Promise

Isaiah

Good Lord, I do not want this disease.

Natalie seems to be on the brink of death, teetering farther and farther with every second. Not only is she doomed to die, but she has the added curse of suffering an awful, painful demise.

Unless I choose to put her out of her misery. But who am I kidding? I wouldn't have the guts for that.

Instead, I get on Nat's computer and google Citrus Syndrome Cure, which, as I expected, only brings up a single government page stating that there is no cure, followed by a slew of blogs claiming to have found the answer. I try again. What to do if you have TCS.

This search is more helpful. Again, the .gov site appears, so I click on it. The first thing I see is a link offering a PDF of the pamphlet Natalie has spread over her coffee table. I scroll past it.

Further down the page is some useful information. I skim over it, trying to pick out how exactly I should take care of Natalie. Words fly by: Hydrate, paranoia, keep warm, alone. I realize that my brain is in such a panic, I can hardly read correctly.

But I see a list of bullet points, probably put there just for people like me. My eyes attach to it, ravenously gulping down the information.

"Despite the unorthodox symptoms associated with TCS, many common support systems may make the victim's symptoms more tolerable. In all cases:

-Keep victim hydrated

-Do not leave the victim alone

-Pay close attention to rashes, burns, and bruises and take appropriate action for each affliction

-Keep all wounds clean

-Do not make sudden movements

-Talk often and explain your actions to the victim as they may be confused or paranoid

-Keep victim clean, warm, and fed"

There are more bullets, but I don't read them. Instead, I jump out of the chair and rush back into the living room where Natalie is still shivering and whimpering just like I left her.

"Hey, Sweetie," I say in the quietest voice I can manage. I feel like yelling. My heart is hammering like the pounding of a prisoner on a tin roof, frantic and irregular. But for Nat's sake, I need to stay calm.

She doesn't answer, not that I expected her to. If I'm not imagining it, her lip twitches a bit when she sees me.

I walk over to the couch and lean down to kiss her forehead. She's burning up. "Do you think I could give you a shower, Nattie?" I ask. "Would that be alright? I think you would feel better if we cleaned you up a little."

I know it probably isn't true. She'll still feel shitty as a pig pen no matter how clean she is.

"Mmph," is her answer. Her head lolls to the side, a glob of vomit dripping onto the couch cushion.

It hurts to see her so helpless. Natalie was never exactly a strong person, but I have always taken comfort in the fact that she's a reasonably, capable person. When I moved, I told myself over and over again that she would be okay. That she could take care of herself.

Now, I can't believe that these assumptions were ever true at all.

"Alright," I sigh. "I'm going to take you to the shower now." I lean down, wrapping my arms around Natalie's thin waist. I can feel her ribs on my arm as I lift her away from the couch. For a second, I wonder how long she has been this skinny. Then I remember that extreme weight loss is a TCS symptom.

She smells of vomit and sweat. When the blanket falls away from her body, she lets out a little squeal of discomfort and immediately curls her body into mine for warmth. "Don't worry," I tell her. "The water'll be warm."

I can't tell if she is listening when I talk to her, but the website said I should talk a lot, didn't it? So that's what I'm going to do.

She's so light that it taking her to the bathroom feels like carrying a stack of towels to put in the linen closet. When we get there, I push aside the door to find that someone else has beat us here.

Nettle sits in the bathtub, licking her paws like she actually knows what humans use this little bucket of cement for. When she sees us, she flashes us a yellow-eyed blink, leaps out of the tub, and saunters away without a look back.

Nattie lets out another whimper. Her chapped lips are bent into a frown, her lip trembling. "Aw, what's the matter?" I ask. I set her down on the sink counter. The bathroom is pristine as ever, all of her creams and makeup arranged neatly on the counter opposite her soap, toothbrush, and hairbrush. I remember this arrangement well. When we first started dating, I found myself admiring the level of cleanliness she managed to achieve so effortlessly.

I flick on the light switch, illuminating Natalie's grayish face. She squints her eyes as if the soft glow of the light bulbs is blinding her. "Baby?" I whisper. She looks so dead with her eyes closed like that. "Baby, can you talk to me?" I ask. "Just say something. Anything."

I know she probably can't. Still, I am growing desperate to hear her voice. I don't want to talk to myself anymore.

Natalie's lip wobbles some more. She opens her mouth, but no words come out. Instead, a fresh set of sobs wail out of her. From the way her body is shuddering, they seem to be hurting her.

While she cries, I begin peeling her sweaty, vomit-splattered t shirt away from her body. Instinctively, Nattie slaps her arms over her breasts to hide herself. Then she remembers that I am about to bathe her and withdraws her defenses.

"Relax," I say. "I won't hurt you. I promise."

But if I know one thing about Natalie, it's that she doesn't trust promises. She whimpers, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Poor thing. I can't imagine what it must be like in her head right now.