The Groaning Board

means my career, you,
yes. Short of my having a commitment to Evelyn, I don’t care about anything
else.”
    She studied his face for a long time.
And when he put his arms around her, she didn’t resist.
     
    The dream—and she knew it was a
dream—was terrifying. She was dressed in leotard and leggings, standing in
front of a harvest table so laden with food that its center dipped. Minnie Wu
and Hem Barron, Micklynn, a vivid blue, more dead than alive, Ellen, Bill in
his blue pinstripe, Todd Cameron with tubes coming out of him, held up on
either side by his parents. All there. Jonathon, Bill’s associate, passing out
the plates. “Taste this, taste this,” they were chanting. Someone held her and
force-fed her. “No! No!” she cried. She couldn’t breathe.
    She awoke struggling, a weight
pressing her chest; she was strangling, choking... She tried to say, Help
me, but couldn’t get the words out.
    Bill stirred beside her.
    She groaned... sick... have to get
out of here... get air. She swung her feet to the floor. Stood. Her legs
buckled. Falling... protect face... floor coming up at her. Hold on, she
thought, hold on. But she couldn’t.
    Somewhere far away a dog barked.

Chapter Sixty-Two

     
     
     
    Someone was
lifting her. A distorted voice said, “Leslie, hold on
to me. Let me help you.”
    She came to shivering, retching, on
the bathroom floor, hugging the cold porcelain bowl. Bill held her head.
Horrible retching, again and again. She didn’t have the strength to push him
away. Didn’t care how she smelled or looked. She wanted to die, was dying.
Tears ran down her cheeks and she retched again, afraid, shaking so she could
almost hear bones rattling.
    He washed her face with a warm cloth,
wiping her mouth. “Go away,” she mumbled, teeth chattering. “Let me die.”
    Holding her shoulders, he put a glass
to her lips. “Rinse,” he said. “Go on. I’ve got you.”
    Good thing too, because the room was
spinning black clouds and she was shaking with cold. Eyes closing... limbs
collapsing.
    Kind oblivion.
     
    “Something she ate,” Bill said in a
low voice. “It was pretty bad all night long. She kept throwing up and passing
out.”
    “How long has it been since the
last?”
    “About three hours. Look at her.
She’s white as the pillowcase.”
    She opened her eyes a fraction and
felt Izz creep over and cuddle against her. Bill stood near the doorway in
khakis and a V-necked tee shirt. His face was haggard. The man with him wore a
business suit. He was younger, curly brown hair. Izz licked her cheek.
    “Well, maybe she’s gotten rid of it.”
The man approached the bed. “Let’s have a look at her. Well, hello,” he said.
“You’re awake.” To Bill: “Go make some tea.”
    “I think I should stay—”
    “Beat it, buddy.” The brown-haired
man waited till Bill left the room, then said to Wetzon, “I’m Steve Levy. I’m a
doctor, a friend of Bill’s. Bill called me about an hour ago. He was pretty
worried. How are you feeling?”
    “Don’t know. Hot.” Cotton mouth. She
tried to move. Couldn’t. Trapped by blankets. Couldn’t lift anything.
    “No wonder. Let’s get some of these
blankets off. Bill said you had chills.” When he peeled back the covers, she
saw she was wearing a man’s blue cashmere sweater. Dr. Levy’s hand touched her
brow. “No fever.” He took her pulse, nodded, prodded her belly with
knowledgeable hands. “Okay here. Can you sit up? I’ll help you.” Propping the
pillows up behind her, he raised her into a sitting position, then reached into
his inside pocket for his stethoscope. “Lean forward.” He laid the cold knob
under the sweater and listened. “Breathe. Again.” He eased her back against the
pillows and drew one of the blankets over her. “You’ll be okay. Take it easy
for a few days.”
    “Poison,” she said. She wondered what
she looked like, tried to pat her hair. It was in a braid which she didn’t
remember doing.
    “Probably something toxic you ate.
And you’re dehydrated. That’s why you’re so weak. Drink a lot of fluids.” There
was a knock on the door. “May I?” Bill stood in the doorway holding a mug on a
small tray. The tail of a tea bag hung from the mug.
    “Club soda, ginger ale, clear soup.
Later soda biscuit, dry ' toast. Go light. Call me if you have another attack,
but I think you’re through the worst.” The doctor’s hand brushed her cheek. He
looked over at Bill. “See that she drinks a