The Heart of a Stranger

Something went bump in the night. Battling sleep, Lourdes glanced at the clock—2:46 a.m.

Another bump sent her reaching for her robe. The house might be old, with creaking floors and rattling windows, but she recognized human footsteps when she heard them.

Belting her robe, she crept to her door and peered out.

The shadowy figure coming down the hall stood tall and broad-shouldered.

Was he sleepwalking?

She blew out a breath and prepared to guide him back to bed. She’d read somewhere not to awaken a sleepwalker, not to alarm the person into consciousness.

Would it be all right to talk?

Probably not.

Silent, she headed toward him, stopped and took his arm. He wasn’t a shadowy figure anymore. He was solid and real, his muscles strong and hard beneath her fingers.

“Can’t find the bathroom.”

She started at the sound of his voice. “You’re awake?”

“Gotta pee.”

Oh, my. “Okay. But you’re going the wrong way.” Still holding his arm, she turned him around. He didn’t seem particularly steady on his feet, and she was too concerned to let go.

“It’s here. This door.” She put his hand on the wood, guiding him as if he were blind. Could he do this by himself? Lord, she hoped so. “Are you going to be all right?”

“Know how to use the bathroom,” he muttered. “Not a kid.”

No, he was a grown man, struggling to find the doorknob. “Maybe a bedpan would be better for now.” Not that they had one lying around, waiting for this opportunity to present itself. “Or a bucket,” she added, deciding Cáco had probably placed a basin of some sort near his bed. The older woman wouldn’t have left something like that to chance.

“No bedpan. No bucket.” He pushed the door open and fumbled for the light switch.

She turned it on for him, blasting them with a hundred-watt bulb.

He squinted, and she noticed the glazed look in his eyes. He had no idea where he was or who he was talking to. All he knew, apparently, was that his bladder was full.

He zigzagged into the bathroom, then closed the door with a resounding click.

Lourdes stood by nervously, not wanting to listen, but knowing she had to. In case he tripped and stumbled. Bashed his head against the sink.

She heard the telltale sound and breathed a sigh of relief. Of course, it wasn’t a very consistent sound, making her wonder if his aim was off. After a long pause, the toilet flushed. Then running water. Even in his confused state, he’d managed to wash his hands. Habit, she supposed.

He opened the door and stared at her.

She reached for his arm. “I’ll take you back to your room. But next time, I think you should use a bedpan.” Or one of those plastic bottles designed for his gender, she thought. The pharmacy probably stocked them.

“No bedpan,” he told her.

“Stubborn man,” she said.

“Stubborn woman,” he parroted.

Lourdes couldn’t help but smile. Never in a million years could she have imagined engaging in a conversation like this one, with a stranger no less.

His room was dark, so she turned on a night-light. He made a beeline for his bed, climbed in and pulled the sheet to his waist. He’d kicked away the rest of the covers, she noticed.

Was he still feverish?

She decided not to jam a thermometer under his tongue. Instead she pressed a hand to his forehead.

“You’re a little cooler, but still warm.” She reached for the pitcher on the nightstand and filled his glass, which already contained a straw. “Do you want some water?”

He shook his head. “Who are you?”

“Lourdes.”

“Like the place in France?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a dream?”

“No. I’m real.”

She picked up the water he’d refused, encouraging him to drink. He sipped from the straw and winced. Not from the taste, she suspected, but from the nasty cut on his lip.

“Will you lie down with me?”

Her heart jumped, pounding triple time. “I can’t. I have my own room.”

“Will you kiss me?”

Heaven help her. “Your lip is split.” Had he already forgotten the pain?

He made a face. “This is a crummy dream.”

She set his water down, realizing the glass was sweating in her hand.

“I have a headache,” he said suddenly. Tilting his head, he measured her with swollen, glassy eyes. “Sorry. That should have been your line.”

Lourdes nearly laughed. In spite of his concussion, he had a sense of humor.

“You should go back to sleep,” she told him.

“I’m already asleep. Can’t dream when you’re awake.”

Oh, but you could, she thought.