That Which is Carried

Ezra blinked at the bright white lights before the nurse turned them off. The hospital room was plunged into darkness except for the muted glow from the monitor facing away from Ezra’s bed. A steady drip of morphine had finally taken effect after twenty minutes of steady dripping into his veins. Ezra’s thoughts began sliding across one another and his dreams fragmented, wet earth, rain he couldn’t feel, then nothing.

Sam came into the room a few minutes later. Ezra’s eyes were glassy and the morphine was still dripping into his blood. Sam tossed her bag in the chair next to the door and leaned over the bedside, brushing hair from Ezra’s forehead.

“Hey, baby,” Sam whispered.

Ezra focused on Sam, but his smile was still weak.

“Hey.”

“Bad one, huh?”

Sam’s hand rested on Ezra’s jaw as he nodded.

“Sleep baby,” Sam whispered.

Ezra only heard the first syllable before he was asleep again. He dreamt of wet fields and the sound of water washing over stone.

Ezra slept for the rest of the night. His dreams were unusual, even for the morphine induced sleep, but he paid them no mind. Sam came in the next morning with a light breakfast.

“Thought you might be hungry,” Sam said, kissing his head as she set the bag down.

“You are the love of my life Samantha,” Ezra said.

Ezra took the bag of French fries and chicken strips. He was still eating when the doctor came in with his release paperwork. Sam gathered his things and helped Ezra with his jacket.

A nurse pushed Ezra to the valet waiting area in a wheelchair while he complained about how much he hated hospital food.

Sam pulled the car around and the nurse opened the door for him. Ezra paused for a moment, looking at the sky before climbing into the sedan next to Sam.

“Smelled like rain for a second,” Ezra said as Sam merged onto the interstate.

“No rain in the forecast,” Sam said, handing Ezra a pair of dark sunglasses.

Ezra slid on the sunglasses and within minutes, he drifted into sleep. Sam woke him when they pulled into the parking lot outside their apartment building.

“Ezra,” Sam said close to his ear.

Ezra opened his eyes.

Sam guided him inside and Ezra made it as far as the couch before he collapsed into sleep. That evening, Sam woke him for dinner but he barely ate. Ezra slept until noon the next day, seeming to understand his body was still recovering from the hospital stay.

On the third day, however, Ezra seemed to forget the previous two days.

The fluorescent glow of the desk lamp was making Ezra’s eyes water. He traced a line of text on the screen and made a note on a piece of paper in front of him. He heard Sam’s bare feet on the tile as she approached.

“You know what today is,” she said, leaning against the table.

“Tuesday,” Ezra guessed, rubbing the three days of stubble on his chin.

“You were discharged yesterday.” She crossed her arms. “Forty-eight hours ago you were in a hospital bed and couldn’t even speak. You’re still wearing the gauze.” She tapped his arm.

Ezra’s eyes followed her hand to his arm.

“I’m aware.”

“Did you eat?”

Ezra didn’t answer.

Sam pushed off the doorframe and went to the kitchen. He heard the fridge open, the bread bag crinkle and a knife against the cutting board. She came back with a sandwich and set it on top of his slides.

Ezra sighed, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Sam.”

“Eat the damn sandwich.”

Ezra ate faster than he meant to, which told them both something about how long it had been since his last real meal.

“Forty. Eight. Hours,” she said, watching him eat. “You just had a headache that put you in a hospital bed for two nights. If you push like this, you’re not defending a thesis Thursday. You’ll be in a dark room with all the blinds shut.”

“I defend this in two days, Sammy. I don’t have time to sleep eight hours a night this week.”

“You have time to sleep six. You have time to eat something besides coffee and whatever’s in that granola bar wrapper I found under your pillow, which, by the way, we need to talk about.”

He almost smiled despite himself. “It was a strategic snack location.”

“It was a health code violation.” She reached over and closed his laptop, gently, the way you’d take a knife from someone who wasn’t using it right. “Come on, you can panic about slide seven in the morning.”

“I’m not done.”

“You’re done for tonight.” She held up the small orange bottle from the counter, the preventive his neurologist had prescribed months ago and that he only ever remembered to take when someone stood over him. “Take this and come on.”

“You’re bossy at midnight.”

“I’m bossy because the last time I wasn’t, you ended up on a morphine drip.”

“Touché.” He mumbled, swallowing a pill. She watched him swallow it and turned off the desk lamp, following him back to the bedroom.

Sam woke early the next morning to make breakfast for Ezra. He was going to have a long day and Sam knew it.

Ezra woke to the smell of bacon, eggs and coffee. He didn’t bother pulling on a shirt as he walked to the kitchen. Sam had already made his plate.

“Morning,” Sam handed him a cup of coffee and sweet cream, just the way he liked it.

“Thank you and good morning,” Ezra kissed her cheek and she slid a plate in front of him.

Ezra was two bites into his food when Sam started talking.

“You have rehearsal at ten and lunch is at one. No, you can’t cancel it. No you can’t move it. You’ll be resting from two to three, don’t care if you don’t want to, you’re doing it any way. Dinner is at six and no, you can’t be late.”

“That’s a schedule,” Ezra mumbled between bites.

“You’ll starve on your own schedule.” She sat across from him with her own plate. “How’d you sleep?”

“Fine.” He caught her look and exaggerated his movements. “Really, it was fine. No headache.”

Sam smirked. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

Ezra stuck to Sam’s schedule because, apparently, there was no alternative. He rehearsed twice and didn’t argue when she put lunch in front of him. At three, he lay down, swearing he would only think for an hour, but he slept instead.

At six, Ezra was at dinner but still going over his material.

“You’re going to be great up there,” she said, clearing the plates. “You know that, right?”

“I know my material.” Ezra pinched the bridge of his nose.

“That’s not what I said.” She kissed the side of his head on her way to the sink.

Thursday morning, Ezra’s defense started at nine. By ten-thirty, he was discussing methodology when he smelled the sharp tang of mildew.

That was the first warning sign of an impending headache.

He cleared his throat and kept talking.

Ezra had moved into discussing the results of his analysis when his vision went spotty and the low humming drone in his head made it hard to hear.

The second warning sign was getting closer.

Ezra’s speech slowed down as he struggled to focus, but the examining panel didn’t notice.

During the Q & A section, a new sensation flooded through Ezra, a hollowing grief that threatened to steal his breath and the smell of rain wafted through the room, but the windows were closed.

The whole episode lasted for thirty minutes and he finished the defense.

Ezra was in the parking lot when he collapsed. He fell to his knees as a painful blinding light seared through his vision. He forced himself into his car and three minutes later, he was pulling into the apartment. By the time he made it inside, the headache was in full force.

Ezra did the only thing he knew to do. He turned off every light and closed every blind. He cranked the cool air to sixty-eight degrees and laid very still.

He didn’t call Sam; he couldn’t stand the noise. He didn’t text; it was too painful to look at the screen. He laid in their bed, waiting for his own brain to stop trying to kill him.

Sam came home to a cold, dark apartment two hours later. Ezra was curled around a pillow, holding his head. Sam didn’t say anything, she went to the kitchen and pulled an icepack from the freezer, wrapping it in a towel on her way back.

Sam brushed Ezra’s blonde hair behind his ear. He made a sound that wasn’t quite words when she laid the icepack on his head.

By midnight, Ezra was sitting propped against the headboard, and she handed him a carton of fries still warm enough to fog the container. Beside it, a vanilla milkshake.

“This is not a balanced meal,” he said in a whisper. “But it’s perfect.”

“This is a post-episode meal. Different food group.” She climbed onto the bed beside him, stealing a fry before he’d taken his first. “This one lasted a while Ezra.”

He ate slower than usual, careful of his stomach, but he ate. Somewhere between the fries and the ice cream the tight line of his shoulders came down half an inch, and by the time they set the empty containers on the nightstand he’d stopped flinching every time she moved the lamp.

“You successfully defended today,” she said quietly, settling against him. “Headache aside. You still did that.”

“I don’t remember most of the last thirty minutes.”

“You were successful, focus on that.”

She pulled the blanket up over them and turned the lamp off. Sam hoped the dark would do what it usually did for him.

Ezra shuffled into the kitchen slower than usual the next morning. His body was heavy, still recovering from the headache. Sam already had two mugs going, his exactly the way he took it, hers the way she took it, an arrangement so old between them it didn’t need discussing anymore.

“Feeling better baby?” she asked, sliding a coffee mug in front of him.

“Mostly.” He wrapped both hands around the mug. “Weird thing happened during my defense.”

Sam chuckled, shaking her head. “Weird how?”

“I don’t know. For a second I wasn’t really… there.” He frowned into his coffee, setting the cup down. “It did what it usually does, the smells, the vision thing, but this time, I don’t know. It smelled like dirt and rain.”

“That’s new.”

“I know.” He rubbed at his eyes. “I had that dream last night, too. Same kind of thing, dirt, rain, but there were flowers. I don’t remember details, just the feeling. Like something was gone.” He shrugged, a small, dismissive motion. “Probably just stress. Two years of thesis work catching up to me in one weird week.”

“Ezra.” Sam set her mug down. “That’s twice now.”

“You said it in the car,” Sam said. “On the way home from the hospital. Smelled like rain for a second. Then you put the sunglasses on and went out like a light.”

Ezra looked at her over the mug. “I don’t remember the car.”

“You complained about the hospital food all the way down to the valet. You don’t remember that either?”

He reached for it. He had the hospital room, the lights going off, Sam in the chair by the door. He had the desk lamp and the gauze on his arm, two days later. Between the two was a clean blank, quiet and total, like pages cut out of a book with a razor.

“Huh,” he said.

Sam picked her mug back up. She let it go, the way she let most things go with him. But he watched her put it somewhere behind her eyes, on the list she kept next to the smells.

“It’s nothing, Sammy. I’m fine. Besides, you just made coffee and I, apparently, successfully defended. Let’s enjoy it.” Ezra smiled wide, he forced it, but he did it.

“To a successful defense.” She smiled, though it didn’t quite reach all the way.

“To happy hour at Grumpy’s,” Ezra said.

“Promise me you’ll take it easy, Ezra,” Sam said, smoothing hair behind his ear.

“Promise,” Ezra replied. Sam looked down at him and crinkled her nose.

“Liar,” she whispered.

Ezra laughed as he stood, taking his coffee cup to the couch. Ezra had turned on the television and the doorbell rang.

Ezra opened the door. Craig was standing on the other side with a bottle of red wine.

“I’ve heard your defense went… well,” Craig said with a sly smile.

“I suppose it did,” Ezra stepped aside to allow Craig entry.

Sam heard them talking from the kitchen and came into the room.

“Early for wine isn’t it, Craig?” Sam said, motioning to the bottle.

“This is for you two,” Craig handed Sam the wine, “Do NOT put that in the refrigerator.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sam said, taking the wine to the kitchen.

Ezra and Craig sat on opposite ends of the couch.

“What exactly did you hear about my defense?” Ezra asked, turning to face Craig.

“I heard it was good, Ezra, really good,” Craig said.

“Like going to pass me good or setting a standard good?”

Sam came back into the room and crossed her arms.

“Craig,” She stepped closer to Ezra, “do not answer that.”

Craig looked confused but sat back and smiled.

“Alright,” he said looking between Sam and Ezra.

“If you answer that, his ego will be unstoppable,” Sam mumbled, putting her arm across Ezra’s shoulders.

“Oh, come on Sammy,” Ezra teased.

Craig laughed, holding up both hands as he stood.

“I gotta go anyway, Sam, enjoy the ego. Ezra, well done man,” Craig shook Ezra’s hand and walked to the door, “Be good tonight,” he said, stepping into the hallway and closing the door behind him.

Ezra and Sam were left alone for thirty seconds before Ezra looked at Sam.

“Ego, Sammy, really babe?”

“Ezra, you get much more ego, we will need a bigger place,” Sammy teased, turning to the bedroom.

Ezra laughed, swatting her bottom as she walked away. He watched her disappear into the bedroom as the smile faded from his face. Ezra turned on the couch facing the open door.

“I should probably call mom,” Ezra said.

“You should,” Sam said, returning fully dressed.

“Good news tomorrow. Happy hour first,” Ezra said, walking to the bedroom.

Ezra was pulling on a clean shirt when he felt a weight settle across his shoulders. He adjusted his shirt and took a breath, ignoring the feeling. Ezra looked in the mirror and nodded.

“What was that?” Ezra shook his head. He stared at his reflection for a heartbeat and left the room.

He cleared his throat before asking, “Ready, babe?”

Sam nodded and met him at the door.

“Always ready for happy hour,” Sam said, pressing a kiss to his jaw and pulling on a jacket.

“Then let’s go be happy,” Ezra said adjusting his jacket and opening the door.

Happy hour at Grumpy’s smelled like spilled beer and fried food. Ezra and Sam slid into their regular corner booth, away from the televisions.

Sam reached for the drink menu out of habit, but froze when her fingers touched the edge of the menu.

“You know,” she said huffing a laugh and shaking her head, “I have looked at this menu every visit for three years. And I always get the same thing.”

Her fingers slid down the menu, but she didn’t pick it up.

“Mango margarita,” Ezra said with a wink. “Every time.”

“Then a mango margarita to celebrate,” Sam said, leaning against Ezra’s shoulder.

Ezra chuckled.

They had almost settled into conversation when a familiar voice called from across the room.

Dylan and Maya were walking toward the corner booth, beer bottles in hand.

“Doctor Smith!” Dylan said, drawing glances from surrounding tables.

Ezra rolled his eyes.

“Not a doctor.” Ezra pointed his beer at them like it settled the matter. “I stopped one degree short.”

“Details,” Maya said, waving her hand. Sam smothered a laugh.

“Word in the lounge is you nailed the discussion,” Dylan said, leaning back until his chair creaked.

Ezra’s smile fell for a fraction of a heartbeat. Sam caught it, gently pressing her shoulder into Ezra’s.

“Something like that,” he said, stretching one arm across the back of the booth.

“So...” Maya drew the word out. “The important question is…”

Ezra and Sam looked at Maya, eyebrows raised. Ezra took a sip of beer, buying himself a second.

“Ahem?” Ezra tilted his head.

“What do we call you now?”

Ezra blinked, setting his glass down with exaggerated care.

“Um, Ezra?”

“No,” Dylan said, pointing at Ezra with a fry.

“You’ve got fancy letters after your name now.”

“One more set than I used to,” Ezra said, removing his arm from the back of the booth and leaning forward.

“You have M.S. after your name now.”

“I knew we weren’t done.” Ezra sighed dramatically.

“Definitely not,” Dylan said, eating another fry.

“Professor?” Maya tested the word, her face scrunching like it tasted wrong.

“I don’t teach,” Ezra said, rubbing his hand over his jaw.

“Master Smith?” Dylan offered.

Ezra groaned loud enough that a couple at the next table glanced over.

“Do not.”

“That’s a no,” Dylan said, thinking for a moment before he snapped his fingers.

“I got it!” Dylan exclaimed. “Mister Master.”

“Absolutely not, hard pass.” Ezra thumped his beer down for emphasis. “That sounds like a bad horror movie.”

Maya rested her chin in her hand, narrowing her eyes at Ezra.

“I guess you’re just gonna be Ezra then.”

Ezra lifted his glass.

“I’ve always answered to Ezra.”

“Ezra it is,” Sam raised her glass. She smiled, soft this time, just for him.

Ezra clinked his glass against hers, lingering against her glass just longer than the toast required.

“Okay, ew,” Dylan said, pretending to wipe sweat from his forehead. “You two are doing the eye thing again.”

“There’s no eye thing,” Ezra said.

“There’s absolutely an eye thing,” Maya said. “There’s been an eye thing for eight months.”

Sam laughed, unbothered. She didn’t move her foot from Ezra’s ankle.

“Some of us communicate efficiently,” Ezra wagged his eyebrows as he spoke.

“Some of us are gross,” Maya said, but she was smiling into her glass when she said it.

Dylan raised his glass, sloshing a little over the rim.

“To surviving.”

Sam corrected him, nudging his arm.

“To passing and finally having a life again.”

Ezra shook his head, but he was smiling. He leaned into the table and lowered his voice.

“I’ve heard rumors those life things exist.”

Laughter rolled around the table, loose and easy.

“You’ve got more color, Ezra,” Maya said, leaning back into her chair with her beer.

Ezra took a sip of his beer, considering.

“Turns out two nights on a morphine drip and successfully defending your master’s thesis is surprisingly restorative.”

Dylan snorted into his drink, nearly choking.

“I don’t think that’s how medicine works,” Dylan said, wiping his face and the table with a napkin.

“No?”

“Pretty sure.”

Ezra leaned back in his chair, spreading his hands.

“Then you explain why I’m sitting here as approximately one hundred and seventy pounds of scientific achievement,” Ezra flexed.

Sam snorted into her drink, nearly spilling it. Under the table, without looking, she reached over and laced her fingers through Ezra’s.

Maya caught it and bit back a grin. Dylan pointed across the table, grinning.

“There he is! The idiot we know and tolerate.”

“Tolerate is a strong word,” Maya corrected, holding up a finger.

“Yeah, it really is,” Dylan agreed.

Ezra lifted his glass with a nod.

“I’ll take it.”

Another round appeared on the table and the conversation wandered away from degrees.

“You going home anytime soon?” Dylan asked.

“Probably next month,” Ezra said to the ceiling. “Mom keeps trying to convince me to come sooner.”

A waiter came by and asked if they wanted another round but, Dylan and Ezra both shook their heads. The waiter disappeared into the crowd.

“You should go home sooner rather than later, Ezra,” Maya said, swallowing the last drink from her glass with raised eyebrows.

The waiter appeared and set two checks on the table. Dylan slapped his hand over them both.

“Not tonight mister master.”

The table erupted in laughter.

“By all means, pay mister master’s bill,” Ezra replied, pushing his empty glass to the side.

Outside Grumpy’s, Dylan and Maya climbed into Dylan’s sedan and waved goodbye as they pulled out of the parking lot.

Sam wrapped one arm through Ezra’s and they walked in silence for a block. At the front of their apartment building, Ezra stopped and looked at Sam.

“It’s totally stuck in my head now.”

Sam looked confused as Ezra stepped around her and unlocked the apartment door. Ezra swung the door open wide and clicked on the light before stepping aside to let Sam in.

“I can’t get over the Mister Master thing Dylan said,” Ezra said, shrugging off his jacket.

“That’s what’s stuck in your head,” Sam laughed, “I think it’s cute,” Sam teased, hanging her jacket on a hook.

“Sammy, it’s something, but definitely not cute,” Ezra said, kissing her head as he went into the bedroom to change.

Sam followed him into the bedroom. He had already changed into a pair of low hung grey sweats and was holding his favorite t-shirt from a concert last year. Sam pulled off her t-shirt and took Ezra’s from his hands, pulling it on.

“We’re still doing that, huh?”

Ezra looked at Sam and then his empty hands.

“You just take my shirt?” Ezra teased.

Sam had done this so many times Ezra had stopped pretending he was actually going to stop her.

“Are you seriously going to make me give it back?” Sam looked at Ezra, pressing her lips together and sticking out her bottom lip.

Ezra sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, shaking his head slowly.

“No, no I am not. Because you’re pouting. My kryptonite,” Ezra stated.

“I know,” Sam said with a smile, turning to walk out of the room with a bounce.

“I know you know,” Ezra mumbled under his breath, grabbing another shirt before he walked into the living room.

Sam went to the kitchen for water while Ezra pulled on his shirt. When she came back with two bottles of water and his pill bottle, she stopped in the doorway.

“Something wrong?” Ezra said, looking around the room.

“Uh, no. Nothing,” Sam said, hiding a smirk.

“Sam,” Ezra said, crossing his arms.

“Your shirt’s backwards, babe.”

“No it’s not—” Ezra uncrossed his arms and looked down. “You saw nothing,” he said, pulling his arms in and turning the shirt around.

“Yeah I did,” Sam said with a snort.

Ezra looked at her, smothering his own laugh.

They settled on the couch. Sam put the water bottles and Ezra’s pill bottle on the coffee table before she curled into his side.

Ezra smiled down at her and picked up the remote.

“Stupid funny, murder mystery or documentary?” Ezra said as he clicked through channels.

“Something between Happy Gilmore and The Burbs,” Sam said with a shrug.

“Sammy, baby, you do realize that’s like, anything, right?” Ezra said, glancing down at Sam.

“Mhm, so pick,” Sam said, resting her head on Ezra’s shoulder.

“Of course you do,” Ezra murmured, clicking through stations.

“Fifty First Dates,” Ezra said, tossing the remote aside. Sam put one arm across his waist.

The movie began, light music filled the room.

“So tell me, how was Hawaii?”

Before either of them settled in, Ezra leaned forward and paused the movie. He picked up the pill bottle from the coffee table.

“Sam, do you remember what I told you about the defense?” Ezra asked, opening the bottle and shaking one into his hand.

“Probably, which part?” Sam said, leaning back onto the couch.

Ezra shook a pill into his hand, twisted open a bottle of water, and swallowed it with a long drink.

“The one where I smelled dirt and rain,” Ezra said, raising one eyebrow.

“Yes, that I remember, the petrichor smell,” Sam said, tilting her head.

“I’m sorry, petrichor?”

“Petrichor, google says it’s the pleasant, earthy smell after the rain, caused by geosmin, plant oils, and ozone,” Sam rattled off.

“Geosmin, okay, we can talk about what that is and why you know that later,” Ezra raised one hand and took another drink, “but anyway. That smell. Petrichor, you said, right?”

“Yes, correct.”

“At Grumpy’s, when Dylan mentioned they were saying I nailed the discussion, I remembered rosemary and dill,” Ezra said, his voice drifting into a whisper near the end.

“Rosemary and dill are…specific,” Sam readjusted on the couch to face him. “Do you even know what that is, Ezra?”

“I actually have no idea why I know what that is.”

Ezra ran his hand through his light hair and took a deep breath.

“But yeah, I know what that is.”

“That’s different,” Sam said, narrowing her eyes.

“I don’t think that’s the word.”

Sam reached for him and his body responded before his mind caught up. Ezra wrapped one arm around her.

“So, what’s the word?” Sam asked, looking up at him.

“Later, that’s a word. Whatever it is... it can wait until tomorrow,” Ezra pressed play and the movie started again. He pressed a kiss to Sam’s lips.

“Proud of you,” she murmured, her voice had dropped an octave.

“Couldn’t have done it without—”

Her finger pressed to his lips. “Don’t. You need to just let me be proud of you.”

Ezra smiled, kissing the tips of her fingers. He leaned in and Sam met him half way.

“Mmhmm,” she hummed against his mouth.

The vibration traveled down his throat as his tongue brushed hers.

Sam’s fingers threaded through Ezra’s hair that curled just past his collar with unmistakable intent.

Ezra pulled back just enough to look at her.

“What?” she asked, and there was a teasing hook to the corner of her mouth.

“Just looking,” Ezra said, brushing his lips against hers.

“Creep.”

“Mm… your creep.” He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. “Three years, and I still can’t believe I get to—”

She kissed him again before he could finish. Ezra lifted her into his lap and before they could settle, his phone vibrated on the end table.

“Ignore it,” Ezra said against her lips, wrapping his arms around her waist.

The phone call went to voicemail, but seconds later, it vibrated again. Ezra made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a growl when Sam pulled back.

“Answer it,” she whispered.

Ezra picked up the phone, with one arm, holding Sam against him with the other. He looked at the screen, MOM was glowing against the darkness. Ezra bowed his head and answered the call.

“Hey, Mom. Everything okay?” Sam silently laughed into his chest.

“Ezra?”

A boom of thunder came through the phone.

“Wow, that’s some storm, mom. You alright?” Ezra said, holding the phone away from his ear for a second.

“Honey…”