in a room that’s been aired. Up to you.’

‘You don’t need to do that.’

‘No. But I don’t mind. Laundry’s charged extra.’ She winks at him. ‘I’m hoping to get a spring vacation in the sun out of this.’

He huffs out a laugh. ‘You’ll have earned it. There’s sheets and stuff in the closet in the downstairs lobby. I’ll go...’

‘Nope.’ She puts her hand on his arm as he moves to get up, and she rolls her eyes at him. ‘There’s no way I’m gonna be able to haul you back up those stairs.’

He gives her a sheepish grimace. ‘Thanks, Pam. I’m sorry... I’m... God knows what’s up with me. I’ve never felt this bad before.’

‘Yeah... it looks pretty bad from here... Abi thinks you probably have flu.’ She moves toward the door, then turns. ‘So... you’re due more painkillers soon. I’ll get the bath running then I’ll get them.’

While he’s gone she changes the bed and opens the window, and stops to look out at the crisp evening. Frost is sparkling on the tree in his back yard and she breathes in the air. It smells sharp and fresh. Cleansing. But it’s freezing so she can’t keep it open for long. She doesn’t want it too cold for him.

When he’s back between fresh, dry sheets and the ones she’s taken off are in the washing dryer, he says, ‘Thanks, Pam. And sorry. Again. This must be really boring.’

‘Boring? No, not at all. I can’t get a word in edgeways.’ She grins.

‘I was talking in my sleep?’ If it’s possible, he looks even hotter and redder than he’s been since she got here.

‘Apparently you’ve got history of hallucinating when you get sick, according to your family. You’ve been delirious, off and on...’ She hesitates, not sure what to say about her surprise telephone summons this morning. ‘That’s why Karen called me. She asked if I could come.’

His eyes widen. He looks confused, so she adds, ‘Uh... you were asking for me? She said you were distressed and kind of out of it... so I guess she thought...’ She doesn’t finish. She’s probably said too much already.

‘Is she still here?’

‘No...  she had a client meeting. I can ask her to come over if you want? She should be back in the office by now.’

He pauses for a moment. ‘It’s okay. Don’t bother her.’ She hadn’t realised she’d been holding her breath until she felt it rushing out of her nose. She doesn’t want to go yet. Not when he seems happy to have her here.

‘I said I’d call later and let her know how you’re getting on.’

‘Where’s your tea?’

The change of direction throws her.

‘Tea?’

‘You were making tea.’

‘Oh. I forgot.’

‘Go get tea. I’ll live until you come back.’

‘But who’s going to save you from the fish, Jim?’

‘Fish?’

***

She’s putting off calling Karen. So she heats up some of the bolognese sauce she brought with her, and boils some pasta to go with it. Then she eats it. Then she washes the dishes. Then she checks her emails. Then she wipes down the surfaces in the kitchen. Then she takes half an hour to figure out how to work the most ridiculously complicated TV she’s ever come across. She’s about to flick through the channels when she forces herself to stop stalling, and calls the number she’d asked Karen for earlier.

‘Hi, Karen. It’s Pam.’

‘Oh…hi, Pam. Sorry, I can’t talk for long. I’m…’ She leaves it hanging. Pam doesn’t get to hear what she’s.

‘I was just calling to say Jim’s still the same. Not worse, though, I don’t think. He’s asleep just now.’ Karen says nothing. ‘His sister-in-law thinks it’s probably flu…she doesn’t think he needs to see a doctor unless he takes a turn for the worse.’

‘Oh. Right. Thanks for letting me know.’

‘That’s okay. No trouble.’

Silence.

‘Is there anything else, Pam?’

‘Um…no. That was all.’

‘Okay. Thanks again. Bye Pam.’

‘Not a problem. Bye, Karen.’

She feels kind of dismissed. Like she’d overstepped her boundaries by calling her. She’d obviously been worrying needlessly about his girlfriend turning up and evicting her, because she sounds, basically, like she doesn’t want to be bothered. She can’t figure them out at all. But she can’t let herself hope.

When she checks on Jim, he’s awake but drowsy. She brings him fresh water and painkillers and sits awhile, quietly.

By the time she’s sure he’s asleep again, it’s late. She needs to make a decision. Maybe she should go now? But when he’s delirious he’s so caught up in whatever’s going on in his head, and he’s been trying to get out of bed... and she doesn’t know how aware he is when he’s like that... whether he’ll fall downstairs? Or climb out of the window?

For whatever reason, she seems to be the person in charge here, so she needs to stay. In case he comes to harm.

She takes a shower, and she’s hyperaware of her bare body as she soaps herself in Jim’s shower stall with Jim’s shower gel and washes her hair with Jim’s shampoo. She can feel heat rising in her cheeks then spreading down her chest as she thinks about being in here, naked, in his apartment. About him being in here, naked.

She thinks about what could have been, if she hadn’t screwed it all up. Because he isn’t hers. Someone else gets to do that with him.

She tells herself to stop marinating in self-pity and turns off the shower. She wraps her wet hair in a towel and changes into her pyjamas, then collects the woollen blanket she saw in the linen cupboard earlier. There’s no spare pillow, but she has a wealth of wildcat, fluffy cushions to choose from as she beds down on the couch smelling like Jim. She goes for tiger. 

A few times during the night she hears him, either trying to get out of bed or rambling in his sleep and she rushes to his room in case he heads for the stairs or tries to shinny down the drainpipe or something. Fleeing from some kind of invasion. Jim’s subconscious brain seems to be preoccupied by two things: surreal peril and…well…her.

On one occasion, she hears his voice, loud and panicked, indecipherable. As she arrives at his bedside, he becomes quieter, less scrambled, until gradually she can make sense of what he’s muttering, over and over...

‘This mess is so big and so deep and so tall... we cannot pick it up there is no way at all... This mess is so big...’  

And that... is Jim Halpert reciting ‘The Cat in the Hat’. She can’t hold back a grin.

‘Hey,’ she assures him quietly. ‘It’s gonna be okay. We’ll pick it up together. We can fix it.’

She hopes they can.

A few times during the night, she mops down his face and neck and shoulders—basically the exposed bits—whenever the fever’s making him uncomfortable. It does seem to help, and she’s quietly thrilled that she can make a difference. She changes his sheets again at around 4 am and replaces them with the ones she laundered earlier, and she’s been making sure he’s drinking water and keeping on schedule with his painkillers.

By morning, she thinks he’s improved a bit; the delirious episodes seem to have completely stopped and she thinks he’s a bit cooler. Maybe there’s a nurse lurking within her after all! Whatever she lacks in experience, she’s happy to make up for in willingness.

She should be tired, what with all the interruptions, but looking after Jim... doing something useful for him—and apparently him wanting her to do it—has given her an energy she hasn’t felt since she learned he’d transferred to Stamford.

And she’s used to sleepless nights by now. Since last May, she’s learned a few things in the darkness of the night. She’s learned that love isn’t the fluffy, comfortable, contented, pink marshmallowy confection she was trying and failing to find with Roy.

Last May, and in the months since, she learned that she couldn’t have been more wrong. About her relationship with Roy, or about the nature of love.

By the time she’d figured that out, it was too late. She learned in the hardest way that real love, when it isn’t returned, isn’t a benign, self-satisfied fluffball of a thing.

It cuts and burns.

It’s like being stalked by pain and soul-crushing loneliness. It’s like emotional terrorism. She actually kind of hates love at the moment.

But, hey, she shouldn’t grumble: it’s been character building, after all. She’s genuinely proud of the way she’s managed to set herself up with a new life, in spite of the mess her head and her heart have been in. She’d just rather she’d had her character built without the pain.

Today, though, she going to allow herself a tiny bit of optimism. She’s not getting her hopes up, but it’s almost normal between them right now. Okay, so he’s a shadow of his usual self, but he really does seem to want her here. Even when he’s not delirious.

It’ll do for the time being.