His Sleeping Beauty

She nodded. “I’m fine. I think I’ll just…” Just nothing. She tried to get up, but couldn’t, so she put her head between her knees and her eyes filled with tears. Tears of relief, and of mortification. She couldn’t move or speak. She wished everyone would go away and let her recover on her own.

It was Max who pulled her up by her arms and lifted her to her wobbly feet. “I’ll take her home. She lives next door. Send the paramedics over there.”

“I really don’t need…” She really didn’t need anything, no paramedics, no mouth-to-mouth, just a few minutes to pull herself together. God, she hated it when people made a fuss over her. She wanted to seem cool, calm and collected but a long series of racking coughs spoiled the effect.

Max carried her home, her face pressed against his chest, her legs dangling over his arm. She wanted to tell him she could walk, but she couldn’t seem to get the words out. She tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but she didn’t have the strength, so she just let herself go limp. He felt so big and so strong and she felt so small and ridiculously safe in his arms. For a person who prided herself on her hard-won independence, it was a troubling moment laced with conflicting emotions.

Being taken care of was better than she cared to admit. On the other hand, she hated having to depend on anyone. To her surprise, without her instructions, he walked into the kitchen and up the stairs of her aunt’s house, as if he knew exactly where the bedroom was. Just inside the door, he tried to unbutton her wet dress while still holding her.

“I can do it,” she mumbled, but her own fingers were clumsy and even shakier than his and she gave up. “It’s okay,” she said. “Leave it.”

“Can’t leave you in a wet dress,” he muttered. So he didn’t. He set her on the edge of the bed and yanked at the buttons until they popped off, and pulled her wet dress over her head. Wearing only her wet underwear, she quickly slid under the covers to hide her too thin body and her too sensible underwear before he could see any more than he already had.

It was all too awful. She closed her eyes hoping Max would go away. Of course he didn’t. He stood at the door with his arms crossed over his chest, dripping water on the carpet. Was he the one who’d pulled her out of the pool? Her mind was a blank.

Before she could ask, a pair of burly emergency technicians stomped up the stairs, barged into the room and flipped back the quilt to check her out. She wanted to curl up and play dead. She didn’t know where Max was at that moment. Had he stepped out of the room out of consideration for her modesty? What did it matter? He’d already seen her in next to nothing.

The men took her pulse, her blood pressure, looked in her mouth and listened to her lungs and her heart, while she assured them in no uncertain terms that she was fine. If they’d taken her temperature, they might have thought she had a fever, but in reality her body only burned with red-hot embarrassment.

They asked her a lot of questions, and she answered them in a voice that was not really hers. The answers must have been satisfactory because they turned and spoke in low tones to someone else, probably Max, who apparently was still in the room.

She hated to be treated like she was sick. It reminded her of her childhood, of the asthma attacks, the trips to the emergency room, being carried into the steam-filled bathroom in the middle of the night and her ever-present inhaler tucked into her backpack at school, just in case. She thought she was over that. As long as she didn’t overexert, she could lead a normal life. As long as she stuck to studying California’s history and didn’t venture into other people’s parties. She led a very satisfying life. Until now.

Even worse than being treated like an invalid, she discovered, was being treated like she wasn’t there. The paramedic team in the room discussed her situation, debated whether to prescribe anything and in general carried on like she was in a coma. “Excuse me. I’m not unconscious,” she said. “I’m alive and well. I should tell you I have asthma, but it’s under control.”

They turned to look at her as surprised as if a statue had spoken. They took notes, wrote on a chart and after an eternity, the paramedics left and she was propped up against her aunt’s small embroidered pillow shams. She’d quietly shed her underwear and hidden them under the sheets, and now she wore nothing but a comforter pulled up to her chin. She glared at the man who was standing at the foot of her bed. Why was he still there? She was fine. She’d been poked and prodded and lectured to and she was exhausted. But fine.

“How are you feeling?” Max asked, his eyebrows drawn together in concern.

“Fine, thank you.” Now go.

“I don’t know what happened, but…”

“I got knocked in the water, that’s all. At least that’s what the man said. My fault. I wasn’t watching and I was standing too close to the edge. No big deal. I didn’t drown. Thanks to you. I don’t know how to thank you enough. You saved my life.”

“It was nothing. But you’ll have to learn to swim.”

“Or stay away from pools.”

“I can teach you.”

“That’s very nice, but…”

“Tomorrow.”

Max was still reeling from the close brush she’d had with disaster. His hands were shaking and his heart was pounding, but that could have something to do with seeing Sarah in her underwear. He got the message when she closed her eyes indicating as clearly as possible that she’d had enough of him and being fussed over, and then pointed to the door. He backed out of the room before he had a chance to ask if she wanted him to find her nightgown, that same gauzy white nightgown he’d seen her in last night. He wouldn’t mind seeing her again in or out of it. But he knew when he wasn’t wanted.

Maybe if she wore the nightgown again, she might remember what had happened last night. Maybe then they’d get it out in the open and he could ask her if she had a problem, or if she knew she had a problem.

He also wanted to know why a California girl didn’t know how to swim. Was it just because she had asthma? Lots of athletes had it. Sure, it was a problem, but not an insurmountable one. He wondered how she could think of an excuse for not learning to swim now that she lived next door to a pool, and most particularly he wanted to know why he shouldn’t teach her. One thing for sure. After today, he couldn’t have her living so close by when she couldn’t swim. Especially if she made any more unexpected visits to his house in the middle of the night. Despite the fence-enclosed pool with the locked gate, it was too dangerous and it was his responsibility to teach her, whether she wanted to learn or not.

When he got back to the party, the atmosphere had changed. There was a pall hanging over the gathering. The music continued, but no one was dancing. The guests were no longer playing games around the pool. It was as if they’d been frozen in place until he returned and assured everyone that his neighbor was fine, that no one was to blame.

Personally he thought it was possible the guests had been imbibing too much, playing ball and jumping around the pool in a careless way. They were his clients, not his friends, if that was any consolation to him. They weren’t all people he’d hang out with if he hadn’t handled their divorces. On the other hand, why didn’t she know how to swim? He was going to rectify that starting tomorrow.

The party went on for just a short time. The margaritas were still available, the food was still plentiful, but a few people had left and others were saying goodbye, as if they’d been waiting for his report before taking off, and were now blowing air kisses all around.

He was just as glad. He’d had enough of schmoozing, enough of empty chatter and pretending everything was fine. He couldn’t get Sarah out of his mind. She’d looked so vulnerable, felt so fragile in his arms, but back in her room she’d bounced back, and had been well enough to order him out. She had guts. Imagine being pushed into a pool when you couldn’t swim and recovering so fast. At least he thought she’d recovered. At soon as everyone left, he’d go back and make sure she was okay.

But when he knocked on her back door an hour later, there was no answer. He let himself in, walked up the stairs and stood in the doorway. She was lying on her side, and breathing evenly. He heaved a sigh of relief.

It was dusk, but from the pale beams of the night-light, he could see her face was flushed, her eyelashes shadowing her cheek. He stood there for a long moment, the faint smell of eucalyptus in the air. Oh, yes, the nuts from the tree on her bedside table. He picked them up and inhaled the fragrance. Hadn’t she noticed? Hadn’t she wondered how they’d gotten there?

He was jarred by the ringing of her phone.

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