Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 49669 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 248(@200wpm)___ 199(@250wpm)___ 166(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49669 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 248(@200wpm)___ 199(@250wpm)___ 166(@300wpm)
His physical state made more sense now as well. The stress alone would have explained the weight loss and haggard appearance, but it could also just as easily be the illness or any medications he was taking to combat it.
He’d said his viral count wasn’t undetectable yet, which meant he was likely taking medication, but if it wasn’t working, then he could very well be past the point…
My stomach dropped out violently, but I just as quickly shook my head.
No. Not happening. Not him.
I forced myself to focus on the problem at hand. I turned the water off and then gently pulled Christopher’s hand toward me and pressed the dish towel against it to add pressure. It didn’t take long for blood to seep through the fabric. That in itself was telling, but I pulled the towel back for a moment to confirm what I already suspected.
“It’s going to need stitches,” I said on a sigh.
Christopher merely nodded like he already knew.
I went and grabbed another dish towel and swapped it out with the bloodstained one. “Put pressure on this,” I instructed. I found a roll of bandaging in the kit, so I used that to secure the towel to Christopher’s hand. Christopher was silent throughout all of it, but I didn’t miss his wince when I had to add pressure to the wound by tightening the bandaging. “Sorry,” I heard myself whisper each time he did it. By the time it was done, I wasn’t sure who was more relieved, him or me.
“Come on, I’ll drive you to the hospital,” I said as I removed the gloves and tossed them in the garbage.
“It’s okay, I can get an Uber or something,” Christopher responded. He turned his back on me and went to the drying rack to remove the large knife he’d cut his hand on. “No wonder my uncle always put the blades down in the dishwasher,” he said flatly. He put the knife in the sink and then reached into the cabinets below.
“Hey,” I said to stop him. I grabbed his elbow at the same time. “What do you need?” I asked.
“Bleach,” he responded tiredly.
I grabbed the bottle he was pointing at, but instead of giving it to him, I uncapped it and poured a hefty amount of the liquid over the knife. I reached for the rest of the utensils in the drying tray and dumped the container of them into the sink, then doused them all in bleach. “We can wash them better once we get back,” I said.
“Rush—”
“My truck’s parked in the driveway,” I continued in my “I’m not taking shit from anyone” voice. I closed the distance between us and motioned toward the doorway.
Christopher let out a resigned sigh and then began moving. As I followed him out of the house, I couldn’t stop touching him. His lower back, his shoulders, his elbow. The moves probably looked like I was just trying to assist him, but the truth was that I needed to touch him.
I opened the passenger door for a now silent Christopher. It was like he’d tuned me out at some point because he didn’t even react when I had to reach across his body to belt him in. It wasn’t until I was in the driver’s seat and putting my car into gear that he finally spoke.
“Can I borrow your phone? I left mine upstairs next to my computer.”
I pulled the phone from my pocket, unlocked it, and handed it to him. He looked something up on the browser, then clicked on a phone number.
“Hey, Anita, it’s Christopher. I, um, cut my hand and was hoping Dr. Kleinman could—” Christopher went silent for a moment as he listened to the speaker on the other end, and then he was nodding. “Thanks, we’ll be there in about twenty minutes. See you then. Bye.”
Christopher hung up, and then he was pulling the address up on my phone and turning on the GPS so the phone could guide me to the destination. The fact that he didn’t want to tell me himself wasn’t a good sign.
But I couldn’t let him off that easy. Sure, I had a million questions, but those could wait. I needed him to keep talking to me, even if it had nothing to do with the events of today. If he stopped talking, then I would become another person he’d hide from.
And I didn’t think Christopher could afford to hide himself away from even one other person.
“Is Dr. Kleinman your primary care doctor?” I asked.
There was a long, awkward silence, but instead of letting the question go like Christopher clearly wanted me to, I kept glancing his way.
“No, um, she’s a specialist.”
As in, a specialist who treated infectious diseases like HIV.
“And she’ll be able to see you as soon as we get there?” I probed.