It wasn’t until much later my fantastic day—technically the next day—took a major turn for the worse. I gathered from the moon, shining brightly across my bedspread and turning it silver, that it was still the middle of the night when I was ripped from slumber by a sudden breath-stealing cramping in my stomach. I laid still—sweating and heart racing—for only half a second before bolting to the bathroom, palm pressed firmly to my mouth.
After flushing what was once—upon descent—a delicious butternut squash and sweet potato stew, I rose from my knees, feeling nearly perfect. Not a trace of nausea. Food poisoning, perhaps? Though that seemed very unlikely. Something distant pinged in the back of my mind, reminding me what I knew about stomach viruses. Disoriented and eager to get back into bed as I was, I made no effort in capturing the ambiguous bit of information. It was only as I patted my lips dry with a hand towel, my tongue tingling and refreshingly minty, that a familiar topsy-turvy rolling began again, low and deep beneath the walls of my stomach. It was already invading my chest cavity, surging upward and gaining incredible velocity and strength, when I saw my reflection in the mirror and pled with it. But it was much too late for appeals.
The unspeakable had happened: I was infected—with germs.
~
Had I been born in a more primitive time, or existed as part of a civilization not familiar with the word “influenza,” I would most certainly have believed I was dying. Coherency lasted for only a few moments before smudgy shadows and nondescript shapes faded blearily into blackness. In my delirium, I would half-wake to find myself draped like a noodle around the lid of the toilet and fling myself backward, only to end up hugging the filthy miasma as I retched into it for the twenty-second time. Then, in a moment of sheer horror, I would realize the filthy thing wasn’t the toilet—it was me. Luckily by that time, I was usually approaching ninety seconds of wake time, with only a few more to go before passing ceremoniously into unconsciousness.
Days went by—or so I assumed—from the uneaten meals that were replaced with new ones and left on my nightstand. Every so often I would roll over and find myself tucked into my bed, a cool compress on my forehead. I was fairly certain I had a conversation with my mother recently, though I couldn’t know for sure; my dreams, usually on the surreal and strange side, were even more heightened and outrageously bizarre. I distinctly remember my mother coming into my room, laying a hand on my cheek, just before transforming into a bald eagle and carrying me away to her nest. There I was greeted by my brother, a winking, yellow-eyed, fuzzy creature with a worm pinioned inside his beak that he—wordless as he was—clearly had no intentions of sharing.
While my appetite remained the same—nonexistent—thirst was insatiable and merciless. Out of a lucid dream I would start awake, cotton-mouthed and feeling as if I might die in those imminent moments of groping for a water bottle. With my immediate hydration needs sought to, I was then left with the decision to try and coax myself back into oblivion before nausea set on, or empty my suffused bladder throbbing for relief. Oblivion for the most won out, but my body’s innate needs could only be denied for so long before I was forced to hobble, on legs turned to jelly, toward the bathroom. Shaky and depleted of energy, the effort to lift myself from the bathroom floor sometimes proved to be too much. Towels and limbs became my makeshift pillows and blankets. Hours later, I had no way of knowing if I finally woke, cold and shivering on the small white rug, and began the slow process of crawling my way out the door, or if one of my parents had come in to find me and carried me back to bed. Either way, I slept—a lot.
I was awake now in complete darkness.
Or nearly complete darkness I learned, opening my eyes a little further. The light was intrusive and almost immediately my eyes closed in opposition. I could feel incoherency calling me and made no effort to resist. Only this time, I didn’t pass hazily into dream-land. The longer I remained awake, the more I could sense a change had taken place.
Save for a strip of light streaming in from under the door, my room was dark. The blackout curtains—which I rarely, if ever used—over the French doors had been drawn, and the small stained glass window had been covered with a thick swatch of cloth. I lay on my back, very still, continuing to assess my condition. Other than a heaviness resting at the very top left of my forehead, I felt mostly all right. I must still have a fever, I reasoned, reaching up to confirm this. Expecting to be met with blazing hot, sweaty skin, it was silky fur my fingers found. I had good reason to believe I had interrupted her slumber, when Rhoda jolted lightly, then let out a deep, snuffly snort. Sleeping, I could be certain. What I couldn’t be so certain of, however, was what end of my dog currently engulfed my pillow space. A bit reluctantly, I began an expedition in search of this answer, but not entirely sure I wanted to know. I moved gingerly, careful not to poke my finger into any nostrils, eyes, or . . . something else. I breathed a sigh of relief as a long, wet tongue slid out of a warm muzzle, slathering my hand.
“Hi, girl,” I said, but only succeeded in getting “h” out before my voice cracked and silenced. Not needing verbal communication, she responded thusly with more licking. Rather than try to move her, I slid downward a few inches at a time, twisting my body until I was free and sitting up on the edge of my bed. Clearly I had overestimated my capabilities when I immediately went into vertiginous spinning. Clasping both hands to my head, I worked to allay the cyclone circling chaotically around it. At that point, I was struck with panic when the all-too-familiar signs of nausea sprang upon me with renewed vigor and vengeance.
It’s coming!
Knowing I would never make it to the bathroom in time, I grabbed the sheet and covered my mouth. Bracing myself, I let it come. And come it did; a long, wet and very loud belch quivered through my lips. Mildly disgusted, but no more than I was relieved, I unclenched the sheet. Sparkly stars twinkled around me, the adrenaline running its course. Languor and fatigue threatened to pull me back down into bed, but I gave my equilibrium a moment to adjust, satisfied with the results. I was thirsty again, though nothing like the parched desperation of before. Leaning over, I felt my knuckles bump up against something hard, knocking it to the floor. It gave a thwunk and hummed quietly. From the sound of it, I thought it might be my alarm clock. Feeling my way up the lamp base, I located the switch and pushed it toward me.
Too many things happened all at once: my eyes squeezed shut, a slice of pain seared down the middle of my skull, and Rhoda barked, followed by more searing pain and ringing ears. Bright, orange light drenched the thin skin of my eyelids, reaching through and touching the sensitive optic nerves. It was quiet enough in my room that I thought I heard them ringing, small screams of defiance. Though it went against every instinct I had at the moment, I turned my head away, let my eyes flutter for a moment, and then coerced them open one at a time.
Blinking and squinting toward my dresser, I found my room had been filled with foreign items. On a velvety gray wing-backed chair I used for folding laundry, was the most enormous neon orange bear I had ever seen. It wore a purple t-shirt printed with the words, “Being sick blows.” Attached to his paw was a cluster of balloons, the largest of which read, “Some people will do anything for attention.” I laughed, then immediately wished I hadn’t. A raw soreness stretched across my entire mid-section, like someone had taken a plastic bat and bludgeoned the muscles. I consoled the area with circles, still smiling at Emily’s gift. Next to the bear was a maple bar donut—minus one bite. “Jake,” I whispered hoarsely, suppressing the laughter as best I could.
And lastly, on my dresser was a massive bouquet of yellow and orange sunflowers. They weren’t nearly as big as the ones my parents grew, but equal in beauty and vibrancy. The thick stalks sprang out of the hour-glass-shaped vase, the seeded heads in search of sunlight. As the daughter of arborists, I knew enough about sunflowers to know they survived by lots and lots of sunlight.
I pushed myself off the bed and ambled toward my dresser, hugging my arms to my
sides and clutching my elbows. I couldn’t tell if it was merely cold in here, or if the sickness was still tampering with my body temperature. On my way to get a closer look at the flowers, I stopped off at the chest of drawers, pulling out a sweatshirt. On second thought, I grabbed a pair of socks, too. Warming up some, I padded back over to the dresser. A white envelope, with my name neatly scripted in black ink, rested against the vase. I turned it over in both hands, looking for an indication of whom it might be from. That wasn’t true—not exactly. What I was doing was trying not to get my hopes up. My heart had already thrown itself irresponsibly into glee, a strong beat pulsing just a touch faster than normal, so it was up to my brain to be sensible. Of course, I wanted it to be from him, but it might not be. I needed to be prepared for that.
It might be from Emily, I reasoned prudently.
But Emily doesn’t write cards; especially not ones with fancy, elegant handwriting, I countered with triumphant joy.
It’s possible Maddie got you the card, or even Mr. Balfy, I replied sagaciously.
True. Mr. Balfy was known to get his students get-well cards when they missed more than two days of school. I bit into my lip, tracing the lettering of my name. Today could very well be my third or fourth day of sickness, and if he’d mailed it—Oh, goodness, Foster, just open it!
The envelope was the thick type and subtly patterned, though I didn’t take very long to appreciate the woven texture and beautiful silver lining inside; I was much too preoccupied with learning of its sender to pause for very long. Bypassing the front, I flipped it open, again skimming past the printed words to the lower right hand corner. There, in the same penmanship belonging on a sixteenth century scroll, was his name.
DOMINIC
A grin, like jam over toast, spread across my face. This time I did linger, trailing a finger over each letter, delighted when I saw he’d written more on the other side. I turned, moving out of the shadows and into the light.
Foster,
I hope by the time you read this you’re feeling much better. I thought about asking Emily what your favorite flowers were, but then I thought better of it :) I hope you like these sunflowers. Of all I saw, they reminded me the most of you . . . please call me as soon as you wake up. 555-8736. Please. No matter what time it is. I’ll be up.
P.S. I’ve been working on our song.
Do hearts sing? They must, I thought staring into the mirror, because mine was belting an aria. I reread the card until I knew his words by heart, and only when euphoria dissipated to a trickle, did I notice the last line came off sounding somewhat adamant, worried even. More than likely it had something to do with our Senior Piece. He had mentioned in the post script that he’d been working on our song.
My bedroom door swung open, bringing more light and a person.
“Ah, you are awake!” my mother said brightly. In her hands she carried a tray; on it, a steaming bowl of chicken broth and a plate of saltines. “I thought I heard you walking around up here, but I held off coming in because I was afraid I might disturb you. How long have you been up?” she asked, walking toward the bed.
“No more than ten minutes,” I answered.
I was about to ask how long I’d been sleeping like this, but was interrupted by the urgent appeals from one of my body’s tenants; close enough to smell food, my stomach made its intentions known, growling ostentatiously. I met my mother’s arched eyebrow with a smile.
“Good . . . you’re hungry,” she said approvingly. “That’s definitely a good sign that you’re on the mend.” After making room on my nightstand, she set the tray down and began removing its contents.
I could see she’d spent the morning—or was it afternoon or evening—in the greenhouse. As always, her hair was pinned back in a braid, strapped down beneath a pink bandana. Strands of thick, wavy hair fell from her temples, not quite long enough to be tucked behind her ears. The sleeves of her blue and gray flannel shirt were sullied at the cuffs, just beyond the point her gloves would cover, and colorful flecks of bright green substance speckled the front like a robin egg.
“I know you must be starving, but I want you to eat very slowly,” she advised, squatting down to retrieve what, as a matter of fact, had been my alarm clock, and placed it back where it belonged. Hanging from the back pocket of her jeans, was a pair of gloves, once camel in color, now a blackish-brown. “And just clear liquids for the first twenty-four hours, all right? The crackers will be fine and help settle any residual nausea, but not too many all at once—they’ll bloat you.”
She began walking toward me, rubbing her hands together to circulate blood-flow, looking at me in that very analytical way, as if deciding whether or not the fruit was ripe. “Let’s feel your temperature, hm?” she said, first swiping at the twin clumps of hair inching closer to her eyes. Immediately they swung back to frame her face.
“Wait,” I said urgently and backed up, knocking something over on the dresser behind me.
She stopped as if frozen, staring at me with a puzzled expression. “Are you feeling ill again?”
“No,” I said apologetically, seeing that I’d alarmed her. “But if I do still have a fever, I don’t want you catching what I have,” I explained. “Maybe it would be better if I used a thermometer?”
She smiled, and to my dissatisfaction continued forward, pant legs brushing together with quick, susurrant noises. “I haven’t been sick with the flu in over twenty-five years, darling,” she said with a bit of hubris. I decided not to mention that I hadn’t been sick like this ever. “I have an incredibly resilient immune system. Besides—I’m a mother; catching my child’s sickness is part of the deal. Now let me feel you,” she added sternly, but smiled as she reached up and placed the back of her hand to my forehead. She smelled earthy; a damp aroma of potting soil, mulch, and the fainter hints of lilac—my mother’s perfume. “Oh, that’s much better.” The lines between her eyes eased some, and she smiled, pleased. “Definitely much better,” she repeated. “But how do you feel?”
I breathed in deeply, then exhaled. “I feel better,” I said, and though to allay her worry I might have embellished the facts, I was glad this was the truth. “I know it was pretty awful, but I can’t really remember anything—just the dreams,” I said. “I had very strange dreams . . .”
“I bet,” she replied, not sounding the least bit surprised. “Nothing to be concerned about, though; lucid dreaming is common for someone with ague.” She moved her hands to her hips, smiling wryly. “The last time I was sick as you, I had one where I’d turned into a daisy and all my petals started falling off.” She wiggled her hands. “I had two long leaves that shot out from my stem, and with them I tried to collect all the petals as they fell off, but they wouldn’t stick. Eventually I was just a stem with a naked stigma.” We laughed now, even though at the time it probably hadn’t been very funny—obviously, as twenty-five years separated this event and she still remember it vividly.
She inhaled through her nose, pursing her lips. “You had us worried there for a while, baby,” she said softly, then shook her head and took a deep breath. “Never in your life have you had a bug like that. When I found you, you were barely coherent. I’m just grateful Rhoda knew what to do.”
Responding to her name, Rhoda lifted her head from my pillow. We both turned to look at her. “Yes, you,” my mother intoned affectionately. “We’re talking about you, sweet girl. I don’t care what people say—dogs are people too.”
She arched her back, reaching deep into her pocket and then the other, unearthing a burnt red dog treat. Bending her knees, she swung her arm back, preparing to launch it. Rhoda was ready, leaping to all fours with impressive agility, and catching the treat mid-air with a flick of her head. She gobbled it down in one swift swallow, waited to see if more would follow, then seeing there wasn’t, lowered herself back onto my bed with a noisy sigh of contentment.
“Best decision we ever made, adopting her.” She turned back around, meeting my eyes with tender
ness. “Well, after the decision to have you, of course.” She still watched me like I might all of sudden go pale, break into a sweat, and collapse to the floor.
“She’s the best,” I agreed, trying to infuse my voice with healthy energy.
She nodded emphatically. “Who knows when we would have found you if she hadn’t come and woke us up. I had your father call Urgent Care while I cleaned you up and put you back in bed, but they were not at all helpful and told me that unless your temperature rose higher than a hundred and four or you stopped drinking fluids entirely, the best thing we could do was let you sleep and make sure to keep you hydrated.” She made an irritated sound. “It’s a bit difficult to keep your child hydrated when they’re throwing up every hour. I didn’t leave three messages with the R.N. and wait on hold for thirty minutes to have some peevish straight-off-grad-school MD to berate me, then tell me to make some tea and try to relax. He’s lucky I didn’t get in the car and drive—”
Abruptly, she halted mid-sentence, noticing that I’d begun stroking her hair in attempt to calm her down. She was the color of a summer raspberry; though actually, it was the less noticeable of the two indicators signifying just how upset she was. I tried not to laugh as she continued pumping her bottom lip full of air.
While attending college, my lovely mother had been lesser known as “Marie,” and more commonly referred to as “Bullfrog.” Christened with the nickname freshman year, it had spread with rapid discourse and stuck. Only when she began developing feelings for my father, or so I was told, did she insist her friends start addressing her with her birth-given name. At that point, however, it being nearly two years later, this change in title had little effect on the masses—and even less on the reason why this name had originated in the first place. While this epithet was non-existent in our home, occasionally, every so often, a college friend would call while both parents were busy in the green house and I was gone at school. With the answering machine left unattended, it was “Bullfrog! Call me, it’s been too long,” filling the open space of our kitchen in excited colloquial greeting.
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