“Not long, I hope, sweet Sam,” she whispered in his ear, as her hands gripped his buttocks and pressed him to her. His body found her hot and throbbing against him, and he shuddered with desire when he realized she wasn't wearing any underwear, even in the cold November wind of a New York winter. It took all the strength he had to resist her.
“You're killing me,” he said, laughing hoarsely with the delicious agony of it. “And you'll catch pneumo-ma.
“Then you'd better keep me warm, Sam.”
“Oh God, how I want to.” He closed his eyes and pressed her against him.
He finally managed to tear himself away from her, though with ever greater difficulty, and he walked the twenty-five blocks home to regain his senses. It was nearly midnight by then, and Alex was dead to the world with the light on. He stood looking at her for a long time, silently apologizing to her, but his heart longed for Daphne, not Alex. He quietly turned off the light, and went to bed. And it was six o'clock in the morning when he woke to a strange grating sound. It was rasping and mechanical, and it went on and on and on, and no attempt to ignore it would keep him asleep. At first he thought it was a machine, and then he thought it might be the alarm, and then some crazy sense told him the elevator might be broken. But no matter what, the sound wouldn't stop, and when he finally woke up and turned over, he realized that it was Alex, vomiting and retching uncontrollably in the bathroom.
He lay there for a little while, not sure if he should bother her or not, and then finally, he got up, and stood in the doorway.
“Are you all right?” For a long time she didn't answer, and then finally, she nodded.
“Great, thanks.” She hadn't lost her sense of humor, but she still couldn't stop retching.
“Is it something you ate?” Even now, he still had denial.
“I think it's the chemo.”
“Call the doctor.”
She nodded and went on vomiting, and he went to shower in the guest bathroom. He came back half an hour later, and she had stopped and was lying on the bathroom floor with a cold cloth on her head, and her eyes closed.
“You're not pregnant, are you?”
She kept her eyes closed and shook her head. She didn't even have the energy to insult him. She had gotten her period before the surgery. Another “blue day” had come and gone since, and he wasn't even speaking to her, let alone making babies. How did he think she could be pregnant? And she was having chemotherapy. How could he be so stupid? For a smart guy, he was a real jerk when it came to cancer.
She finally got enough energy to crawl across the bedroom on her hands and knees and call Dr. Webber. The answering service put her through immediately, and the doctor told her that it wasn't an unusual reaction to the first treatment, though she w&s sorry to hear it. She suggested that she eat carefully, but a little food might actually help to settle her stomach, and she had to take her pill today, no matter how sick she felt, or how much she vomited. She could not miss it. She also offered her additional medication for the vomiting, which might help, but Alex was afraid to put any more chemicals into her system, and the additional medications had their own side effects as well.
“Thank you,” Alex rasped, and went to vomit again, but this time it was all over in a few minutes. There was nothing left but bile anyway. Her whole body felt as though it had been turned inside out. It took her forever to dress and she was green by the time she went to the kitchen to watch Sam and Annabelle having breakfast. He had helped her dress, and had kept her away from Alex.
“Are you sick, Mommy?” Annabelle asked, looking worried.
“Sort of. Remember the medicine I told you about? Well, I took some yesterday and it made me kind of sick.”
“It must be very bad medicine,” Annabelle said loyally.
“It's going to make me better,” Alex said firmly, and forced herself to nibble a piece of toast, in spite of all her inclinations not to touch it. She noticed then that Sam was looking over his paper at her in acute annoyance. It was bad enough to wake him up vomiting, but she knew how he hated her explanations to Annabelle. “Sorry,” she said pointedly at him, in less than pleasant tones, and he went back to his paper.
She hung back while he left to take Annabelle to school, and he made no further mention of her vomiting that morning. But as soon as they were gone, Alex threw up again, and thought about not going to the office. She sat down on her bed, and cried, and decided to call Liz, and then something made her stop. She wasn't going to give in. She was going to go to work if it killed her.
She washed her face again, and brushed her teeth, and put another cold cloth on her head, and then with a look of determination she put on her coat and picked up her briefcase. She had to sit down in the hall again, and her stomach turned, but she made it to the elevator and down to the street, and felt better. The cold air helped, but the cab ride didn't. She felt desperately sick again by the time she got to work, and she barely made it to the ladies' room, where she was violently sick again. She looked awful by the time she got to her office, where Brock and Liz happened to be talking. She was almost a shiny green, which really shocked them. They both followed her inside and looked at her with obvious concern, as Alex collapsed into her desk chair with a look of exhaustion.
“Are you all right?” Liz asked worriedly as Brock stared at her, frowning.
“Not really. It's been a rough morning.” She closed her eyes, as she felt a wave of nausea come over her again, but she refused to give in to it, and it passed. She opened her eyes again to see Brock and not Liz. He looked very worried.
“She went to get you a cup of tea. Do you want to lie down?”
“I don't think I'd ever get up again,” she said honestly. “Why don't we get to work,” she said bravely.
“Are you up to it?”
“Don't ask,” she said grimly, and shaking his head, he went to get his papers. As always, he was working in his shirtsleeves, with his horn-rims pushed high on his head when he didn't need them. He had pencils in his pocket, a pen in his teeth, and a foot-high stack of papers when he came back to her office, with a box of Saltines for Alex.
“Try these.” He dropped them on her desk, and sat down with the work they were sharing. And as they made their way through it, he watched her carefully. She looked awful, but she seemed to feel a little better while she was working. It distracted her from her miseries. And Liz kept her well supplied with tea, and she nibbled at the crackers Brock had brought her.
“Why don't you lie down for a while during lunch?” he suggested, but she shook her head, she didn't want to break their momentum. They were doing some very detailed work on one of her new cases. And they ordered chicken sandwiches instead, which Alex actually felt well enough to eat by lunchtime.
It was fully an hour later when the food caught up with her, and suddenly she looked panicked, as she felt it rising. She had a tiny bathroom adjacent to her office, and without a word to Brock, she disappeared, and vomited horribly and then retched for half an hour while he couldn't help but hear it. It was agonizing listening to her, and after a while he went out, and came back with a cold damp cloth, an ice pack, and a pillow. Without knocking or saying anything, he opened the door, which she hadn't locked fortunately, and she suddenly felt his strong arms behind her, as she knelt huddled over the bowl, and slumped against the wall. For a moment, he was afraid she had fainted but she hadn't.
“Lean against me, Alex,” he said quietly, “just let yourself go.” She didn't argue, she didn't say a word, she was just too sick and too grateful for the help, from any quarter. She slumped back into his arms, as he sat on the floor holding her, the bathroom was barely big enough for both of them with their long legs, but they just made it. He put the ice pack on the back of her neck, and the wet cloth on her forehead. And for an instant, she opened her eyes and looked up at him, but she didn't speak. She couldn't.