Soon
after your blissful weeks with Susan end, she falls gravely ill with a nervous
fever; you were afraid of this, and feel horribly guilty for the emotional
anguish you read on her body. Every hour possible you have taken away to her.
You keep vigil at her bedside in love and in fear that, in her delirium, she
will let slip secrets that must remain in your hearts to the grave.
On occasion, Sue rises to the surface of lucidity for a
few words with you.
"What will I do?" she begs, eyes wide open like a
frightened child's. You don't know what to say, but stroke her cheek and thread
your fingers through her hair. You worry that her health is not improving; in
fact, it appears to be deteriorating even further.
"Sue...do what you need to do.
Now, you need to rest and keep any thought of the future from draining your
present," you reply, placing a cool washcloth across her forehead.
"You must tell me what to do. I will
not act alone." Susan grimaces as she harshly spits out these last coherent
words, before slipping back into the soft moans of semi-consciousness. You fear
that her health depends upon your directive.