Chapter 7
Noon hit and the light in the bedroom had gone flat and white. The warm low glow from the night before was gone. Sun came hard through the blinds and cut across the white linens in thin lines. My chair was beside the bed where I'd left it. The glass from last night was still on the nightstand, empty now, with a faint ring underneath it. The pill bottle was next to it.
She stood in the doorway to the kitchenette with the log open in her hand. She still wore the light blue uniform and the cap, her dark hair pulled back in the same low ponytail. She hadn't changed.
"It's twelve," she said. "Dose was due at eleven thirty."
I looked at the clock on the dresser. 12:03.
"You didn't wake me," I said.
"You were asleep. I checked the log. Last dose was at five forty this morning after you ate the crackers."
She held the bottle but didn't open it. "It says one every six hours," she said. "You haven't eaten."
That line again. Same words she'd used that first night, but her voice was different now. Not a plea. A check.
I hadn't eaten. My stomach felt tight and sour. The idea of food made my jaw clench.
"I know," I said.
She came closer and set the log down on the bed. The manager's warning was clipped to the back page, the one that said she could stay if we kept the written record. Every dose, every meal, time and amount. Her handwriting was small and neat. Mine was shaky underneath.
"We need to get something in you before the pill," she said. "Or we wait a little. We can note the delay and why."
I wanted to just take it. Get it over with. The ache in my lower back had been building since ten, a deep throb that made it hard to sit straight. But I knew what would happen if I took it empty. Last time I'd done that I'd spent an hour over the basin.
"Bread," I said. "Toast."
She nodded and went to the kitchenette. It was three steps from the bed, a counter with a hot plate, a tiny fridge, a toaster that stuck. I watched her move. She put two slices of white bread in and stood there while they heated. The smell hit me before they popped.
She brought them on a small plate with a little butter, not much, and set it on the tray that fit across my chair. The toast was pale, barely browned.
I picked up a piece. My hands were steady enough. I took a bite and chewed. It was dry. After the second bite my throat tightened. I swallowed and felt nausea roll up fast. I put the toast down.
"Can't," I said.
She didn't push the plate closer. She pulled the chair in the kitchenette out and sat so we were level. "Try small," she said. "Just halfway of one piece and some water. That's enough to count."
"It says with food? No," I said. "It says if you haven't eaten. So empty stomach's the problem."
"Right. So we give it something to work with."
I tried again. Tore a corner off, maybe an inch square, and forced it down with a sip of water. Then another. My stomach turned. I breathed through my nose like the therapist had shown me, slow in, slow out. The pain in my back spiked and I gripped the armrest.
She watched the clock. "It's twelve ten. We can wait until twelve thirty. Note it as delayed for food. That's honest. It's still inside the window."
I stared at the pill bottle. The label was clear: Take one tablet every six hours as needed for pain. Take with food if stomach upset occurs. Do not exceed. We'd talked about it that morning after the log check, what the pharmacist had said on the phone — better to be late by half an hour with food than on time and sick.
"Thirty minutes," I said.
"Thirty minutes," she repeated. She wrote it down right then. 12:10 - dose due 11:30 delayed, patient attempting toast, will re-attempt before dosing. Her pen moved quickly.
We sat there while the toast went cold. I managed three more small bites, each one a negotiation. I drank half the glass of water. It wasn't much, maybe a quarter of a slice and some crumbs, but it was more than crackers.
At 12:28 she looked at me. "How's your stomach?"
"Better than empty," I said. It was true. Still sour, but not sharp.
She opened the bottle and tapped one small white pill into her palm, same as that first night. She didn't hold it out toward my mouth this time. She set it on the tray next to the plate and put the glass beside it.
"Your call," she said.
I picked it up between my fingers. It was chalky and light. I put it on my tongue and drank. Swallowed. Waited for the nausea that didn't come as hard this time.
She wrote again: 12:30 - one tablet taken with toast/water, approx 1/4 slice ingested. No immediate nausea.
I leaned back in the chair. The throbbing didn't stop right away, but the edge dulled as we sat there in the bright noon light.
"We eat, then we medicate," I said. "That’s the pattern."
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"Eat then medicate," she said, and underlined it in the log.
The plate was still there with most of the toast untouched. I didn't feel proud of it. I just felt less sick than before, and that felt like something we'd actually decided together.
