Trying to Make Things Better

After that round of activity and some white soda Sarah Jean felt better enough that she let me move her to the bed. By the time I had her tucked in, safe and sound, Ms. Romero returned with silky pajamas and the offer of assisting Sarah Jean with the process of changing into them if I was not competent enough to do so myself. Now comfortable and reclined, she politely turned down this offer. Ms. Romero cooed warmly over Sarah Jean, offering to leave them behind in the event that she changed her mind.

While her manner over Sarah Jean was apologetic but normal, her expression upon turning away was sad and wracked with guilt. I watched this pain from my position curled up in the comfy chair in the corner that I had taken as my own. As I observed her, I decided enough was enough. Before Ms. Romero could leave the room, I rose in order to thank her for the offer, as well as the non-alcoholic beverages she had brought us in order to rehydrate Sarah Jean. My kind words were taken as the forgiveness they were mean to be and were responded to with a big hug of thanks. I don't know what I've done to deserve her friendship or that of her husband but they seem to mean well enough, even if they show it in strange ways.

With the mood thusly lightened and Ms. Romero once again departed, I decided I'd check on Sarah Jean. Coherency and control were returning to her in small stages. Carefully I brushed a piece of hair from her face. “Need anything while I'm up? More water maybe?” She moaned and turned away from me. “Something wrong?” I asked the question before I could really think about it. It was a dumb question in a lot of ways. I knew something was wrong, she obviously was in a great deal of physical discomfort, but what I wanted to know was more specific to this action on her part. I was tired. This was made more clear by my equally simple follow-up question. “How can I help?”

She responded but these words were lost in the pillow. My request for repetition just made things worse. Pain in her voice, she directed “Don't look at me.”

I was confused. I sat on the edge of the bed and leaned towards her, causing her to bury herself further into the pillow. “Why not?” I innocently asked.

“I look hideous,” was her explanation.

This made no sense to me. “You look fine to me.”

“I do not,” she protested, the sound of tears appearing in her voice. She sniffed, mucus bubbling in her nasal passages. “My makeup's all over the place and I'm all snotty and just leave me alone.”

I tried to rest a reassuring hand on her shoulder but she shrugged it off. For a moment I sat there watching her bury herself in a pillow in the center of this large bed, almost out of my reach. Her red hair may have been wild and scattered, but it still glowed and glistened in the light. Learning in, I tried to touch her again bit as soon as my fingers contacted her, she flinched again to remove me, muttering as she did so.

Eventually I can take a hint. She wanted me to leave her alone. “Okay. Fine. Sleep well. Feel better.” I stood up to return to my comfy chair and there paused. “As you sleep, take this thought with you. I watched you be sick and I still think you're beautiful.” Quickly I leaned in and kissed her on the back of the head. Got hair in my mouth and everything. That done, I could head to the chair in peace, departing from that goal only to dim the lights.

Curling up in my comfy chair, I found that it reclined, quite the bonus. As I leaned back, I hoped that she would fall asleep before me as I'm told I snore a bit. “Patrick?” I grunted my response to Sarah Jean's request. “Thank you.” I muttered back a tired “Welcome” in response. It was a particularly comfy chair.