Dreamcatcher

What was that old saying? Don’t be irreplaceable; if you can’t be replaced you can’t be promoted—and you can’t be out sick, either.

None of them matter now. You’re mine. All mine

The hint of laughter came back to her, and Emma winced. It was just the exhaustion, the doctor said, causing her aural hallucinations. That was all. She wasn’t going crazy.

“Your mother suggested that we hire someone to take care of you, while you’re taking leave. I’ve engaged the services of a caretaker, starting tomorrow. The agency says that they’ll do light housekeeping, make sure you are getting enough to eat, and don’t fall down the stairs.” He turned to look at her, a long, assessing stare. “Please don’t fall down any more stairs. It would upset your mother.”

Emma looked at her father, his well-cut suit and ruthlessly trimmed hair almost perfectly-matching gray. Her mother’s hair was silver—they both refused to dye their hair, wearing their decades proudly. Emma’s own brunette had started to show a few strands of white a year ago, around her thirtieth birthday. She had dyed it immediately, and hated herself for it.

“Dad, I…” She dropped her gaze, and laced her fingers together in her lap. “Thank you.” He was trying to be helpful. Her parents loved her, and wanted her to be safe. They just…couldn’t understand. She couldn’t just “shake this off.” If she could, she would have already.

“We love you, baby.”

“I know, Dad.” They did. They really did. But they were the way they were, and always had been. You stood on your own feet in the Roberts household. That wasn’t a bad thing. It was simply…exhausting, sometimes.

Emma got up, slowly, and walked with him to the door, submitting to the engulfing hug.

“Take care of yourself. When we get back, you’ll be all revved up and ready to go, the Emma we all know and love.”

“Yes, Dad.”

What else could she say?

Give. Give. It’s what you do best. And now you’re mine, all mine, and I won’t share…

Emma woke up the next morning with the sheets wrapped around her, damp with her own sweat. A nightmare, that’s all, triggered by her own morose and self-pitying thoughts before falling asleep. If she could just get up and moving, everything would be all right. The by-now familiar sensation of muscle-quiver, though, made her want to stay in bed and not move.

The doorbell chiming downstairs insisted otherwise. That must have been what woke her up. Despite temptation, a stronger sense of responsibility—she couldn’t just leave whoever it was standing out there—made her get up, pull on clothing, and go downstairs to answer the summons.

“Emma Roberts?”

Emma tugged the edge of her sweatshirt self-consciously and nodded. “Yes?”

The man on her doorstep looked at her impatiently, like she was supposed to have recognized him already and welcomed him in. She had never seen him before—she would have remembered him, no matter how tired she was. Pale, which was unusual here in southern California, and with the darkest eyes she had ever seen, like deep, still pools of black ink. The rest of the face was standard-issue handsome—squared off chin, nice firm jawline, good cheekbones, and sandy brown hair trimmed into near-military obedience. The face of a man who was good looking, knew it, and had other things on his mind.

“My name is Matthew. From HomeHelp?”

Emma stared, her brain not quite working as fast as it usually did. By now she should have been on her third cup of coffee, sorting and shoving the office into functionality. Instead, pulling on sweats and jeans had taxed her endurance to the point where she just wanted to sit down.

“You hired me.”

Oh.

“My father did. I was…I was expecting someone…”

The man—Matthew, sighed. “Female?”

“Yeah. I suppose so.”

Matthew pulled out a laminated ID and handed it to her. It told her that his name was Matthew Reiden, that he was employed by HomeHelp Nursing, Inc, and that he was certified by the California State Nursing Board as a Home Health Aid. She looked at the picture, then back at him.

“Now you know who I am. May I come in?”

“Yes, sorry, of course.” She stepped back, and let him into her home.

He walked in, and took over. “The referral form we got from the hospital said that you’ve been diagnosed with CFS?”

“Yes.” She was guarded still, waiting to see his reaction.

“And you really think that two weeks are going to be enough to let you get back to your previous levels of energy?”

His tone was flat, almost unsympathetic, and she bristled. “I’m not making it up. The doctors said—”

‘I didn’t suggest that you were, and I’m sure that they did,” he replied, placing his black case—too large for a laptop, too small to be a suitcase—on the floor. “I’m not a doctor, I’m not here to diagnose. My job’s to teach you how to take care of yourself, so that you don’t just curl up and die when it gets too hard. Why don’t you show me where I should put my things, and then we can talk about what your expectations are?”

Emma looked at him blankly, then realized he was talking about where he was going to sleep. She had expected—assumed—that the caretaker would be female, and for a moment thought about demanding that he go away, that the company send the older, sympathetic maternal housekeeper type she had been expecting. But it was all too much effort. He was a trained professional, and his ID said he was bonded and insured, so there was no reason to have a fluttery missy fit. Right?

It was too much effort to kick him out, and have to explain to her father, and…

“The guest room’s upstairs, first door on the left.” She let him take the lead on the stairs, following more slowly, her hand on the wooden banister for support. She wasn’t so tired, though, that she didn’t notice that he had a world-class ass. Pretty faces were a dime a dozen out here—she came from a family of handsome faces—but not even the best surgery could replicate the look of a well-formed backside.

She almost laughed. The good looking nurse and the lecherous patient, gender-switched. Hooray for social progress.

The guest room barely deserved the name; it was large enough for a bed, a small dresser, and a tall cupboard, all made out of the same red-hued wood. The bed was made up with a dark blue blanket and two white pillows. Matthew took it all in with a glance, and nodded briefly. “It will do. The bathroom is down the hall?”

“Yes.” Figuring it was best to get it out of the way immediately, she added “There’s only the one on this floor. Downstairs there’s a half-bath.”

“I’ll respect your privacy as much as I can,” he said.

“Thank you.” It was only two weeks, and it was better than being in the hospital.

After his gear was stored, they ended up in the kitchen, Emma sitting at the table with a cup of tea he had brewed up for her immediately, ladling two spoonfuls of honey—organic, he had noted with an approval that was missing in the rest of his survey—in the mug, while Matthew moved through the cabinets, familiarizing himself with what was there and where it all was.

“No cereal,” he noted.

“I don’t eat breakfast.”

“You do now.” He didn’t miss a beat, starting a shopping list on a pad of paper he’d brought with him, then bending down to see what pots and pans she had. Emma had a lashing of embarrassment at how badly her kitchen was stocked, and then shrugged it off. She wasn’t a cook. So what?

“I’m never hungry—”

“Look. He turned around then and looked at her with those dark, liquid eyes. In her cozy little white-and-yellow kitchen, he seemed like an alien intruder, except for his obvious familiarity in the domestic surroundings. “You need to keep your strength up, and that means fueling the machine. Breakfast, lunch, a snack, and a real dinner, every day. Healthy food, not processed crap.”

“And you’re going to cook all this for me?”

“I’m going to teach you how to do for yourself, without exhausting yourself. That’s a balance you’re going to have to walk for the rest of your life, might was well start now.” His voice was deep, velvety, and totally unsympathetic. Emma wanted noting more than to throw him and his tea and his lists out the door he’d come in through.

Instead she made a “whatever” gesture with her left hand, and let him continue taking over her kitchen.