Chapter 22: Chart It

Sam went to my parents' house on Friday night with his drawing book and a toothbrush.

At the door he told me he was fine, and I could go.

"Go where?" I asked.

"To the nurse," he said gravely, and my mother pretended to look at the ceiling.

It was the good week between rounds.

I had eaten a whole dinner without tasting oil, and my legs held me up.

Hannah came at eight, with rain on her coat and a paper bag from the corner shop.

"Soup," she said. "In case."

"In case of what?"

"In case you don't need me to be a nurse."

I took the bag out of her hand and set it on the hall table.

She looked past me at the empty apartment.

The study bed was made, and the kitchen had one plate in the rack.

"It's quiet," she said.

"It's been quiet for seven years. I'd like it to be different tonight."

She put her palm flat on my chest, over my shirt, and I felt my own heartbeat jump against it.

"Chart it," I said.

She laughed, low, and her whole face changed.

Then she went up on her toes and kissed me.

It wasn't like the doorway.

There was no one on the stairs, and no treatment tomorrow, and no hurry in either of us.

I walked her backward down the hall with her mouth on mine.

Her shoulders hit the bedroom door, and she pulled me in by my belt.

The room was dark except for a lamp.

She stood at the foot of the bed and started on my buttons herself, one at a time, with her eyes on mine.

"Tell me if I'm too slow," she said.

"You're not slow."

"Tell me anyway."

"Hannah." My voice came out rough. "I've wanted your hands on me since a ward in the desert."

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