«No, no, my dear. Just rest.» He pressed me back. He'd put a cushion under my head. I was lying on a carpet. Indigo and brown. There was a name for that kind of carpet but I couldn't remember it. Expensive carpet but not comfortable. I turned my head. There was a pair of red Turkish slippers underneath the desk. That seemed funny, but I felt too weak to laugh. I shifted my gaze. He was kneeling beside me. What was his name? May-something. Mayhew? Mayfield. Roman Mayfield. He wore the expression I had come to dread: that horrible mix of pity and alarm. I couldn't deal with it.
He stroked my hair back, quite gently. «Have you ever had a seizure before, my dear?» I affirmed. Closed my eyes. I just wanted to sleep. «You're…epileptic, is that it?» I nodded, not bothering to lift my weighted lids. «That's all right then.»
It is? Not really. He was taking it pretty well, though, considering. Poor old guy. I was glad he wasn't too frightened. I knew exactly what he'd seen. I'd had it described to me in detail a couple of times, and it frightened most people. It frightened me. I'd go stiff as a
board, tip over, eyes rolling back in my head, my eyelashes fluttering, and I'd tremble violently for three to four minutes. Then it would stop and I'd gradually come round.
So far I hadn't pissed myself or thrown up, which was something to be grateful for, but I couldn't seem to shake it off like a lot of people did. I'd read about patients who had a seizure and five minutes later were back at work – or out to the theater with friends. The epilepsy poster children.
I couldn't do that. I was exhausted and strung out afterwards. At least I'd stopped crying. That was something else to be grateful for, because at first I couldn't help it. Every time it was over, I'd cry. I don't even know why. It's not like it hurt during a seizure –unless I fell on something hard, furniture or a wall – I wasn't even conscious during the seizure. The crying was as humiliating as the seizure, but that was mostly under control now. Mostly. What was harder to control was my desire to be held – because the last thing anyone wanted to do was hold someone who'd just had a seizure. The weird thing was I didn't even like being held usually. I was never big on cuddling. But after a seizure I just wanted the reassurance of someone's arms around me. It was beyond embarrassing. It was mortifying.
The worst time was the night with Jack. Too little sleep, too much to drink, and whammo. After a night of fooling and fucking, I'd seized, right there in Jack's bed, waking him out of a deep sleep to…everything I'd prefer not think about. He was good about it –knew exactly what to do, moving me into recovery position, talking to me, stroking my back. When I'd asked him to hold me, he'd taken me into his arms without hesitation and cradled me until I fell asleep.
It wasn't until we'd talked later that I'd realized how disgusted and angry he was.
And that was the end of me and Jack. The memory of it was still sharp and painful enough that it dispersed my lethargy, and I opened my eyes.
Roman Mayfield was sitting cross-legged beside me. One of his hands rested on my head and the other was resting on his knee, fingers extended, thumb and forefinger joined to make a circle. His eyes were closed; he appeared to be meditating. Like this all wasn't weird enough? When I moved, his eyes flew open and he smiled at me. «Better now?» «Sorry about that,» I mumbled.
«There's nothing to be sorry for.» He crawled out of the way as I sat up and then pushed onto all fours. From there I used the edge of his desk to pull myself up. Mayfield did the same, rising stiffly to his feet. I heard his knees pop. Maybe someday this would be funny. I couldn't imagine it, but maybe. About a million years from now. I raked a hand through my hair, put shaky hands to my tie. «Would you like to lie down?» he asked. I laughed unsteadily. «I think I already did.»
«I mean, have a real sleep.» Those weirdly colored eyes met mine, and I could see that he was sincere in his offer; I thought he had to be one of the kindest people I'd ever met, even if he was a little screwy.
I said, «Thanks. I think I should be going.» The thought of getting myself out of there, walking back to the bus stop, and the long bus ride was almost overwhelming. I needed to go while I still could. «Would it be all right if I contacted you with any questions?» I was afraid to ask for another interview.
«Of course.» He gave me an oddly intent look. «I think perhaps we should reschedule, shouldn't we?» I nodded. Fumbled my tape recorder into my pocket. «Now sit down and relax for a moment. I'll have my car brought around.»
I protested, but he insisted – and he had a lot more energy than I did – so in the end, I was dropped off in front of my apartment building by Roman Mayfield's white limousine.
Jack must have had the day off because he was swimming in the deserted pool as I wearily passed the courtyard on the way to my apartment. I deliberately ignored the sight of his lean brown body cutting through the aqua water, glistening powerful arms dipping slow and steady in perfect rhythm with the strong kick of his long, tanned legs. I was going to have to work on my ignoring technique. I was unlocking my door when I heard him call my name. «Tim!»
Unwillingly, I turned in time to see him hoist himself out of the pool, water raining down on the pavement.
He came toward me, unself-consciously straightening his red swim trunks. «I've got some news.»
«Great.» I pushed my door open, practically weak-kneed with the relief of being home at last. Sanctuary. «I'll talk to you later, okay?»
He caught the door before it shut on him, just as he had done the other night. The easy friendliness of his face changed. «Hey. Tim, is there some reason why we can't be friends?» It was spoken in the same tone that cops ask Is there a problem here?
And, yeah, there was a problem. The problem was that he was standing too close to me and he smelled of chlorine and bare skin, and I could remember only too clearly the smooth supple texture of that skin, and the salty taste of it, and how it felt to rest my face against it and listen to his heartbeat.
«No,» I said shortly. «No reason. But I'm not feeling too hot right now, so later, okay?»
«Are you all right?» His gray eyes scanned my face with apparent concern – and I lost it. «Like you fucking care?» I replied. «Don't worry. It's not your problem.»
I didn't shout or anything, I didn't even say it loudly, but Jack's eyes narrowed. He glanced around like he thought someone might overhear us, and then he pushed open my door, forcing me back as he stepped inside my apartment.
«Wait. A. Minute.» He snapped each word out. «You're the one who withheld information. So don't give me some snotty attitude like I'm not sympathetic to your situation.»
«'Withheld information'? What, were we on stakeout together? You have no idea what my situation is.» And just like that, I was in his face, yelling.
Jack paled, his lips folding in the way they did when he didn't like something. His eyes looked black. He yelled back, «You know what I mean. You should have told me you're epileptic!»
He was always so controlled; his answering anger caught me off guard. More calmly, I asked, «On the fourth date? Would there have been a fifth date?»
«I don't know. But I do know you should have told me before we spent the night together.»
«Sorry I'm not up on epileptic etiquette,» I said bitterly. «It's still kind of new to me.»
I watched the anger dissipate from his face and body. «I know. I remember. The accident was eighteen months ago. Look, Tim, it's not the seizures, okay? You should have been up front with me, but –«
«Can we not do this now?» I interrupted, dropping down on the sofa. My adrenaline-fueled burst of energy was long gone. I said tiredly, «I should have told you. I know. And I know it wasn't working between us anyway.»