Finding Infinity (21 page)

We step inside the cool film watching room. It looks like the nicest movie theater ever. It’s so fucking cold that I break into a sweat.

“Get to the training room, you’re fucking green,” my coach growls at me.

I try protesting, but I feel too bad to get much out other than, “Okay.”

I stop by my locker on the way and grab my phone and wedding ring. I know that they’re keeping me. I’m staying here until I’m well enough to play football, even though that means not being at home with Charlie.

I walk into the training room and spot a table in the corner. There’s a blanket lying near it. I grab it and crawl on to the orange, padded, flat table. I haven’t been sick like this in years. It’s too early for the flu, but it sure feels like it.

The doc, who’s got greying hair, maybe in his early sixties, comes over almost immediately and takes one look at me as he shakes his head. “Caroline keeping you up too late at night?”

“Fuck off. I’m pretty sure that I have malaria. Just fix it,” I say, through chattering teeth.

He smirks at my joke and then asks me about a million fucking questions, and I answer as politely as possible. If they’d just let me go home and sleep for about twenty-four hours, I would be fine.

He uses a cotton swab to take a sample from my throat, and it takes everything I’ve got not to barf on his shoes. He does a flu test. He shoves a thermometer in my mouth. He pokes and prods my neck feeling my glands. I lie there, wishing for death. And then he leaves.

Soon enough, he comes back and informs me that I have strep, as in the virus that children get, not thirty-something-year-old football players that are in the top physical shape of their lives.

“You’re contagious, my friend. The good news is that we can get you on an antibiotic immediately, and you should be fine by Monday. The bad news is that you probably contaminated the whole fucking team because you didn’t drag your sorry ass into the training room the first time you felt a throat tickle.”

God, he’s making me feel like a real shit-heel. However, at the moment I’m not sure if the very little that I’ve eaten today is going to stay in my stomach, so I keep my mouth shut. “Can I go home?” I ask. I sound fucking pathetic.

“You’re not driving,” he states without an ounce of sympathy. I know that I just made his job that much harder. He didn’t tell me no, though, and that makes me feel hopeful.

“I’ll call Caroline,” I reply.

I know that Charlie’s at the hospital. The week after we got married she tossed out every job offer that she’d received, including being a host on some doctor show, chairing a not-for-profit concussion foundation, and teaching at the local medical school. Instead, she decided to work at the charity hospital in Dallas. She’s a surgeon that is on call for bone and muscle trauma injuries. She does rounds as needed. Brad is her nurse. He doesn’t have to deal with whiney patients, vomit, or vaginas. He does see some infections, but says that he can handle it.

I hit Charlie’s number on my phone and wait for her to answer. I’m not sure if she’s in surgery. If so, I might have to get Jenny to pick me up. A shiver runs down my spine.

“Hey baby. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until later,” she says, sweetly.

“I’ve got strep throat and need to go home. Can you come get me?” I ask.

“Oh no! Sure. Give me thirty minutes, and I’ll head your way.”

Then it hits me. I’m contagious. She could be pregnant. I could give her this, and it could hurt the baby. My heart races. “Never mind. You stay at the hospital. I’ll go check in to a hotel.”

“What?” she asks, clearly confused.

“Doc says that I’m contagious. I don’t want to give it to you,” I explain. My throat feels like it’s on fire.

“Colin, you do know that I work in a hospital, right?” she says, condescendingly. “I’m exposed to far worse than strep throat on a daily basis. In fact, I probably gave it to you. I’ll see you in a few.”

She hangs up before I can reply. God, now I’m more fucked up. I feel like the hounds of hell have trampled my body, and my stomach is churning. She can’t fucking work in a hospital, around all those sick people, and be pregnant. She didn’t get pregnant the first two months she after she went off the pill, but she could be pregnant now.

I lie there, shaking under a blanket while I plan how I’m going to get her to quit her job. At least if she was in a practice she’d be seeing patients with broken arms, and not be around contagious people. Maybe she needs an offer she can’t refuse.

“Hey, doc,” I call.

He walks over to me and immediately begins to examine me again. “Is the Tylenol kicking in yet?”

“No, but it doesn’t matter. You’ve met Caroline, right?”

“Yeah. I’ve met her, why?”

“She’s a Harvard-trained orthopedic surgeon. Would there be a place on your staff for her?”

He laughs. The fucker laughs at me. “Not wanting her away from home?”

“Look doc, just between you and me. She’s trying to get pregnant. I can’t have her working at the charity hospital.” I plead my case. He’s got to understand.

“We’re fully staffed here. Plus, do you really want her hands all over your teammates? Do you know the amount of shit they’d give you?”

He’s right. So fucking right. I would flip my shit if the guys started trying to get extra attention from her.

I’ve got to figure out another plan. I make a note in my phone to talk to Brad.

I must doze for a little while, because the next thing I know she’s looking like an angel standing next to me. Her soft, cool hand rests on my forehead checking my temperature. “Come on, baby. Let’s get you home.”

I feel like I’m seven again, and my mom is picking me up from school after I’ve tossed my cookies all over the classroom. As I get off the table, my joints protest. I push down the pain by thinking about Caroline not being around all of those sick people right now and make my way through the doorway, following her out of the training room.

Once we’re in her fucking matchbox-sized car that is only fit for tiny people and small older men suffering from mid-life crises, I bring up the subject. “Have you thought about the dangers of being pregnant while you work at a hospital?”

She rolls her eyes at me. “I’m going to assume that you’re delirious from your high fever —that you left untreated— and ignore your stupid comment, because if you think for a second that you’re going to manipulate me into changing jobs, I’ll get back on the pill so fast that your head will spin.”

God, I feel like shit. I should have kept my fucking mouth shut. “Honey, drive fast. I need to get home,” I moan, and lean my head against head rest. My throat is on fire. I’ve missed a couple of meals, and I practiced in the heat for a couple of hours. Not a smart combination. Plus, I swear we hit every bump between the training room and home.

With each bump, I feel my stomach churning more. The dizziness has reached the point that I have to keep my eyes shut.
Fuck.
I feel awful. I start the mental talk with myself.
We’re almost home. Just a couple more turns…

“Never mind. Pull over,” I instruct. She pulls up to the curb. I open the car door and get out, and walk around the elaborate entrance to our neighborhood, filled with waterfalls, and ducks, and shit like that, and I try to fight the nausea. God, I’m in that place. If I hurl. I’ll feel better. But who wants to hurl on purpose? My stomach is bubbling. I feel faint. My fever is making me shake. My throat is on fire. And Charlie is working in a damn germ factory while she could be carrying our baby. Too much. I lose my stomach in a holly bush next to a duck’s nest that smells like wet bird shit, which makes me puke harder.

Then, wouldn’t you fucking know it? A car comes to a screeching halt next to Charlie’s. Some nosey-ass reporter jumps out of the car and starts taking pictures of me becoming acquainted with the local plants.

Out of my peripheral vision, I see my wife tear out of the car. “Leave him alone.” She’s screaming like the wild woman of Borneo. “Get in your car and leave us alone, you asshole.”

She puts her hand in front of the camera, trying to prevent him from getting any more pictures of me. Nothing like watching my wife lose her mind to force myself to stop being sick. I stagger over to her as best as I can. The reporter is asking for a comment on my condition. I’m sure that he’s hoping to be the first to report my illness to the fantasy football sites.

“Get in the car, Caroline,” I growl. My voice is so scratchy that I barely recognize it.

The reporter keeps snapping away as Charlie gives him a look that would scare a death row inmate and slides into the passenger seat.

I shut the door behind her and walk around the back of the car trying to avoid the reporter and slide into the driver’s seat slamming the car door behind me with what little energy that I have left.

“Do they have no dignity?” She fumes once we’re on the road. “You were clearly in an ill position, and they want a picture of that? Fucking vultures.” She’s developed quite a mouth on her. I’m sure it’s my negative influence. We’re both going to have to clean up our language if we’re going to be parents.

My girl is pissed, and it would be so fucking adorable if I didn’t want to collapse because I feel so bad. When I get home, I drag my sorry excuse for an immune system self to our bedroom, strip off my practice clothes, and slide under our covers. I don’t even bother to rinse my mouth out. I’m shaking so violently that she grabs another quilt to place over me.

“Did you practice today?”

“Yes. Why?” I chatter.

“Give me your phone.”

“Why?”

“You got your dumb ass dehydrated, and you need IV fluids. Hand me your phone.” She’s standing over me staring me down. If I didn’t feel like death, I’d inform her that her bedside manner leaves something to be desired.

I reluctantly hand her my phone as I get up, and do my best “I’m just fine” walk as I head for the bathroom. I’m going to be sick again. The room is fucking spinning like a top. I just pray that I’m quiet, and she’ll stay occupied on the phone.

I hear her in the other room asking to have an IV bag brought to the house, and nausea meds, and I shut and lock the door. I know that I’m dehydrated and sick. This isn’t the first time, but puking sucks. Puke in front of your wife, and you might as well hang up your balls.

I’m so achy that I feel like a ninety-year-old man, my throat filled with sand from the strep mixed with my stomach acid, and the love of my life is screaming for me to open the closed toilet door.

“Jesus Christ,” I moan. “Can’t I just puke in peace, Caroline?”

Silence.

When I’m finished, my stomach feels much better. I wait in the bathroom a couple of extra minutes and hope that she’s been called back to the hospital. I’m not looking forward to the wrath of Caroline.

I open the door cautiously and see that she’s nowhere in sight. I head to my sink to rinse out my mouth and brush my teeth. Then, I walk into our room and slide back under the covers, but first I put some workout shorts on, expecting visitors any minute.

My phone is next to the bed. I pick it up, and swipe my finger across the screen. There’s already a picture of me hurling in the bushes live on some fantasy football site. “Fucking perfect,” I say.

Charlie left me a bottle of Gatorade, water, and some Tylenol. I kinda didn’t want her around before, but now I wish she was in here, fussing over me just a little. I open the Gatorade and take a sip. My stomach screams at me, “Too soon, fucker.”
I slam the bottle back down. I grab the water bottle instead, and the remote. I turn on
Sports Center
just in time to see me puke all over the holly bushes. Lovely. I turn the channel.

Charlie slips in the room and takes a seat on the bed next to me. It’s too much motion for my stomach to enjoy, but I keep my mouth shut. Literally. No more being sick.

“How are you?” she asks.

“Fucking miserable. I’m dehydrated, nauseous, my body aches, I can’t quit shaking, and my throat’s on fire. How are you?”

“Ovulating,” she says, with a smirk.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Really? I’m literally the sickest that I’ve been in my professional career, and you’re ovulating? That’s just fucking wonderful.”

I’d bought an ovulation kit for her a while back, and she’d promised me that she’d use it. I guess she has been. I’m desperately proud of her, but right now, even my dick is achy.

“Can you drink a little water? They’re bringing an IV and anti-nausea drugs over for you.” She pauses, and I can sense her revving up for a lecture. I brace myself.

“I didn’t know you felt bad when you left this morning. Why did you practice in one hundred and three degree heat if you had a fever? Are you asking for death?” She reaches for the water bottle, which moves the bed enough to tell me that I’m not finished being sick yet.

I push her off of me and walk as fast as I can toward the toilet. I don’t have time to barricade myself in before I throw up all the water that I’d managed to get down. Yeah! I’m a dumb shit. I got myself this dehydrated. I’m a quivering, pathetic, slab of meat.

“Come on, baby,” she sounds like a damn chorus of angels behind me. “Let’s get you in bed. Fluids are coming.”

I let my tiny excuse for a wife help me back into bed, but before I can push her away and head back to the bathroom, a wave a nausea hits me and I spew all over her. Yup. I, Colin-fucking-McKinney, just vomited on my wife.

I make it back to the bathroom to finish. I spend a little longer than I should inside, just to make sure that I’m done. I can’t believe that I puked on her. If she packed her shit and left, I wouldn’t blame her. I sit there on the cold tile floor, hoping that God will go ahead and take me. I hear the shower turn off and the sound of her knocking. “Open the door, Colin.”

“Go away,” I moan.

“Baby, you’re sick. I don’t care. I’ve had a whole lot worse on me besides vomit,” she says, as if that’s supposed to make me feel better.

“For God’s sake, don’t tell me. I might hurl again,” I plead. I think about the baby that could be growing inside of her. I can’t even imagine what’s worse than puke, but I don’t want it near my wife or child.