Gretchen gave a moment of consideration to the idea of walking out the door, across the packed dirt yard to the sidewalk, and looking up and down the empty street. See if anything was happening, as opposed to staying in her house, where nothing was
happening, or about to happen. Instead, she finished letting Jake Tapper tell her the latest pandemic news, then stood up, walked to the window and looked out. There was her front garden, lush and green, the blue lobelia, the red geraniums. Orange poppies taking over the tiny meadow of tufted armeria plants with their long-stemmed pink globes. What was wrong with her? Yes, there was a killing plague lumbering through the country like a cruel Paul Bunyan, uprooting lives, defying people to restore the damage inflicted by its every footfall. Yes, it had plucked up her boyfriend, like picking up a mouse by its tail, and tormented him until he had to be driven to the hospital to recover. But why make things worse than they were, with hallucinations or dreams or whatever they were of barren landscapes and disastrous outcomes? Night and day, they were getting on her nerves.
She’d spoken to him this morning. He was coughing. He was struggling to breathe. He was scared. Chance he’d die from it. The night before, he’d made her call everyone he’d spent time with for the past two weeks, tell them to quarantine themselves. An unwilling angel of potential death. It was embarrassing.
Her boyfriend’s name was York. It fit him: a single syllable, cut off curtly. Confident and alluring as a New York skyscraper, although he was only 5’ 9, two inches taller than she. If you could make it with York you could make it anywhere. That’s what he made you think.
She, on the other hand, had a dumb name. Gretchen. Starting with an abrupt galumphing G, followed by a tch, like a cough, or a scoff. Why not a silky, snaky name like Cecilia or Sasha? But she was neither slender nor slinky. She was Gretchen-shaped, like a buxom German maiden.
Mostly, his friends—their friends—were concerned: how was he? When did it happen? How? And what about you, any symptoms? Rough for you, huh? Stuck home alone. Let me know if you need anything, before I get it myself, ha ha. Holy shit they said, as reality gave a sharp little smack to their heads.
When she called his old friend Mitch, his wife picked up. She made an inpatient sound, not a tch, more like a shuh. "So that’s where Mitch got it," her tone implying an eye roll. "Thanks, York." Mitch had a fever, she had a sore throat, and they were already exhausted, working from home and trying to provide a half-assed education to their two children. Grim. They’d be crossing her and York off their friend list, no doubt.
Shauna, a sort-of friend, friend-of-a-friend-type friend, returned her call the next day. She was thirsty for information. Like, parched. What were his symptoms? When did he go to the hospital? How are the conditions there? Enough ICU beds? No, how would you know that? A laugh. Is he getting better? How long were they going to keep him? The dearth of doctors meant Gretchen was on her own as far as assessing York’s medical condition. Shauna shifted to her. Are you okay? No symptoms? But yeah, you still have to quarantine. You want groceries, just give me a list.
That was a surprise; she’d never felt close to Shauna--like most of their friends, the friend she was friends with belonged to York first--but maybe she was cool. That would be nice. Gretchen was terrified; she felt it in her insides, but also her muscles. Petrified, literally. So a helpful friend would be good.
She was out of food. No, just out of milk and cereal. The groceries she’d ordered four days ago would be arriving tomorrow night, and she would celebrate by having cereal for dinner. She’d also celebrate by watching Fleabag. York didn’t like Fleabag, with her lust and self-delusion, and all her preventable problems. Not that Gretchen was like that, or maybe just a little. But York was York. He was a man. He cut to the chase.
The next morning, day three of York’s hospitalization, after feasting on the day’s offering of news--the speculation, the warnings, the fatal missteps by the people who’d been elected to take care of her--Gretchen blinked her eyes and looked around the empty house. Not empty: whimsical sculptures, vases, stacks of books, piles of things that came in the mail. Things that came in Amazon vans, which she needed to wait three days before she could touch--things that might wait forever, as she couldn’t remember when she got them. Her coat, gloves, hand sanitizer. Not really empty, no. Just sans York. The weather was crappy, but she needed to get out and take a walk, just like she needed to get out and take a walk every day, even though she had not been a walk-taker before. She pulled off her at-home sweatshirt and put on her
outside sweatshirt, not bothering with a bra. She guided her feet into her flabby, worn slip-ons, prepared to present her masked, naked-underneath face to anyone who chose to look at her from six feet away.
The phone rang. It was Shauna, wanting news about York. Gretchen wanted news about York also, but he hadn’t answered his phone this morning, and when she talked to whoever they put her through to when she asked for a nurse, she was told that as far as they knew he was resting comfortably, and that she should call his doctor in the afternoon. She’d only once reached this doctor, who considered her to be wasting time that could be better spent saving lives. Or was that just another illusion? Anyway, the long and short of it was, she was devoid of information, had nothing for Shauna. Well, Shauna wanted to know, would she like to go on a hike or something sometime? Was it safe? Sure, stay six feet apart and step to the side if someone’s coming your way. Wear a mask. Masks didn’t help. But no, now they were saying they did help. Okay.
She ate a peanut butter sandwich and called York again. He picked up this time. His fever was down some, but he felt shitty, aching “not like the flu, way worse.” His temperature had gone down before and risen again, so, good, but guardedly good. She could hear him breathing hard, like when they were having sex, but scary.
He was tired of her. No, no. She was tiring him, because he was sick. She hung up.
She definitely had a fever. Fever and sore throat. Sore-ish throat. The thermometer stuck at 98.2. Should she call Shauna with the latest news on York’s status? She couldn’t think of anything better to do.
Shauna was happy to hear about York’s temperature decline: fantastic! Maybe he’ll get out soon! She took up the hiking theme again, so Gretchen said yes.
On the drive to the trailhead, Gretchen tried not to get too close to the other cars. Six
feet apart, can’t be too careful. Shauna wasn’t there yet… wrong place? Oh, no, there she was. They looked at each other over their homemade bandanna masks. She couldn’t tell if Shauna was smiling or not. Shauna waved her ahead. She was chatty, chattier than Gretchen remembered. Working from home, hard to concentrate, Zoom meetings, hard living alone, scary to shop. And how long had she and York been together? How did they meet? How did Shauna not know these things, she was part of York’s friend group, right? What was he like to live with? Sex life still good? She’d heard that moving in together sometimes “dampened the passion.” Gretchen thought she should ask Shauna some questions too, but it was harder, being at the front and having to turn around or else yell, which is how she had answered the questions about York’s compulsive neatness and continued sexual interest. Although, in actuality, it had flagged a little.
What about you? Seeing anyone? Shauna liked someone, liked him a lot, but she didn’t know if anything was going to happen between them. She started skipping and singing You found out, I had a crush on you. A song from the past, high school days, which caused Gretchen to have that little bittersweet heartache she always got when she thought about those days.
She hoped the guy liked Shauna back. She was cute, and bouncy. Kind of childish, but a lot of guys liked that in a girl. Did York like that in a girl? He probably missed old girlfriends who were cute and bouncy. He’d been kind of moody even before he got sick. Maybe that was why.
Gretchen looked back and saw Shauna seated on a rock, sending a text. She bounced up, and they kept walking. A woman jogged by, panting, no mask. Gretchen turned away quickly; Shauna yelled at her, get a mask! The masks were supposed to protect others from you, not you from others. She probably had the virus now.
No sooner had Shauna stood up than she received a text, a reply to her own, presumably. She read it and did a little hop and smiled. She put her phone in her pocket and asked, ready to go? Not saying anything about the text.
Gretchen felt a buzz in her pocket. Text from York: feeling better, lungs are clearer. May be home tomorrow. She texted him back: yay! I’ll prepare your quarantine room. They still wouldn’t be able to touch, unless she got it too, which might not be so bad, since she didn’t have asthma like York did, so she’d probably be okay. Maybe she should try to get it, so she could get it over with and they could have sex again. That would make her feel less scared. She texted back: awesome! hiking with Shauna right now, I’ll call you when I get home. He responded, oh wow have fun. Oh wow? As in surprised? Well, it wasn’t like she and Shauna were old hiking buddies. She told Shauna the good news. Shauna said oh wow, too.
But what was with that mysterious text Shauna got? That was weird. Right before hers. And now, look, she was sending another text.
Was that your guy? The one you have a crush on?
Shauna smiled.
What’s his name?
It was so quick it almost didn’t happen. Her eyes two “Os,” her smile frozen, like a glitch in a video. Then everything was back to normal, the story continued as it was supposed to, and Shauna said John.
Awesome. Gretchen looked at Shauna for a moment, her slim torso and sweetly rounded bottom. I’m ready to go back, she said. They hiked out, and she drove home, alone as always, to eat gratefully her newly replenished cereal with milk.
At noon the next day, she picked York up at the hospital. She couldn’t go in, she had to wait at the curb, masked, of course, for them to bring him to her. He had a small canister of oxygen to use if he exerted himself too much and got short of breath.
Had to discharge me early, he said. Make room for new patients. She rolled down the car windows, as they were supposed to.
When they got home, she opened the front door, thinking about everything she would have to wipe down and disinfect after she got him into their bedroom, which would be his alone for now. He sat down on the bed, putting the oxygen cannula in his nose and turning a knob on the small tank. Smiled at her and said thank you, blew her a kiss, lay down and closed his eyes.
Gretchen settled into her shelter-in-place routine. Her work from home consisted of sporadic email exchanges and little else, so she checked that and decided to put off responding to the one message she’d received. Sat on the couch, which would now be her bed, and read. Got up to slice some vegetables and ham to make soup, of which she left a bowl, with a piece of toast, on the dresser just inside the bedroom door. York awoke and sat up, his T-shirt pasted by sweat to his body, which was thinner than the last time Gretchen had seen it. She closed the door, her eyes prickly with tears. He was going to die. No, they’d sent him home, he was better. It was just that he was leaving her, for Shauna.
She read but didn’t read, while she ate but didn’t eat. Went to the bedroom and
waited for York to bring his dishes over to the dresser, stepping back as he came closer. He wasn’t wearing a mask. He was smiling, and she was receiving his smile, breathing it in. It was the happiest she’d seen him look for a long time, even before the virus.
I love you, he said. I wish I could hug you from here. Gretchen nodded and just went ahead and chugged toward him, arms out. Wrapped him up like a comforter.
I love you, too. You didn’t die. You’re here, right? You’re here?
I’m here, he said.
Photo by Frances Gunn on Unsplash