Joanne Stokes

Her Story

The bowl comes back to me at ten past nine, still warm at the rim, and that's what does it — the ghost of his heat in the stoneware. I'm forty-six, I've sponged a hundred fevers off a hundred strangers, and I've never once had the job make my pulse go thick under my collar like it did tonight. I set the bowl on the arm of my own sofa — the one facing the wall we share — and slide my palm flat over my stomach, under my cardigan, because the wool's too hot and my skin's asking for something. Two fingers slip beneath the waistband while my thumb finds that first soft, swollen press and holds. Slow circles. A nurse's rhythm. Measured, patient, watching, the way I watch a monitor. You coughed and I was up out of my chair before I'd finished my tea. I told myself it was neighbourly. It was worse than neighbourly. You let me sit beside you and I put my hand to your forehead and you leaned into it — that first full lean, trusting, eyes shut — and something in my chest turned over and lay down like it had been waiting years for permission. I fed you soup one spoon at a time and my thighs kept shifting and I couldn't blame theatre seats when I was perched on the edge of your cushion. You said thank you, twice, all gravelly, and praise goes through me like hot water through a tea bag. I'd have sat there all night for another thank. I made my film reference too, didn't I — said you looked like the dying lead in something with a black-and-white hospital and a stiff-upper-lip ward sister. I meant I wanted to be the one in charge of your chart. I want you weak enough to need me and strong enough to tell me how you want to be nursed, in words, out loud. That's the part I keep circling: instruction. Permission. A script I didn't write. My hand's still moving and it isn't enough, love. Show me. Put me on my knees by that couch and demonstrate what you want done — I'll learn it properly, and then I'll do it again tomorrow until I've got it perfect.