I focused on her image, recalling how the sunlight glinted off her russet hair. How her eyes softened when she saw me from across the room. Or how—
Tap, tap.
My heart knocked against my chest, and I lowered my head to look out the window. Molly’s oval-shaped face peered at me from the other side of the glass, her brow furrowed in concern. I looked down at my watch and realized she must have gotten back from dropping Chloe off at preschool. I’d been so lost in my memories that I hadn’t even heard her pull up.
“Are you okay?” she asked through the rolled-up window.
“Yeah.” Probably best not to explain the dreaming of a dead wife thing. I pulled the keys out of the ignition and turned to open the door then froze. My body was still covered in the scrubs I’d had on at the hospital. In my brain fog, I hadn’t taken the time to shower and change before heading home.
“Back up.”
Molly’s eyes widened at my gruff tone but took two giant steps back. I clicked open the garage, slid out of the car, and sprinted inside the space I used for storage and a laundry room. Molly didn’t move, but her eyes tracked me the entire time.
Who could blame her? My actions were odd when one didn’t have all the facts.
Fact #1. I had encountered a flesh-eating bacteria that could still be embedded in the fibers of my scrubs.
Fact #2. I hadn’t showered or changed.
Fact #3. I needed to strip and scrub from head to toe in scalding hot water before anyone got too close to me.
Fact #4. I was about to embarrass myself in front of a woman who confused me with the number of times she wormed her way into my thoughts in a single day.
Molly took a step forward and my arm shot out in front of me, motioning for her to stay where she was. “I’m going to lower the garage door, but I need you to count to two hundred before you come inside the house.”
“Why two hundred?”
“Because that should give me enough time.”
“Enough time to what?”
Was there any way to say it that wouldn’t embarrass both of us? “Enough time to get out of these infected scrubs and get them in the laundry then…” My eyebrows pushed their way to my hairline.
1 – 1 = 0
Molly’s mouth formed the answer as she did the math. Her cheeks flushed, and I ignored how becoming the look was on her as I hit the button to lower the garage door. Once effectively shut in privacy, I discarded the scrubs, wishing I could burn them instead of wash them, threw them in the top loader with three detergent pods, then dashed through the house to the bathroom.
Steam rose from the shower and I hopped in, feeling like a chicken being prepared for plucking with how hot the water ran. A good lather and enough scrubbing to remove a layer of epidermis (not really, but it felt that way) and any chance of the bacteria remaining on my body.
Ten minutes later, skin flayed but no longer a carrier of disease, I stepped out of my room in a pair of basketball shorts and a Stampeders t-shirt. Molly sat on the floor with her laptop and a scattering of open books on the coffee table in front of her. She looked up at me and wordlessly handed me a sleeve of Double Stuf Oreos.
“What’s this for?” I sat on the end of the couch, the wrapper crackling as I ripped open the end.
She rotated her position on the floor so she faced me instead of her computer. “Someone once told me sugar helps release the happy chemicals in your brain.”
Oreo debate. Twist the two chocolate ends, lick out the frosted center, then eat the cookie bits, or bite into it like a sandwich? I stuffed the whole thing into my mouth. “Someone might need to also tell you that eating your feelings isn’t really the healthiest thing to do,” I said around the crumbs. “Besides, what makes you think I need a sugar rush?”
Her smile was small, soft, and full of compassion. “When tears dry, they leave a trail of salt behind.”
I reached up and touched the corner of my eye.
“Did, um…” She hesitated, and I braced for her question. “Did you lose a patient today?”
My breath puffed out of my chest, riding on an ironic chuckle. “No. Saved someone, actually.”
Surprise lit her eyes. “And that made you sad?”
I clenched for the wave of emotions to hit, but I was spent. What others would see as a victory felt strangely like defeat. My muscles melted into the gray fabric of the couch, a boxer refusing to get up from the floor of the ring. TKO.
