~o~O~o~

BOOK ONE
In the Valley of the Shadow
Spring, 2020

~o~O~o~

CHAPTER EIGHT
“In den Sternen, da steht es geschrieben”
– Lehár, Giuditta, Meine Lippen (Aria)

Mount Vernon, New York, March 26

What color were Rob’s eyes? I was looking down at them through a prism of tears, and they appeared to be the most welcome, and the most welcoming, sight in all the world. Dark gray, perhaps? But there were shades of blue, flecks of green, a small spray of gold near the pupils . . . they were, I decided judiciously, quite possibly the most fascinating eyes I had ever seen up close. Worth a great deal of inspection. And I could think of few things, right then, that I would rather do.

But there were two things that had an even higher priority. One, I desperately, desperately needed to sleep. I had forced myself to keep vigil, to keep alert throughout the long night that just ended, waiting and hoping and praying for his COVID-induced fever to break. It finally had. He had come through. But my own fevered body craved sleep like an addict craves a hit.

On the other hand, my most urgent priority was blessedly simple. I had kissed Rob, and he asked me to do it again, and right now there was nothing – absolutely nothing – I wanted to do more.

He was pinning my left arm, but my right was free. So I cupped my hand along the curve of his left cheek, bent down and touched my lips to his. Softly, at first, but I seemed to sink, to melt, into the kiss. I felt the palm of his hand – his left hand, my mind irrelevantly insisted on informing me, since I was pinning his right arm – slide behind my neck. Holding me close, drawing me deeper and deeper into that truly remarkable kiss.
Eventually, my overstimulated, sleep-deprived brain managed to generate a thought that was both germane to the situation and actually important: Rob was still stuffed up, and he was going to need to breathe. Eventually. Probably even soon.

So with great reluctance I pulled my lips back, retreated. Maybe two inches. I had an even closer view of one of those remarkable eyes. Both, really, but it would make me cross-eyed to try it.

“I think I could get used to that,” I said.

“I think we should find out,” he murmured in reply.

I bent to his lips again, slipping my free hand into the thicket of his coal black hair, while his own free hand slid lower, caressing my bare shoulder. This time I felt my whole upper body mold itself to his.

We broke our kiss again, and this time I rolled back to my side and he rolled forward to face me, separated by no more than a foot, our free hands resting on each other’s shoulders. Those remarkable eyes again . . . .

“Rob, I was so scared for you last night. It took a long time . . . a long time . . . to get your fever back down under 103. I probably should have brought you in, but I couldn’t. I just had such a bad feeling. Like I wouldn’t see you again if I did. You were burning up, but you were shivering . . . .”

I must have sounded a bit hysterical. “Shhhhh, Cami. Shhhhh. Hush now.” His left hand slowly circled my right shoulder. “Hush. I’m back now. You brought me back. It’s okay.” His lips – very kissable lips, it turns out – cracked into a smile. “I suppose it was too much to hope that a beautiful, scantily clad woman slipped into my bed to seduce me.” His fingers played with the delicate shoulder strap of my light green nightie.

I found myself blushing. “I really hadn’t thought about it. But now that you bring it up . . . .”

He chuckled. It was throaty and full of amusement. Of merriment.

God! I had made it through that awful night, and to hear such a sweet sound in the morning!

“Cami, dearest, you look like you are trying to force a truck to go uphill with nothing left in your tank. Just close your eyes. We’ll have plenty of time, you and me.”

I said, “Fiona” but he cut me off, saying, “Calls at 6:30. I know. I’ll tell her you're sleeping and give her a full report. Okay?”

I smiled. “A full report?”

He pretended to examine the spaghetti strap of my nightie carefully, rubbing it thoughtfully between thumb and forefinger. “Oh, I might leave a few unimportant details out. . . . However, if I leave medical details out, your dragon will incinerate me, and then where will we be?”

I brought my foggy brain to momentary focus. “Ah. Right. Okay. I didn’t make log entries last night, but the information is kind of lodged in my brain, you know? Your temp was at 103.2 at 1:00 am, 103 at 1:30 and 2:00; 102.8 at 2:30, 3:00 and 3:30, 102.4 at 4:00, 101.8 at 5:00 and 100.7 just now. You had Tylenol at 1:00 and Advil at 4:00. Got all that?”

He looked startled, then tapped his head and nodded. “I do. But, while that’s very useful, I doubt your dragon will be impressed. What are your own stats?”

“Oh! Sorry. I was busy. But . . . I had . . . Tylenol? When you did . . . . I think.”

He shook his head. “I am so doomed. She’s going to kill me.” He raised himself, reached across me and grabbed the thermometer. We were both getting adept at changing the disposable cap. He checked me and said, “101.6. Still not good. So, you’re going to take your Tylenol, Right Now, and then you are getting some sleep. Okay?”

Putting down the thermometer, he grabbed the pills and placed two gently on my tongue. He propped me up and had me finish the glass of water that was on the nightstand, then eased me back into the pillows. Last, and by far best, he bent down, kissed my forehead, and said, “Sleep.”

I smiled one more time before sleep reached up and pulled me under.

~o~O~o~
Mount Vernon, New York, later that morning

I woke up, feeling disoriented. I was back in the room I had stayed in while I was caring for Iain, and I had a moment’s sleepy thought that the last several days had only been a dream. My dreams were so vivid, sometimes. But this morning’s triumph – that had been no dream. Nor what had followed. I found myself smiling at the memory.

Once I’d maneuvered myself into a sitting position I took stock. My phone was by the bedside; presumably Rob had talked to Fi. She would be worried, I know, not having heard from me. I should send her a text and let her know I’m okay.

Rob had thoughtfully brought my dark green dressing gown and slippers from the other bedroom and laid them on the chair. I took the hint and got up, tugged my way into my robe and slippers and picked up my phone. 10:26 am. My goodness! I couldn’t remember the last time I slept so late.

My throat felt raw and there was no diminution in my body’s deep aches. I could tell that I was still running a fever, which I confirmed it with the thermometer: 101.7. Bah! I still felt gritty and sleep deprived, but I needed to use the facilities, and I needed a shower . . . and fresh clothes . . . and something to eat.

I poked my head out the door, feeling a little nervous. Would Rob regret this morning’s incident? God knows, I don’t! But if he did . . . Oh, I didn’t want to think about that. Not at all. But Rob wasn’t in the common area.

He had, as usual, thoughtfully left the door to the other bedroom slightly ajar so I could assure myself that he was still here, and all right. He had taped a note to it: “Hi Cami - Fiona told me to let you sleep a full six hours if possible, then wake you up for more drugs. If you get this first, I’m just taking a short nap. Wake me up if you need anything.”

I smiled, confirmed that he appeared to be sleeping peacefully, then carefully closed the door so as not to disturb him. I would be due for more medicine in around half an hour; he should be on the same schedule.

I went and took care of business, then went to get something for my throat. Some liquid; it didn’t much matter which since they all tasted the same. My phone buzzed on the counter of the kitchenette.

“Hello? I answered.

“Is this Cameron Savin?” a very official voice inquired.

My heart skipped a beat. “This is she.”

“Cameron, this is Ida Spear from Mount Vernon Hospital. I’m very sorry. Your brother Iain passed this morning.”

She was still speaking. Saying something. I tried to concentrate on it, but her voice sounded far away. Redshifting, like the sound of a siren as an ambulance races away, speeding towards a hospital . . . fading. My peripheral vision was narrowing, black at the edges, turning into a long, dark tunnel. I felt a powerful, bone-jarring pain against my knees, like someone had hit them with a crowbar, and the floor began to rise up, up; I threw out an arm just before it hit my face. I couldn’t hear the voice anymore . . . . I could hear nothing but the pulsing beat of dark wings. What was she saying? Everything was black.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER NINE
“Nell’ora del dolore”
– Puccini, Tosca, Vissi d’Arte, Vissi d’Amore (Aria)

Mount Vernon, New York, March 26, immediately following

I saw light. Not much, at first, but it was real. And I was back, yet again. Storm-tossed, my body falling and rising, buffeted by winds created by those monstrous, ink-black wings. I spun this way and that, my will gone. Tossed forward, I saw the creature’s face for the first time. Shockingly beautiful, a perfection of line and form, instantly conveying knowledge, wisdom, power . . . . A noble face. The face of a leader, a ruler.

Or a judge.

I had failed. Failed Iain. Failed Fiona. Failed, failed, failed. The creature raised a hand and the buffeting winds ceased. Without the wild winds’ support, I plunged, headfirst, then feet-first, twisting and cartwheeling faster and faster, until I finally hit the water and slipped below the surface of an inky sea that instantly enveloped me in dark and cold. So very cold!

I could not stop my descent through the icy water, going deeper and deeper. My dream vision began to fray at the edges, failing just as my earthly vision had failed.

Light returned again. But now I was in a snow-bound clearing, surrounded by deep, dark, majestic pines. Figures began to emerge from the silent trees. Walking towards a hole in the ground . . . a hole that held a box.

Oh, Iain!

But the figure in the box was not my brother. It was me. My image seemed peaceful. Eyes closed, hair meticulously arranged, as if Al had done it. The makeup showed Javier’s finesse. But I was pale and thin, and my curves would never be real.

I looked at the people who had come to stand by the hole. Robert, in a black suit and long coat. Rob! I so wanted you to teach me how to dance! And my wonderful, beautiful Nicole, her angel’s face streaked with tears, holding onto Maggie with a desperate grip. I won’t be there to help make our podcast. Another promise broken. Sarah was there, and Al and Javi, grief ridden, silent. Liz – vibrant, sharp Liz – stood out in red, her face carved in bitter lines.

And closest to the hole, to the box, Henry stood, despair eroding his handsome features, his arms wrapped protectively around a figure in black, suddenly fragile, fey and frail, the shattered remains of a once-heroic spirit.

Fiona! I failed you!! I could not even bear to look at her grief-ravaged face.

But there was one figure who displayed no sorrow. Instead, her face was consumed by seething contempt and scathing, magma-hot fury. She brushed past the mourners like they weren’t there, ignoring the hole, the box, and the pale figure inside it. Her hot gaze looked straight at me, wherever it was that I stood as I observed the scene. Looked me right in the eyes.

Tina.

“Coward! Quitter! Loser!” She spat the wods at me, unleashing her fury. “You turned your back on these people!!!”

“Dammit, Tina,” I said, finding my voice. “Iain’s dead. I failed, don’t you understand that?” I answered her rage with a cry of despair: “FAILED!”

She looked singularly unimpressed. “Oh, that’s never happened before? Well surprise, Boo. Shit happens. So where’s your steel now? Fine for your sister. Fine for Nicole. Fine for Tina. Sure. They can suck it up and take more, can’t they? But not you, huh? Not the princess?”

She leaned forward, spat, and spoke with a precise, clipped voice. “Get. The Fuck. Up!”

I was shaking. “Let me go! You don’t know what you’re asking! You have no right!!!!”

Her eyes blazed white hot. “I have no right? Me? Please.” Summoning years of bitterness – distilled, bottled, and consumed to the dregs – she added, “Life’s not fair, bitch. Deal.”

I wanted to punch her, pound her. Wring her scrawny neck. But she was gone. They were all gone, and the clearing was gone. I was once again foundering in the depths, surrounded by the frigid, deadly water.

Spurred by Tina’s contempt, I forced myself to fight – clawing, struggling, kicking with my legs, pumping with my numbed arms, trying to stop my fatal descent. Trying to reverse it. I could see light above me and I pushed for it. Pushed, and pushed and pushed, lungs bursting, throat burning. Vision contracting. Growing weaker now. Pushing.

My head crashed through the surface into a world made new, then suddenly my eyes were open, and my lungs were drawing in air in great, gasping heaves.

Rob was holding me in one arm while he desperately tried to dial something on my phone.

I reached up, still gasping, and weakly grabbed his wrist. “No, Rob!” I got out between the straining of my abused lungs. “No.”

“Yes! You were turning blue! You need an ambulance NOW!”

“No,” I said again, still heaving. “It’s not COVID.” Panting, I tried again. “Shock.” Pant, pant. “Shock. Give me . . . .” pant, pant . . . “give me a minute.”

He dropped the phone and used both arms to bring me into a sitting position, holding me firmly but loosely. His voice was suddenly calm and professional. “Lean forward. Lower your head. Take slow breaths. I’ve got you. Breathe. Easy.”

I followed his directions, let his voice guide me. The pounding of my heart began to subside and my labored breathing grew longer, deeper. Eventually, I reached up and squeezed his arms. “Okay.”

He helped me to my feet, my knees for some reason screaming agony, and got me to the couch and eased me down. Then he went to the kitchenette and got me a glass of cold water. He held it while I drank down a few mouthfuls, then set it down and squatted in front of me, looking at me carefully with his remarkable eyes. “Talk to me.”

I said, simply, “Iain.”

His eyes closed briefly, in pain or prayer or maybe both. Then he got up, sat beside me and gathered me into his arms.

I wept, and I wept some more, until I had no tears left. For Iain, and for Fiona. For our mother. Even for our father, who refused to see his son, and now never would. And for all the families in all the countries in all the world, for all the people who were losing their fathers and mothers, their brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, lovers . . . . I did not have enough tears for them all.

The world did not have enough tears.

Through my anguish, I heard a voice, soft and comforting. A chaplain’s cadence, unhurried, calm and formal. “I know that my Redeemer lives, and that at the last he will stand upon the earth. After my awaking, he will raise me up; and in my body I shall see God. I myself shall see, and my eyes behold him who is my friend and not a stranger. . . .” Rob’s voice.

I let the words wash over me. “I don’t know if I can bear it all. And I have to tell Mom. And . . . and Fi.” My voice cracked and I clutched him tight. “Please, Rob. Please. Help me!”

He held me close and stroked my hair, my back, saying nothing. Simply being by my side, sharing the grief that was tearing me apart.

My phone buzzed again. I slumped.

Rob bent, picked it up and looked at the caller ID. “It’s Fiona, Cami. They must have called her, too.”

I nodded, took the phone in numb hands, and accepted the call. “I’m so sorry, Fi.” I had no more tears, but my throat remained constricted, choking my voice.

“I talked to the doctor,” she said. “They did everything they could. Everything I could have done. But . . . but I wasn’t there for him. He trusted me, and I wasn’t even there. He was all alone!”

“I know. Not me, not you, not Mom or Dad or even a friend. No one.”

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this. Sitting here, doing nothing! I can’t bear the thought that I could lose you, too. I can’t.” Her voice shook. Fiona, at least, still had tears to shed.

In my mind’s eye, I saw again that small, shattered figure by my bier in the frozen woods. That would not happen. That would NEVER happen.

Slowly, deliberately, and forcefully, I said, “Fiona, I swear to you. I will get better, and I will get out of this damned motel, and I will, by God, dance at your wedding, and no angel or demon in heaven or on earth will prevent me. Swear to God!”

The line was silent for a moment, then Fiona said, softly, “I believe you, Cami. I don’t know why, right now, but I do.”

We were quiet a moment. Quiet, but still very much present.

There were some practical things that we needed to discuss, but, pulling myself further and further back from the brink, I told her that I would take care of whatever needed to be done on the administrative side. “I couldn’t save him. Maybe no one could. But I can at least take this off your hands while I’m sitting around here waiting to get better. Please, Fi. Go save some other people from what you and I are feeling right now.”

She took a deep, deep breath and exhaled explosively. “Okay, Cami. Okay. I don’t know how long I can keep it up. I don’t. But I’m on it.”

Rob had kept his arm around me throughout. As I signed off with Fiona, he gave my shoulders a squeeze. “You need some medicine. And some food. And probably, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, a hot shower. Let me give you a hand.”

I nodded. He got us both some Tylenol and took our temperatures. 100.1 for him; 101.8 for me. I said, “Thanks, Rob. I’ve . . . I’ve got to tell Mom. First.”

He nodded and sank down beside me. I called her number.

“Cameron?” she answered.

“Mom, I’m sorry. Iain didn’t make it. We lost him.” Dead silence, as still as a grave in a dark, deep wood . . . .

“Damn it!” Her voice was clear and cold, bitter and biting. “God damn it to the hottest hell!”

The line went dead.

“I don’t think I can remember hearing her swear.” I tried calling her back, but she didn’t answer. I put down the phone. Closed my eyes, exhausted. Like I hadn’t had any sleep at all.

~o~O~o~
I ate. Something. Showered, and took a moment to hand-wash my nightie and hang it in the shower to dry. Mechanically, I dried my hair, reapplied my prosthetics. Put on a bit of makeup, hiding the haunted look around my eyes. Jeans, t-shirt, fleece. Basta.

I stuffed my feet into my slippers and went back into the common room. Rob got up from behind the table where he had been doing something on his computer and folded me into his arms, holding my head to his firm, warm shoulder. We stood there a long while, silent.

Not moving my head from its resting place, I said, “I’m going to have to call the hospital now. Make the arrangements.”

He didn’t move. “What are you thinking?”

“We’ll have to do cremation. If we sent his remains to a funeral home, no one could be there. I’m contagious, you’re contagious, and no one else is available. It’s the only way.”

“Maybe it’s the best way,” Rob said into my hair. “It’s what I would want. Clean. Like . . .” Uncharacteristically, he stopped; didn’t finish the thought.

“Like what?” I asked his shoulder.

“I just remembered a verse. From Malachi. ‘But who may abide the day of His coming? And who shall stand when He appears? For He is like a refiner’s fire . . . . He will purify them and refine them like gold and silver.’ I imagine cremation is like that. A refiner’s fire. I’d want that.”

I thought about that for a bit. “For me as well. For Iain, though . . . Iain might prefer a Viking’s Funeral. Something dramatic.”

“I expect longships are hard to come by these days. . . . But it’s fire just the same, right?”

“Fire,” I confirmed.

Finally I sighed and pulled back to look at him. “Thank-you, Rob,” I said. “For everything. If I was alone here . . . well. Thank you.”

He traced my cheek with the fingers of his right hand. “Go make your calls. I’m here if you need me.”

I sat on the couch and made calls. The hospital wanted me to come in and confirm the identity of the body. I explained that I was in isolation. No, no one else was available. I suggested we do it by video call. They sputtered. Not permitted. Did they want me to come in? No, no! Not permitted.

I gave them some time to square the circle. In good bureaucratic fashion, it took them almost half an hour to come up with the idea that I could do the identification remotely. By video call.

I assured them that they were wise, very wise, to suggest it. We arranged a time. However, they could not release the body to me until the death certificate was issued. Things were very busy. Apparently. It might be a few days.

I called the Medical Examiner’s Office about the death certificate. They said they would get back to me.

Next, I called the Cremation Society. Yes, they could do it. But, I was supposed to be onsite, to positively confirm the identity of the body before the procedure. I explained the problem of being in isolation. They said they would need to get back to me.

Time for some Tylenol. My temperature was down to 101.1, but I had a nasty headache, on top of everything else. This time, the headache was not caused by COVID. At least not directly.

Rob passed on the medicine. His temp was down to a remarkable 99.7. His headache was gone and his throat felt much better, but he still had a cough, some body aches, and general fatigue.

I called Iain’s roommate. Mahmoud was very distressed, and lapsed into Farsi. Iain’s friend Mike was more stoic, but equally shaken. I had the impression that maybe Iain had been a different person, a less angry person, when family wasn't around. I hoped so.

It was 1:30 and I was out of gas. I struggled to get up; my knees were really bothering me. Rob was suddenly at my side, helping me up, guiding me into the bedroom. I pulled my feet from the slippers and sank down on top of the bed.

Rob said, “I’m going to leave this door open completely, and I’m going to be in sight. I am right here. No dreams this time, Cami.” He touched my face lightly.

I looked up at him, so solid. So warm. I touched the fingers that had brushed my face. “Rob. Someday – when all of this is over . . . will you teach me how to dance?”

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER TEN
“Ogni luce in lui m'è spenta”
– Donizetti, Lucrezia Borgia, Era desso il figlio mio (Aria)

Mount Vernon, New York, March 26, afternoon

Rob woke me up at 3:00 to give me some Advil. I was holding steady at 101 degrees; Rob had crept back up to 100. I sat up. “No backsliding!” I said sternly. “Get some medicine, right now. And some rest. You’ve been up for five hours.”

I could tell he wanted to protest, but he didn’t. “Okay, Cami. Give me an hour, but no more than that, okay?”

“One hour,” I said. “Don’t bother getting up; stay where you are.” I bent down, slipped his feet from the loafers he was wearing, then stood up. He was sitting on the bed, looking slightly bemused. I leaned in, kissed him lightly, and murmured, “One hour.”

He slept, and I kept an eye on him through the open bedroom door.

I checked my phone – no voicemails – and cleaned the daily junk from my emails. Russ Gardner liked my insurance analysis. His email included some follow-up questions and I sent a response. I sent a second email to Eileen, letting her know that Iain hadn’t made it, but that I was still in isolation and symptomatic.

I received an immediate response: “I am so very sorry for your loss. My prayers are with you and your family. Be safe.”

When I woke Rob at 4:30, his temp was back down to 99.6 (I was still holding steady). He took care of his business and emerged a few minutes later.

My video call to identify Iain’s body was at 5:00. I made some tea for both of us and we talked quietly. Waiting.

At 5:00 exactly, I received a FaceTime call on my iPad from an unknown caller. I set the pad on the table and swiped left. Rob came around behind me and rested his hands on my shoulders.

The man on the other end of the line was older, silver gray hair and a lined face. “Good afternoon. I’m Doctor Sykes. Let me first say how very, very sorry we are for your loss. And, I’m so sorry we have to do this over the phone. It feels so impersonal.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” I responded. “I want you to know – I want all of you to know – how much we appreciate everything you’re doing. And everything you did for Iain.”

He bobbed his head in acknowledgement. “I have to ask a few questions for the record, to establish who you are and your relationship with the deceased. I apologize for the formality.”

I nodded.

“Could you please state your full name?”

“My given name is Cameron Ross Savin.” His eyebrow rose a fraction at my phraseology, but he didn’t comment on it.

“What is your date of birth?”

“September 7, 1993.”

“What was your brother’s name?”

“Iain Frances Savin.”

“And when was he born?”

“July 2, 1988.” I had a sudden recollection of Iain at a beach house. The Jersey shore. Making a production out of blowing out candles on a cake. I must have been four. Where had that memory come from?

“When did you last see your brother?”

That memory was permanently seared into my brain. Iain, desperately trying to breathe, calling for Fiona. I struggled to keep my voice steady. “Last Friday morning. March 19, around 2:10 a.m.”

Rob’s fingers pressed on my shoulders.

“Okay, Cameron,” the doctor said. “We’re going to take the camera into the other room. I will show you the body and ask you to confirm that it is the body of your brother Iain Frances Savin. If you are not completely sure, or if the video image isn’t clear enough, please say so. It’s very important that we be certain.”

I nodded again, not trusting my voice.

The doctor got up and walked to a door; someone offscreen followed, holding the camera.

On the other side of the door, a body was laid out on a table, dressed only in a thin hospital gown. Cold. Lifeless. So pale the features might have been carved from wax. In death, he appeared calm, even peaceful. So unlike the passions that had animated his face in life. But there was no doubt.

None.

“I confirm that this is the body of Iain Frances Savin, born to Howard and Aileen Savin of St. Louis, Missouri on July 2, 1988. My brother.” My voice held steady, though tears were beginning to blur my vision again.

The camera moved to focus again on Dr. Sykes. “Thank you for your assistance, Ms. Savin. Cameron. And again, I am so sorry for your loss.” We ended the call.

Rob bent down and wrapped his arms around me. Then he guided me to the sitting area, put my mug of tea in both hands, and sat across from me. “Still can’t taste it, can you?”

I shook my head.

He took a sip of his own mug, then set it down. “Tell me about your brother.”

So we talked about Iain. The childhood prankster. The angsty adolescent. The passionate, often angry, man. The guy with the permanent chip on his shoulder. The mobile face, the powerful voice. Always dramatic, Iain. The only person in our family who would go toe-to-toe with Dad and not back down. Iain never backed down.

“I’m sure Fiona has better stories,” I said. “They were much closer in age. . . . I just hope she has a chance to sit down with your brother tonight and tell some of them. It . . . it helps.”

We sat quietly for a bit, then I sighed. “He was a complicated guy, and we didn’t have a great relationship. To some extent, we got along better in this motel room than we ever had before. Maybe he liked having a little sister better than a little brother. I don’t know. But I’ll miss him.”

We had some dinner and we talked some more. The day faded, and I felt a rising apprehension. I feared the night; feared sleep and the terrible dreams it might bring. When Rob suggested I should turn in, I resisted.

He looked at me evenly. “I understand that fear, Cami. I’ve seen it. Felt it, lived with it. Sometimes it helps to talk through the terrors. Not always. But I’ll help you if I can.”

I looked down at my hands. “It started after Christmas, like you guessed.” My voice was low. “At first I seemed to relive what had happened and what I’d been feeling in that library, when . . . when Jonathan came at me. But before long, the images went away. The only thing left was the feeling . . . the fear. I was terrified for Fiona.”

He broke in, surprised. “For Fi? She was downstairs, wasn’t she?”

I nodded. “She was. It wasn’t a physical threat. He was going to try to destroy her relationship with your family. I knew how much it mattered to Fi . . . especially since her own family was such a hot mess. I don’t think you realize how important family is to her . . . .” It’s impossible to convey just what family can mean to someone like Fiona.

I gave up with a shake of my head. “Anyway, once this damned pandemic hit, my fear has just gotten bigger and more generalized. It started invading even pleasant recurring dreams I used to have.” I blushed and decided I wasn’t going to describe those pleasant dreams in any detail.

“What I keep coming back to, over and over now, is a crazy scene where I’m falling toward a deep body of water, and I’m getting tossed around like a ragdoll by some sort of massive hurricane. And . . . .” I stopped, having trouble going further. My breathing felt uneven.

Rob was beside me; I hadn’t noticed him move.

He wrapped his right arm around me and held my hand with his left. “I’ve got you, Cami. You’ll get through this. What comes next, in your nightmare?”

I shivered. “A huge creature – I think of it as the Angel of Death. It rises up out of the water and spreads these massive, dark wings, like they would cover the whole world. I can hear them beating . . . .” Even the memory shook me.

He held me tighter.

“Anyhow, that’s what woke me, when Iain had his attack. And again last night. And this morning, when I heard the news, I was back in the nightmare, just like that. But this time I hit the water and sank like a rock, and then suddenly I was at my own funeral. And you were there, and Nicole and Maggie, Al, Javier, Sarah. Tina. . . . And Henry. Henry was holding Fi. What was left of her.”

I was weeping at the memory of Fi’s agony, crying uncontrollably. But I felt like I had to get through it. “Tina came and chewed me out. Then I was back in the water, trying to get to the surface. Running out of air. I was sure I wouldn’t make it. But when I did . . . .”

I paused, thinking about it, trying to recall what had happened next. It had been so quick. . . . But when it came back to me, I was filled with wonder.

“I hadn’t focused on it, Rob. Because just after, I was back with you, trying to breathe and stop you from calling an ambulance. But when my head broke through the surface of the water I saw the most beautiful thing . . . . No storm. No dark angel. Just a clear blue lake, a perfect, cloudless sky . . . snowy mountains . . . air so clean it almost hurt. It felt like the first day of the world.”

He just held me tight while I processed everything. At some point I dabbed the tears from my eyes and nestled into his protective arm, laying my right hand against his chest.

He kissed the top of my head. “Better?”

I gave him a little smile. “What? You aren’t going to tell me what my dreams mean?”

He chuckled. “Not a chance. You’ve got enough anxieties bouncing around your head to create a whole highlight reel of nightmares. Look. I’ve had friends of mine who were absolutely certain that they weren’t going to survive a mission. Positive. They knew it, and nothing anyone could say would change their minds. They were almost always wrong. Almost. Who am I to say? But I do think your dreams have shown your greatest fear.”

I nodded. “Fi,” I admitted, my voice heavy.

“More precisely,” he said, “that somehow, harm comes to Fiona through you.”

I chewed that over before saying, “I guess that’s right. I hadn’t thought of it that way before. But . . . I am petrified that somehow I’ll hurt her.”

“Have you always been close?”

I shook my head. “Not really. We were when I was small, but in a way a babysitter might be close to the child she’s watching. Fi’s seven years older. And when she went away to college, she didn’t just walk for the exits, she ran. We’ve actually become much closer since I’ve discovered I’m transgendered. In some ways, I think she saw it long before I did.

“But . . she’s always been my hero, even when she wasn’t there. The smart, beautiful, vibrant sister who would save the world. Who would reach for the stars . . . .” As the memories hit me, my voice grew soft and distant. “So long as she had a safe place to stand. A place to call home. A warm hearth. Family. Peace.”

He squeezed my shoulder gently. “Let’s see that she gets them, then. You need to get better, like you promised her. But no demon will come for you tonight. I will see to that personally.” He kissed me again, this time on my lips.

His kiss was soft and sweet.

I found myself responding, kissing him back with intensity and passion. I broke off, honestly a bit embarrassed.

But he chuckled, snagged some stray strands of my hair and tucked them behind my ear. “And here I was,” he said, “worried that I would go out of my mind with boredom being cooped up in a motel for weeks!”

My flannel nightgown hadn’t come back from the cleaner and my green nightie wasn’t dry yet, so I had to settle for yoga pants and a sleeveless ribbed t-shirt. I slipped into bed and he snuggled against my back, spooning against me. No angels or demons disturbed my sleep; the only dream I remembered when I woke up involved Albert Pujols returning to the Cardinals and playing like he had when I was young.

Sweet dreams.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“croce e delizia al cor”
– Verdi, La Traviata, E strano! e strano! (Aria)

Mount Vernon, New York, March 27

At some point in the night, between the last time we took some Tylenol and the time I woke up, we must have rolled a bit apart. I propped myself on my elbow and studied Rob as he slept.

His Hutchinson heritage was apparent in the squarish face, strong jaw and nose. But the bones seemed finer, sharper than those of his brother or uncle. His eyebrows, too, were thinner, less bushy. He did resemble his father very strongly, though I didn’t remember anyone in his family having those remarkable eyes.

Rob knew exactly who and what I was. Yet he had never, not once, treated me as anything other than a woman. Yesterday had definitely and dramatically altered our relationship, in a way that I found myself welcoming without reservation – but not without worry.

Would this new aspect of our relationship – what I was afraid to jinx by calling it ‘love’ – survive the bizarre moment in which we found ourselves, thrown together in a small space, helping and being helped? And, even more deeply worrisome, could it survive an encounter with the physical limits of my body?

Would he . . . could he . . . want me?

I tested my feelings, as carefully as Cameron Savin had always tested everything, unwilling to simply trust what I felt deep down. But no skeptic’s eye could shake the conviction that had lodged in my heart. It hadn’t happened when I kissed him; instead, it was when he had kissed me back. Oh, yes. I definitely wanted him, in every way that any straight woman has ever wanted a man.

I ached to reach over, to caress his fine features. To trace the line of his jaw with my fingers. To wake him with a kiss, welcoming the day. Instead, I slipped from the bed and let him sleep.

At 6:30 I spoke with Fiona and gave her the status of my arrangements for Iain. She agreed that cremation was really the only option and thanked me for handling everything. Then she grilled me on my condition and Rob’s, where at least I had better news to report.

“Rob really seems to have come through it,” I said. “His fever broke the night before last, and it’s stayed below 100 degrees since yesterday afternoon. The last reading we took at midnight was 99.1. He’s still pretty fatigued, but the other symptoms seem to be getting a lot better. Even the cough isn’t as bad.

“I’m doing better as well, but not as much improvement as Rob. My midnight reading was 100.8, I’ve still got all the muscle and joint aches, and I’m tired, and have some coughing. And, still no taste or smell.”

I got my shower and got ready for the day, sticking with jeans, T-shirt, and a fleece, together with a simple high ponytail. I didn’t have much energy for more. Rob was up and in the shower when I got out of my bathroom, so I fired up the Keurig. He came out of the common bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist and damp hair clinging to his temples.

“Oops!” he said, “I thought I’d be out before you were!”

I couldn’t help but notice his well-formed shoulders and chest, the latter with a modest amount of curly hair as black as what was on his head.

I swallowed my doubts and grinned wickedly. “I’ll let you know if I have any complaints!”

He returned my smile, put a hand behind my neck and brought me in for a kiss. “Hey,” he said gently. “Sleep okay?”

“I did. . . . Thanks for being there.”

He smiled again, then went to get dressed.

~o~O~o~
I called Nicole around 9:30, when I knew that she would be up. Rob was working at the table and I made the call from my bedroom. I hadn’t spoken with her since Wednesday, so I filled her in on the news.

She was warm and supportive and wonderful. She asked about the arrangements and I told her about the progress I had made so far.

She said, “So you’re supposed to observe the cremation?”

“That’s the rule, yeah. Apparently some places were making no efforts to actually give people the right ashes, there was a huge scandal, and everyone had to establish rigid procedures to give the practice credibility again. But I don’t know how I can do it if I’m in quarantine.”

“If you do it, you shouldn’t be alone. I know I can’t be there with you in person, so don’t start on me! But, even if I could only be there by FaceTime . . . I want to be there for you. Think about it, okay?”

“If I haven’t already said this, my bad, but you are the most wonderful person in the world. Thank you. I don’t know what the arrangements will be, but I would feel a thousand times better if you were with me, even if you can’t be physically present. I miss you so much. You and Maggie both.”

“Then get well, girl,” she said softly. “Get well, and come home.”

I was a bit teary when we ended the call. I popped out to get something hot to drink, to help open my throat.

Rob looked up and raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just a bit weepy because my roommate is really wonderful. Which sounds strange when I say it – the weepy part – but I can’t help it. She wants me to FaceTime her if I have to observe Iain’s cremation, because she doesn't want me to be alone.”

“That’s a really good idea. Fiona and Henry might want to participate the same way. It could be a long time before anyone is holding any kind of funeral or memorial service. . . . But you won’t be alone, Cami. I’ll be there with you – if you’ll have me.”

“Now don’t you get me weepy, too,” I scolded. “But thank you. I . . . of course I want you there, Rob. Assuming, of course, that I can be there.”

I went back into the bedroom and made some more calls. Still no death certificate. The person from the Cremation Society said they were trying to figure out how to manage our situation, especially recognizing that it was likely to become a more frequent occurrence. He promised to call me back.

Mom still wasn’t answering her phone.

I went down for a nap around 10:00. I was getting tired of being tired. When I got up at 11:30, Rob was asleep in the other room. We both seemed to need a lot of sleep.

I was just getting myself some Tylenol when I got a FaceTime call from Liz. I took it in my room.

As soon as she saw my face, she knew. “Oh, no. He didn’t make it.”

“No,” I said. “He died yesterday morning.”

Her green eyes were more serious, more grim, than I had ever seen them. “I’m sorry, Cami. You tried so hard – fought so hard. All of you did.”

We talked a bit about Iain, and the arrangements I was making, and Nicole and Rob’s idea about being present by video. Liz suggested I try a new app that her company was now using for video calls, something called Zoom. Apparently it worked better for having multiple participants. She also said, “I’d like to be there, too, Cami.”

We talked a bit more. I listened carefully and determined Rob must still be sleeping, then I said, “Liz. Could I talk to you about something?”

She gave me a look that said both, “What do you think we’re doing right now,” and “of course.”

I dropped my voice. “I shouldn’t even be thinking about this right now. I know I shouldn’t. But I can’t help it. I . . . . I’m . . . .”

I stopped, frustrated, tongue-tied, feeling like a child. Or, I thought suddenly, like an adolescent girl. Just great.

Liz observed my efforts to get through a sentence. “Boy trouble? Rob?”

I blushed to the roots of my hair, and my voice got even lower. “Yes. Or, no. Not trouble. Not that. But . . . I think I’m falling in love with him, Liz. Which is crazy, I know it’s crazy. We’re stuck here in this motel room, day after day, and we can’t see anyone else, and my brother just died, and . . . and . . . . Oh, dammit, Liz! What am I going to do?!” I sounded like an idiot and I was embarrassed as all hell.

Liz looked uncharacteristically understanding. “Cami. Honey. Slow down. Take a deep breath. I don’t know why you expect your heart will wait for a convenient time to jump the rails; no one else's does. Don’t feel guilty about it. Now, suppose you tell me what’s been happening?”

So I gave her the details, ears all the while straining to catch any sound from the other room. I told her about our talks, and our chess games. About my vigil Wednesday night and how it resolved. About yesterday, and last night. About this morning.

Through it all, she was patient, listening carefully, asking a few clarifying questions. When I was done, she asked, “So . . . what’s the problem, Cami? You seem to be doing just fine.”

I stared at her, dumbfounded. Hasn’t she been listening?

She saw my expression and smiled slightly. “I’m serious. Listen. You're a wonderful person. Take that as a given; I know you won’t agree but everyone else does. If he wasn’t attracted to you, he wouldn't be kissing you. Oh, maybe the first time – you had just spent the night keeping him alive – but not the third time, or the fifth time.”

“But . . . .” I interjected.

“. . . but nothing!” she retorted. “Based on everything you’ve observed about him, is he someone who just goes around kissing people for no reason? Do you think he’s just having some fun?”

That stopped me. “No. Rob is . . . . I mean . . . . I’ve obviously been around guys all my life. Compared to Rob, most of them seem like boys, even the ones that are older than he is. Like Tim. Rob is serious. Solid. He’s, I don’t know. Substantial. I can't describe it. I don’t want you to think he’s not fun – you should see him dance! – or funny, or clever. But he’s the last person on earth I could imagine just playing around with someone’s feelings. He’s not wired that way. At all.”

Liz smiled and shook her head. “Oh, girl, have you got it bad!”

“I know,” I said, miserable. “I know. And I suddenly find myself wanting to be everything he could ever wish for, everything he could want in a girl. In a woman. But . . . but I’m trans, Liz. You know what I look like, under the makeup. Without the padding. I can’t be what he wants!”

“Learn something from my experience, would you?” Liz suddenly looked serious, even severe. “You need to be yourself. Never waiver from that. Never. If he’s attracted to who you are, great. If he isn’t, that’s his loss. As far as your being trans, it hasn’t fazed him yet. I’m not saying it will be all wine and roses, but don’t buy trouble. You are absolutely capable of satisfying a man, so long as he’s interested in you. And it sounds like he is.”

Liz’s hard-headed common sense finally managed to put some hairline fractures in my armor of self-doubt. “I hope so. I really do.”

She softened. “Give it time. This is all coming at you so fast. And you’re still sick, and you’re dealing with Iain. If there’s something there, let it grow at its own pace, and don’t tie yourself in knots if everything isn’t wrapped up in a bow by lunchtime. Okay?”

“Okay. . . . What would I do without you?”

She laughed. “That’s easy. You’d think too much and worry yourself silly. You’re in lockdown with a good-looking guy who wants to kiss you. Just enjoy it!”

I have amazing friends.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Wie Todesahnung Dämmrung deckt die Lande”
– Wagner, Tannhäuser, O du mein holder Abendstern (Aria)

Mount Vernon, New York, March 27, afternoon

Rob was up again at noon and we had a bite to eat. I wasn’t positive, but I thought that maybe . . . maybe? I could taste something. It wasn’t enough to be certain, but I was encouraged, nonetheless. My temp was down to 100.5, and Rob’s had gone back to 98.5. He said he normally ran a little cooler than the average, but if he wasn’t completely at normal he was close

After lunch Rob tried to get some more work in. I sat across from him at the table and checked my work emails. One from rafe.oliveira flagged as “Urgent” immediately caught my eye.

TO: All Personnel, All Offices

FROM: Raphael Oliveira, Chairman of the Management Committee, and Evan Barksdale, Managing Partner for Personnel

DATE: March 27, 2020

RE: EMERGENCY OFFICE CLOSURE

As a result of the growing threat of the COVID-19 virus, the firm will be closing all offices to in-person work for two weeks, effective COB today. We hope to be able to reopen on Monday, April 13. However, if it is not reasonably safe to do so at that time, we will extend the office closure for an additional period.

All employees should bring their laptops home with them at the end of the day today, as well as other equipment and materials necessary to work remotely during the office closure. Employees who are not in the office today should contact the office manager for your location to arrange delivery of necessary equipment or material to your residence.

Our IT Department is working to evaluate software solutions that will allow us to function more efficiently from remote locations for a period. When they are ready, they will upload the necessary software to your laptops remotely. Details will follow.

This is a difficult time and we are sure you all have lots of questions. It would be most efficient if you emailed them to Lynn Oster; she will compile a list and we’ll work on getting everyone answers as soon as possible.

We will be in touch in the near future with additional information. Until then, we hope that you and your families stay safe.

When I finished reading, I said, “Well, I’ll be dipped in shit.”

Rob looked a question at me and I explained.

“Do you think the two weeks is real?” he asked.

“Seems unlikely, but we’ll see. I’m glad I’ve got my laptop here. But I just can’t imagine what this is going to be like. Everybody working from home? All at the same time?” I shook my head, thinking of a staggering number of complications. “How on earth can we do litigation when we’re scattered all over the place?”

Rob said, “I can see where that might pose more of a challenge than running my office with everyone working from remote locations. But I guess that the machinery of justice has to grind on, so you’ll all have to think of ways. On the bright side, it’s going to give more tech-savvy lawyers like you a bit of an edge.”

“Maybe.” I chewed it over. “I should definitely start thinking about how we can make technology help. I was talking to my friend Liz while you were sleeping; she was saying good things about an app for multi-person video conferences. I think she called it ‘Zoom.’ Maybe it would help. But it won’t be the same popping into someone’s office with a quick question. Or having a good litigation team meeting.”

Rob ran a search on his computer. “Yup. Zoom Video Communications, Inc. A good product, by all accounts. And the stock’s been nuts since early this year. Looks like we used it as part of our hedging strategy. Not my area, of course.”

He went back to work.

I was debating doing the same when I got a call from the medical examiner’s office, telling me that Iain’s death certificate had been issued. I needed to get things set with the Cremation Society, but the hospital agreed to hold the body while I did that.

Back in my room I tried calling Mom again. She still wasn’t answering and I was getting worried. After going back and forth, I decided I had better try to do something to make sure she was alright. I did a search and then put in a call to the assisted living facility where Gammy Campbell lives in Morgantown, West Virginia.

When I asked the receptionist if there was a way that I could speak with Catriona Campbell, she was apologetic. “She doesn’t have a phone in her room.”

“Would it be possible for someone to bring her a cell phone? It’s a bit of an emergency.”

“Who’s calling, please?”

“Her granddaughter, Camryn.”

“Camryn, we don’t ordinarily bring phones to residents. Can we take her a message?”

“It really would be better if I spoke to her. Her grandson Iain passed away yesterday. COVID. And, I can’t reach her daughter Aileen, so I’m worried she might not be okay.”

“Oh my goodness! I’m so sorry! Poor Cat is going to be devastated! But you’re absolutely right. I’ll see if I can’t get someone into her room with a phone. Can we reach you at this number?”

I assured her that they could.

Five minutes later, I got a call back; the ID said “Sheila Tinsdale.”

“Hello?” I said, accepting the call.

“Is this Camryn?”

“It is.”

“Let me put your grandmother on.”

There was a pause, followed by a familiar voice, dry and matter-of-fact. “Cameron?”

“Gammy . . . I’m very sorry. We lost Iain yesterday. He didn’t make it.”

She was silent for a moment before saying, “Oh, the poor, poor, boy!” Her voice was brittle with pain. “Aileen told me you were looking after him?”

“I was. But we had to send him to the hospital a week ago. He just . . . he couldn’t get enough oxygen.”

She was silent for a moment. “This’ll hit your mother hard. You told her?”

“I did. Yesterday. She, ahh . . . swore a bit. Then she hung up, and I can’t get her to answer my calls. Will you try to reach her?”

“Aye, I’ll do that,” she said. “Iain . . . oh, he was such a scrappy, headstrong hellion. God, I loved that boy!”

“I know, Gammy. And he loved you too.”

“Thank you for being there for him. I’m so very glad you were. That he didn’t think he’d been disowned and abandoned by everyone.” She sighed. “Well, let me try to call Aileen. I’ll get you a message somehow.”

We ended the call.

Later in the day, I got a call from Gammy’s facility. She had reached Mom, who was grieving but otherwise okay. It wasn’t much, but I couldn’t expect more. No one should have to outlive a child; Mom had outlived two.

“I get that,” Rob said. “But why wouldn't that make her closer to the children who are still alive? Your sister is in the middle of this whole pandemic. You’re sick with the virus right now. She could lose you too. Is that what it would take for her to show any love?”

I had no answer to that. “I don’t understand her, either Rob. I never have.”

~o~O~o~
Mount Vernon, New York, March 29

Two more nights, sleeping by Rob’s side. Sweet, dreamless sleep. Mornings looking at him, wrestling with my feelings. Wondering what he was feeling, but afraid to ask. Days living by Liz’s wisdom to simply let this evolve in its own time. To enjoy it.

We had been taking things easy. Resting, talking. Simply being in each other’s company. There had been touches, kisses, and tenderness. He would catch me looking at him; sometimes, while I worked, I felt his eyes on me.

Neither of us talked about it.

I had been uncharacteristically emotional. Memories of Iain would catch me unaware and leave me crying.

Rob was always there, providing comfort and support. Sometimes words; more often just a warm presence, a touch.

After a lot of back-and forth, the Cremation Society had offered to let Rob and me into the facility for the cremation so that they could adhere to policy, subject to certain precautions. We would be masked, and Rob even had Henry’s guy drop off face shields and gloves when he did our latest laundry swap.

The facility was the size of a small warehouse and the process was largely automated, so they decided that they could handle it without putting anyone at risk. We would almost never be closer than fifty feet from any of their personnel, who would also be masked.

Fiona had approved the plan as well. “I don’t know when you’ll stop being infectious, so you will absolutely need to take precautions. But, based on the layout, and the masks, face-shields, and gloves, it should be safe enough. Of course, you both have to stay well enough to actually do it.”

They scheduled the procedure for Monday at noon.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Oh, Gioia ch'io non conobbi, esser amata amando!”
– Verdi, La Traviata, E strano! e strano! (Aria)

Mount Vernon, New York, March 29, evening

By Sunday evening, even my temperature had gotten back under 100 degrees and my aches and pains were receding. My sense of taste and smell were still impaired and I still had a lingering cough.

Rob was almost as good as new, though still fatigued.

Rob and I were discussing plans for the next day following a dinner that I was positive I could actually taste, though it tasted funny.

“That’s not you. Or else it’s both of us. That did taste funny.” He picked up the dishes, put them in the sink, then came back and started massaging my neck and shoulders.

I stretched forward, put my hands on the table and my head in my hands, and let him work.

“You are tight, tight, tight,” he said, as his fingers worked down my shoulder blades. He stopped after a couple minutes and rested a hand lightly on my back. “Let me do this properly. Go lie down. And remove your fleece; the fabric’s too thick for me to get through properly.”

I decided I would not read anything into his offer beyond what he had said. Don’t force it, Liz had said. So I took off my fleece and laid face-down on the bed. But I had worn a camisole under the fleece today; my T-shirts were off being washed.

Rob came and sat on the bed. He began, slowly and methodically, to give my back a thorough, deep and therapeutic massage.

I found my tension draining away. All my worries. It felt like even my grief became a dull ache as his fingers loosened every muscle group. After half an hour, I was not remotely sleepy, but I was fully, deeply relaxed.

I felt his lips brush my shoulder blade, then the top of my shoulder close beside my lingerie straps, then the back of my neck. I felt his warm breath in my ear, and heard his voice, low, husky, almost trembling. “You are so beautiful . . . so perfect! I don’t know how to love you properly. But I want to learn. God, I want to learn!”

Am I dreaming? Is this real? I rolled over, finding myself inches from those amazing eyes. Eyes filled with love. And . . . could it really be? Desire? Was it possible that this beautiful, wonderful man might actually want me?

I held his eyes in my gaze, pouring everything I felt for him into it. “Are you sure Rob? You know I’m not . . . .”

He stopped me. “I know. But you are all the woman any man could ever want. Could ever hope for. For the rest, for how we go about making love, you and me . . . the mechanics don’t sound complicated. People manage. The question is, are you sure?”

I framed his handsome face with both of my hands, somehow feeling his strength, his passion, his tightly controlled will through the sensitive nerves of my fingers.

“I’m sure, Rob. I could not be more certain.”

This time his kiss was fierce, exultant, full of his own desire.

I returned it with equal fervor, then parted my lips and felt his tongue, urgent, mix and mingle with mine.

Then he raised his head and shoulders, breaking the kiss. “I want you this instant, girl, but not like this.” His breath was ragged. “Let me do it right. I can . . . I can hold on.”

My laugh was low, intimate. “Not for too long, I hope.” I brought my hands in – my soft, slender hands – and slowly, teasingly, began to unbutton his shirt. He was using both arms to hold himself over me. I wriggled lower, continuing my work, then raising my head to kiss his chest where I had freed it. When I had the last button undone, I ran both hands up his abdomen and over his well-formed pecs.

“Okay, love,” I said. “Sit up for me.”

He pivoted into a sitting position and I followed him up, kneeling on the bed. I drew off his shirt and began to explore his fine, strong body with my hands. My lips. My tongue. His arms came around my back, digging into the muscles he had loosened, quivering.

“Oh, God, Cami!” He buried his head into my neck, my shoulder, kissing the sweet spot where the two joined.

It was wonderful . . . amazing. I was on fire, and I wanted more. Wanted everything. I brought my hands down, undid the clasp of his belt. Tugged and undid the button below. Pulled down his zipper, becoming clumsy in my own urgency.

He groaned.

“Lie down now, Rob. Lie back.” My voice was throaty, almost unrecognizable.

He lay back against the pillows, allowing me to pull his pants down, down, then off of his bare feet. His underwear, black and tight, was straining to hold his erection. I ran my fingers over the front panel, lifted the waistband and pulled them down, then paused to give him a most intimate touch, and a delicate kiss where it would make him writhe. I pulled his underwear past his knees, then off.

I stood up to admire him, lying there, so perfect. So desirable. I unbuttoned, then unzipped, my own jeans and – with somewhat greater difficulty (women’s jeans!) – pulled them off.

He was staring at me with wonder and desire. At me!

I didn’t remove my lingerie, wanting to preserve, as long as I could, the illusion of my feminine curves.

He raised his right hand, palm up, inviting me to take it.

I reached out, lightly resting the tips of my fingers over his.

He pulled himself to the sitting position, swung his legs on either side of mine, and pulled me close, his engorged penis crushed against the sheer silkiness of my camisole. He kissed me hungrily, tried to break off, then buried himself again.

My fingers were in his thick hair, and I was squirming sensually, straining to mold myself to him even more closely.

He managed to pull free, then lifted me up effortlessly, one arm behind my knees, the other behind my back. He kissed me again and tenderly laid me back on the bed.

“I had a few things dropped off with the laundry and the faceshields, Cami. Just . . . just in case. Things that will help. Give me a moment.”

He stepped to the door of the bedroom and came back a moment later with a package of condoms and a tube of something. He came back to the bed and sat beside me, excited but still in control. “Lie still now, love.”

As thoroughly as he had massaged and soothed my tense muscles, he now worked to bring every one of my nerve endings to a pitch of intense excitement. He stroked, he squeezed. He caressed. He kissed my arms, my throat, my ears, my belly.

When I couldn’t take any more I cried, “Please Rob! Please!”

Gently, tenderly, he removed my panties, then my padded panty gaff.

It was the moment of truth, but I was too far gone to be embarrassed.

He did not shy away from the evidence that there were, after all, parts of me that remained male, even if unimpressively so. He gave a single soft caress to the front of my penis, then he scooped up my knees with one arm, raising my ass off the bed. After sliding two pillows under my lower back, he gently pulled my knees apart. He looked in my eyes, not breaking contact, as put lube on his fingers and then probed, touched, and found my hole. I whimpered as his finger probed deeper, making circles.

Finally done with foreplay, he rolled between my legs, put protection and gel on his penis, and then set it against the hole he had teased open.

“This will hurt, Cami,” he warned. “At first. I will be slow. But when you’re ready . . . you’ll let me know.”

I looked at him with love, with desire, and wholly without fear. “I’m yours, Rob,” I said simply. “Take me.”

We began to push, and yes, it hurt. And my muscles wanted to fight him, and we had to work at it. But his eyes, like mine, were filled with love, desire, and sorcery.

The mechanics were not, after all, tremendously complicated.

Then he reached a point, a depth, and I felt something ringing within me like a great bell, deep and pure and powerful. I cried out, and I bucked, and the world was fire and beauty and magic. The magic of love, which finds a way.

He pounded in and out, driving my singing nerves to a whole new pitch. Then I felt him explode inside me, felt magma in the core of my being, and we clung together and wept for the pure, unadulterated joy of it.

A few moments later, he slipped out of me, then rolled off, capturing my limp body as he rolled. When his maneuver was complete he was on his back and my head was on his chest. His fingers stroked my hair, my back, my shoulder.

I kissed his chest tenderly, even as I brought up my hand to fondle his other pectoral muscle. “I think,” I said thoughtfully, pausing to take a contemplative nibble, “that you figured it out. Clever man.”

He chuckled but did not answer for quite a while. When he did, his voice was both warm and serious, “I don’t play around, Cami. Ever. I didn’t intend this to happen tonight; I was going to wait until after tomorrow, after you had said your farewells to Iain. I hoped that something might happen later, when you weren't dealing with everything. With your brother and your sister and your mother and grandmother.”

He sighed. “But I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted you too badly. Loved you too much. I’ve wanted you since the first moment I set eyes on you.”

I put both my hands on his chest, palms down, and rested my chin on them so I could get a better look at his remarkable eyes.

“I’ve cross-examined myself mercilessly, you know. Worried that my feelings might be, I don’t know . . . somehow colored by this crazy situation we’re in. Maybe even by hormones, God help me. But I’m certain my feelings are real, are true. If this isn’t love, I don’t know what love is. And I’ll tell you this, Robert Gould Hutchinson: I wouldn’t have missed this moment for anything in the world.”

His eyes were warm, but a twinkle reappeared, softening some of his seriousness. “If you’re going to make a declaration like that, you’ll have to tell me a secret.”

“A secret?” I had my share of secrets. Not all were mine to tell.

“Oh, yes. . . . One you haven’t told me. Or anyone else, as far as I know.” He was smiling fully now, but he wasn’t teasing. “What is your name?”

Rob had always called me Cami, but he wanted the formal as well. Because serious occasions would require it, and he was a serious man.

A memory flashed through my mind. A mall at Christmastime . . . my voice, saying, “Names are powerful . . . . When someone tells you what they want you to call them, they are trying to tell you something about themselves. About who they are . . . .” Was that really just three months ago?

“My name,” I decided, “Is Camryn Elizabeth Campbell.”

He answered back, formal as an attorney appearing at the Supreme Court’s lectern. “Camryn Elizabeth Campbell. . . . I love you.”

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“e diedi il canto agli astri, al ciel”
– Puccini, Tosca, Vissi d’Arte, Vissi d’Amore (Aria)

White Plains, New York, March 30

Iain was laid out in a box. He was shrunken, smaller and paler than he had been in life. But I would know that face anywhere. Would remember it forever. I placed my hands on his cold, unmoving chest. A chest that would never draw another breath. A final touch.

I nodded to the distant technician, exaggerating the motion so that it would be visible through both mask and face shield, confirming the identity of the remains. Then I stepped back and rejoined Rob, twenty yards away from the conveyor belt.

We had an iPhone facing the furnace, and my iPad was open and facing Rob and me. On the screen, in a series of stacked boxes, were those dear faces. Nicole and Maggie, together in what appeared to be the sound room at Opera House. Liz, standing outside on her deck, sunlight turning her hair to flame. Fiona, wearing her lab coat, in the hospital’s chapel, Henry behind her, holding her shoulders.

The technician threw a switch and the conveyor belt came to life, slowly moving Iain’s remains towards the chamber.

Maggie looked at the camera, raised her head slightly, and began to sing:

“Come to me, all you weary,
With your burdens and pain,
Take my yoke on your shoulders,
And learn from me.
I am gentle and humble,
and your soul will find rest,
For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

Nicole joined Maggie in the chorus, their voices joined in a tight harmony:

“We shall rise again, on the last day,
With the faithful, rich and poor,
Coming to the house of Lord Jesus,
We will find an open door there,
We will find an open door.”

My eyes misted over as I listened to them and watched Iain’s final journey. I thought of my brother, always scrapping, fighting, striving . . . bearing the burdens and pains of rejection. So weary, at the end. I prayed that he would, at last, find a home where he was welcomed, cherished. Simply loved.

But it was the next verse, which Nicole sang solo, which brought my tears to full flood.

“At the door there to greet us,
Martyrs, angels and saints,
And our family and loved ones,
Every one freed from their chains.
We shall feel their acceptance,
And the joy of new life.
We shall join in the gathering,
Reunited in God’s light.”

My family. What would they be like, freed from the chains that bent and sometimes broke them? Grim Grandfather Ross, tormented by memories of battle. My parents, freed from whatever had turned the wine of their faith and love into vinegar, making them bitter and angry. Iain, freed from the burden of expectations he was never suited to meet?

Would we all, someday, freed from all that, feel the love and acceptance that had so often eluded us in life? God, I hoped so. Especially for Iain. I looked at Fi, weeping as freely as I was, sharing a communion of understanding with me. I knew that she joined my prayer.

And the doors of the chamber closed, consigning Iain’s remains to the inferno of a Viking’s funeral.

The Refiner’s fire.

Maggie took the final refrain while Nicole’s coloratura floated high above the melody, ethereal and otherworldly, a descant composed of repeated alleluias.

“We shall rise again, on the last day,
With the faithful, rich and poor,
Coming to the house of Lord Jesus,
We will find an open door there,
We will find an open door.”

Through the flood of my tears, I whispered, “Go with God, big brother. Safe home.”

. . . . To be continued