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"I wanted you to brush them away, not hit them with your palm, because their claws break off and remain inside the skin."
"But that's what I did," I say horrified, looking at his deformed back. "How do I get the claws out?"
"You can't. It's okay, I'll just take more time to heal."
"What if the spiders are venomous?"
"You were bitten about six times. You'd be comatose now if they were poisonous spiders."
I bring him a new shirt from his bag and help him put it on. "Can you help me to the cockpit?" Tristan asks, pushing himself up.
"No way. You are sleeping on this seat. I want to keep an eye on you."
"No." His refusal is strong, more of a command. I'm at a loss for words, so I silently help him into the cockpit. I’m appalled when I see it. It's the first time I've been in it. The place is tiny, and his pilot seat doesn't recline like the passenger seats.
"Tristan, you can't sleep here. There's no space."
"I'll be fine." He sounds so weak; his words are scaring me instead of reassuring me.
"Tristan, please come to the cabin," I plead. He shakes his head. "Don't be stubborn, I promise you I don't snore."
He chuckles, but then his chuckle turn into a grimace of pain. "Close the door and make sure you get some sleep."
Panic wracks me at the thought that something may happen to him. It’s so powerful and frightening, it chokes me up, making me forget about my own hurting arm. The idea that something might happen to him is unthinkable. His safety is important to me. Scratch that. He is important to me.
I barely get any sleep. My arm bothers me, and I can't stop wondering why Tristan insists on sleeping in that claustrophobic room. I shudder, remembering how weak he looked. Faint sunlight lances through the windows when I finally fall asleep.
The pain persists the entire night, keeping me awake, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I try to avoid sleep whenever I can anyway. Pain shoots through my back. I grit my teeth and stay still. I’ve known worse pain. She hasn’t, though. I strain my ears, trying to hear beyond the silence surrounding me in the cockpit, beyond the door. The thought that she might be hurting is excruciating. Someone like her should never, ever, know pain. I listen intently to hear if she’s crying. She isn’t, though she must be in pain—or at least very uncomfortable—from her bites. I breathe with relief. She’s stronger than I thought. Extreme conditions tend to bring out the worst in people. But not her, though she looks so fragile.
Of course, one of the first things I found out about her from Maggie, the Moore’s elderly housekeeper, was that Aimee wasn’t as fragile as she looked. Since I drove Aimee to the mansion regularly, and waited for her for hours, Maggie had plenty of time to tell me stories.
Maggie had been Chris and Aimee’s babysitter from the time they were toddlers. She knew Aimee well, and told me Aimee had been through a rough period, losing her parents before starting college. She was proud that Aimee had coped so well—that she hadn’t turned into a recluse, and remained kind and warm. That described Aimee perfectly. The first Christmas I spent in Chris’s employment, I learned that Aimee buys Christmas presents for every member of the staff. Maggie had told me Aimee had asked around for advice on what to get me, because I was new. But no one could help, since I wasn’t close to anyone.
She bought me a picture frame. She seemed uncertain when she gave it to me, but I thanked her politely, in awe that she’d gone to any trouble for me. She bought me a picture frame the second year, too—still looking unsure when she handed it to me, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her I had nothing to fill the frames with. The memories I had collected over my adult years didn’t make for good pictures. On that first Christmas I started thinking that if I wasn’t so beyond hope, if I could have a woman, I wanted her to be like Aimee. Strong. Kind. And why not admit it—I’m no hypocrite—beautiful. I wished Aimee could be mine.
Since we’ve been here, that wish has grown exponentially. I wish I could take care of her and make her happy in the way she deserves. I wish I could start fresh with her. Together, we’d build enough beautiful memories to fill those frames she gave me. My attempts to keep my distance have grown pathetically weak, because letting her inside my head has turned into therapy. Every little thing I share with her suddenly seems to get a new, brighter meaning. Therapy isn’t the right word. Addiction is. A dangerous one, because there are things I never want her to know…
I punch the seat when the pain in my back reaches a level beyond just gritting my teeth. Good timing. The pain rips me from my thoughts. Thoughts I should never have.
Wanting another man’s wife should be punishable by law.
Almost wife, I remind myself. Almost. That doesn’t make it less unforgivable.
When I wake up the blotches on my arm are almost gone, but I can't move my fingers—my hand, actually. I hurry to the cockpit and find Tristan is already awake. He’s so weak he can't stand up. He eyes my arm and my stiff hand, and when I tell him I can't move it he replies, "It'll pass; I'm sure the spiders weren't the poisonous kind. At least not the very poisonous kind."
I put up a brave face and help him stand up. He's far worse than I am. He can barely walk, and as soon as we descend the airstairs, he asks to rest. He has a shirt on and won't let me look at his back, instead asking me to bring him a bunch of sticks, the kind we used for the fence and shower. I drop a pile of sticks next to him, and he starts chopping one with his pocketknife, frowning in concentration. He doesn't offer an explanation for what he's doing, and I don't ask for one. Since he can't move, he needs something to occupy his time. I put a can of water next to him.
Considering the position of the sun, it must be past noon. "I'll search for eggs and wood for the signal fire," I say.
He nods, but doesn't say anything.
“Are you in pain?”
“No. It hurt last night, now it’s numb. It’s like the nerves are paralyzed or something and I can’t move by myself.” All of a sudden he clutches his left shoulder, grimacing.
“What’s wrong?” I ask in alarm.
“Just a cramp,” he replies, breathing frantically, one hand groping his shoulder. Without thinking, I put my non-numb hand beside his on his shoulder, squeezing gently, hoping the cramp will pass. After a few seconds it does, and his breathing becomes even, but I continue the light massage, in case the cramp comes back. I’m too preoccupied with my own thoughts to realize his breathing pattern has changed again—it’s quicker, sharper. Not because the cramp is back. When something that resembles a moan too much reverberates inside his chest, I freeze. I pull back my arm so fast, my own shoulder snaps lightly. Avoiding Tristan’s eyes, I say, “I'll go now."
