April

My entire body aches and I swear I think I felt less pain when I was hit in the head with a bat than I do now. I am hesitant to move because I might throw up.

“You okay?” A deep voice has me whipping my head to the side.

“What time is it?” I ask Matt, who is sitting uncomfortably on the mint green chair. He has stubble on his face, and there’s sleep still in his eyes.

“You were in pain when I came back last night, so I stayed. It’s almost five in the morning.”

“Uh…okay, that’s nice of you. Thanks.”

He nods, then stands to stretch. He’s so tall, and his T-shirt clings to his body in all the right places. He is so handsome and—wow, I’m struck stupid at how attracted I am to him. I’m also not exactly in a position to greet someone as good-looking as he is. I’m in a gross hospital gown, and my ass will stick out of the gap in the back if I get up. My hair is undoubtedly a mess, I haven’t brushed my teeth or washed my face yet, and worst of all, no one has given me a mirror. I requested one yesterday and the day before, but the nurse seems to have forgotten to bring it. The same thing with Dean.

“I want to talk to you,” he says, sitting at the edge of the bed.

“Uh…do you mind if I go to the bathroom first?”

“Yeah, sure, of course.” He stands to help me up. My stomach rumbles in protest and I have to close my eyes, forcing myself not to throw up. It must be all the meds they have me on.

“Can you call a nurse and just…wait outside, please?”

“Let me help you.”

“No. No,” I protest, shaking my head and holding out a hand to stop him. I can’t talk right now or I’ll throw up. “A nurse, please.”

He seems upset about this but doesn’t argue. Instead he presses the call button, and within seconds Gladys is there, gently nudging Matt out of the room.

“I feel terrible. Everything hurts,” I tell her.

“You were hit pretty hard, honey. Of course it hurts. Anything other than your head and arm?”

“Everywhere, Gladys. Everywhere. My joints, my muscles…God, my stomach feels like I have razor blades stabbing me.” Before I have a chance to say anything else, I’m bent over the toilet throwing up.

After I’ve cleaned up and am feeling slightly less grimy, with a new gown, my hair brushed, and the sheets on my hospital bed changed, Gladys takes all my vitals.

“Are these medicines supposed to do this to me? I feel like I’m getting worse.”

“I’m going to talk to the doctor about this. Yes, the meds can mess with your stomach, but not like this. And what you’re describing seems like more of a flare-up than a side effect of the medications we’re giving you.”

“Flare-up?” I ask. I have a vague feeling in the back of my mind, like a memory trying to push forward.

“For your Crohn’s disease,” she explains. “Matt told us just now. We didn’t know this part of your medical history, so you’ve gone without your meds. They’ve already been ordered, but it takes a few hours.”

“Crohn’s disease. Yes, that’s right.” I remember that now. “I do have Crohn’s. And Matt knew this? And Dean?”

“Dean didn’t say anything and you’ve been here for almost two weeks, which leads me to believe he didn’t know.”

“But Matt did.”

She nods and types something into her rolling computer. “I’ll let you know what the doctor says. Can I send Matt back in?”

“Yes, that’s fine,” I say, bringing the blanket higher up on my body and maybe even perhaps smoothing out my hair a little. I assume he’s going to come right back, but it takes almost half an hour before he walks in with a big Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand. “Bring me one too?” I ask.

“Is that a smile? Been a long time since I saw one of those on you,” he says somberly. He sits back on the bed. “Coffee’s not good for you. You told me that once. I didn’t even think you liked coffee, to be honest. Never seen you drink the stuff.”

He sits on the edge of the bed and takes a sip of his drink. “You feeling a little better?”

“Not really,” I say honestly. “You wanted to talk?”

“I did. Dean said you remember some things but not everything. What do you remember?”

“I remember everything until maybe a few years back. Like, I remember the ceremony where I got my badge.”

“So you know you’re a cop.”

“Yeah, but Dean said that was ten years ago. I don’t remember meeting Dean or you. I can’t remember where I live, although I do remember I lived in a foster home when I was a kid and I remember the small, crappy apartment I lived in throughout college.”

“Do you know your medical history?”

“That I have Crohn’s disease? Yeah, Gladys just reminded me.”

He exhales. “Good. I remembered what medication you were on.”

“So,” I say, looking anywhere but at those deep green eyes, “we must’ve been close, you and I. I mean, no one else but you seemed to know.”

He holds my stare as if daring me to look at him. Challenging me. “I told you, we dated.”

There’s a knock on the door and Gladys walks back in. Before she begins to speak, she looks at me and then back at Matt. It’s obvious that she’s asking me if it’s okay for him to be here while she says whatever it is she needs to say. The polite thing would be for Matt to graciously excuse himself, but he doesn’t. He stands there, resolute, his arms crossed, as anxious for the information as I am. “It’s okay, Gladys. Whatever it is, you can say it with him here. Obviously he knows more about me than I know about myself.”

With a final glance at both of us, she begins, “I spoke with Dr. Parker and he’ll be in later when he does rounds. But he reviewed your labs from this morning. The markers that indicate possible inflammation are elevated, which is an indicator that your Crohn’s is flaring up and you have an active infection, which would explain those flu-like symptoms you’re experiencing.”

Yes. Exactly. “Flu-like symptoms” describes it best.

“We’re going to run some more tests today,” Gladys goes on, “but meanwhile we’re going to start you on some prednisone to help with the inflammation. We’ll also double the dose of your regular Crohn’s meds and monitor you for a few more days. I’m not sure how much you remember, but Crohn’s is chronic. In other words, just because your illness is active doesn’t necessarily mean you have to stay here, unless you have an obstruction or are getting worse, of course.”

“So I can’t leave tomorrow?”

“I’d say the day after next, to be safe, but let’s see what Dr. Parker says later this afternoon and how you start to feel on the prednisone, okay?”

“So you’d just let her go home in pain?” Matts interrupts.

“We can give her something for the pain to take at home.”

“That makes no sense. She’s not feeling well.”

“She is in a hospital and has been here for almost two weeks. We are well aware she’s not feeling well, but Crohn’s is chronic.”

“You already said that. What does that mean, exactly?”

“It means that it’s not curable,” I interrupt. “It means that being in pain or in some kind of discomfort may very well be part of my life and I’m not going to hang out here in the hospital forever.”

“I don’t like this,” he protests, glaring at the nurse.

She gives him a big smile, then winks at me. “He’s a keeper,” she says with a chuckle before leaving.

Matt lifts his coffee cup and takes a big drink. My mouth is salivating at the smell of the warm brew, which makes me think I love coffee and maybe he doesn’t know me after all.