Romantic Comedy(82)

One of the flight attendants offered us coffee, which we both accepted, and blueberry muffins, which he declined and I accepted, pulling down my mask to take bites. Over the sound system, the pilot apologized for our bumpy ascent, then the ride smoothed out, and the flight attendant refilled our mugs. I’d been scrolling on my phone, and Noah had been scrolling on his iPad, and he said, “Do you want to watch a movie?” He told me to choose, and I picked a historical drama that, while not as well written as it seemed to think, was at least somewhat distracting. By the time the credits rolled, we were twenty minutes from landing.

“Unless he’s really in horrible shape, he shouldn’t go to the hospital,” I said. “Right? Because couldn’t that be even worse in terms of overcrowding and lack of ventilators?”

“Leah tracked down a doctor who’s supposed to meet us at the house at three. I think we let him assess.” Noah squeezed my hand. “And she ordered a car to take us from the airport.”

I looked at him in confusion. “Like a concierge doctor?”

“Yes,” he said. “Like a concierge doctor.”

* * *

—

I’d removed the key to Jerry’s house before I’d given my car keys to Leah, and I pulled it from my jeans pocket as we walked up the path leading to the front door. The house my mother and I had moved into in 1983 was a modest colonial with maroon shutters. Noah and I kept our masks on as we entered.

I had since the plane took off been gripped by mutually exclusive anxieties. The first was that we’d find Jerry doing chair yoga or eating Raisin Bran, wondering what the fuss was, and it would turn out I’d used Donna’s call as an excuse to summon Noah, or to test him. The other anxiety was that we’d find Jerry dead.

I called his name several times, but there was no response. With Noah close behind me, I hurried up the steps, which were covered in a beige carpet from my youth. The door to Jerry’s bedroom was open, and when I confirmed the slight rise and fall of his body beneath the sheet, I, too, exhaled. “Jerry, it’s Sally,” I said. “I came back from L.A.”

He was lying on his side, facing the door. His eyes blinked open in his long, thin face. He looked confused, and something in his expression was strangely childlike, an impression exacerbated by the fact that clear mucus was dripping from one nostril.

“It’s Sally,” I said again. “I’m wearing a mask because of Covid.”

“Hi, honey,” he said in a subdued voice.

I knelt beside the bed. “How are you feeling? Do you think you should go to the hospital?” I set my palm against his forehead, and it was burning.

“It’s my throat.” He touched his neck and in his subdued voice said, “It’s not good.”

“Have you had anything to eat or drink lately?”

Behind me, Noah said, “I’ll get him some water.”

Jerry closed his eyes, and I recalled not having responded to his email about the pupcakes. It was hard not to think of what I’d been doing while he’d been deteriorating—hiking with Noah, having sex with Noah, declaring to Noah that his cleared-out office was an affront to my independence.

Noah returned with two glasses of water, one with ice and one without, and held them both out to me. As I reached for the one without ice, he said, “I couldn’t find any straws, but I can go get some.” Because of how close Jerry was to the edge of the bed—unsettlingly close—I couldn’t perch beside him on the mattress. Instead, I continued kneeling on the rug and held the glass to his lips. Though some water dribbled down his chin and neck, he drank several sips.

“What about some crackers?” Noah said. “Or applesauce?”

“Maybe crackers,” I said. “I don’t think he has applesauce.”

This time when Noah left the room, I said, “That’s the friend I was visiting in L.A., Noah. He came with me to—” I paused. “Check on you.”

“Yes,” Jerry said, and his eyes shut again.

I had wondered, on entering the room, if I was smelling death, but I’d quickly realized I was smelling feces, and not from the bathroom. Tissues were scattered atop the sheet and on the floor, and there was a low scraping noise that I soon deduced was a humidifier with no water left in it. I set the glass on his nightstand, walked to the outlet, and yanked out the cord.

Noah brought in a small plastic container of vanilla pudding and a teaspoon on a plate with a few Ritz crackers. I said, “If I lift him, will you fluff his pillows so he’s more elevated?”

As I reached around Jerry with both arms, he felt shockingly frail. “How about a few bites of food?” I said. “To give yourself a little energy?”

Jerry didn’t reply, and I said, “How about some pudding?”

“Pudding,” he repeated.

I pulled the tab off the plastic cup, but before I’d peeled back the foil, I said, “Oh, we should wash our hands.”

“I did in the kitchen.” Noah nodded at the pudding. “Want me to do that?”

I passed it to him and walked into Jerry’s bathroom to use the faucet. When I came back, Noah was kneeling where I’d been before, holding the teaspoon to Jerry’s lips with the creamy glob on it. As I watched, Jerry parted his lips slightly, and Noah slid the spoon in.