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My father thought he loved my mother; he agonized over the fact that she didn’t return his affection. She tolerated him. This dynamic was obvious to me, even as a kid.
It wasn’t until right before he died that they reached their lowest point, and she showed him, with stunning clarity, who he was really married to. He found out that her trips to Sedona were to see a man she’d been having an affair with for years. The night before he killed himself, he told me not to waste my life trying to force love. “You never have to force what is yours, son.” Well, we’re about to put this theory to the test.
If you think you love someone and they don’t love you back, take heart, because you don’t really love them. It may hurt you to walk away, but you will get over it. True love, though, you never recover from. Never.
And this is how I know Milly loves me. Because I know I love her. And I know I couldn’t feel this way if she didn’t feel it, too.
Armed with this knowledge, I have come to Milly’s house to try and talk to her. It’s Friday night and I'm hoping she's home.
She emailed Cristal to turn down the contract for the event. Cristal forwarded it to me and I told her not to respond; I would take care of it.
I ring the doorbell twice before the door opens. Milly is standing there looking like she has just finished participating in some sort of trial on the television show Survivor. One where she has been deprived of sun, food, and sleep for days.
She looks terrible and as soon as she sees me, whatever color remained in her face, leaches out.
“What are you doing here D—” Her sentence is cut off by a hacking cough that forces her to double over. She sways slightly. Alarm sweeps me as I step inside and put my arm around her. She's burning up.
I stand her up and walk her farther into the house. She doesn’t resist at all when I pull her into me so she can lean on me for support. I use my foot to kick the door shut behind us. Her head rests on my shoulder and I rub her back as she coughs and I rack my brain for what to do.
Her cough spasm subsides and she pulls back and looks at me. Her eyes are glassy and red. Her lips are dry. She's clearly very sick.
“Milly, I want to take you to the ER, okay? You feel really hot and that cough sounds terrible.”
Her house in Silver Spring is only a few miles from Holy Cross Hospital. I passed the exit for it on my way here, and I start calculating how long it will take us to get there.
“Let me get your shoes and your purse. They will need identif—” she puts a hand on my shoulder and I stop talking.
“I can’t go to the ER,” she says. Her voice is hoarse and she swallows hard after she finishes the sentence.
“You need to see a doctor, if you don’t have insurance, I can cover it,” I say quickly.
“No, it’s not that. My son. He’s sleeping upstairs. I can’t go anywhere. My mom is out of town.”
I wish I was a better man than the one I find myself being right now. The mention of her son hurts me. I feel resentment and annoyance, and I know it’s wrong. I tamp it down and regroup.
“Okay, I use a service of physicians who make house calls. Let me get you into bed, and then I’ll call them.”
She doesn’t protest, which sends me from concerned to alarmed. I know if Milly had one ounce of strength in her, she would be kicking me out. Instead she sags against me in relief. I stoop to loop an arm under her knees to pick her up and head toward the stairs.
“You need to tell me which bedroom is yours.” I prepare myself to be assaulted with remnants of her husband’s presence—picture, clothes.
I push the door open and walk in. I keep my eyes focused on the bed and try not to look around. Milly’s eyes are closed, and I feel a sense of urgency to get the doctor in to see her.
I gently put her into bed and cover her with the sheets before I walk back out of the room. Only when I get back down the stairs and pull out my phone do I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
I dial the number for the physician’s service I use. I describe Milly’s symptoms and give them her address before I hang up.
It feels strange to be alone in her house. The house where she lived with her husband. Where she's raising her child.
I think about going to my car to wait, but she said her son is sleeping upstairs and with her so out of it, I don’t want to leave him alone in the house.
I don’t want to wander into her living room. I think seeing pictures of her with him would make me physically ill. Same for the kitchen. So, unable to do anything else, I sit down on the stairs and wait.
* * *
“Hey, Mister Picture, wake up.”
I sit up, bewildered and groggy. It takes me a few seconds to focus on the little hand shaking my shoulder. I look up and see a pair of huge brown eyes staring down at me. A mop of dark brown curls fall onto his forehead and his grin is missing one top front tooth.
