“Okay.” I stared at the broth longingly. “Thank you for taking care of me, Mom.”
She smiled and reached up to kiss my forehead. “Anything else you want washed?”
“Um . . .” My laundry basket was empty, save for Monday’s clothes. As for the ones I’d been wearing for who knew how many days, I actually did plan on washing them using the sanitation cycle. “Just these,” I said, plucking my collar. “I can do it, though.”
Rising from the bed, she bent down and gathered the sheets, tucking the crumpled girth under one arm. “Just leave them on the floor when you get in the shower. I promise to wash them on extra, extra hot,” she assured me, striding across the room with Rhoda on her heels. “Oh, I forgot to mention . . .” At my door, she turned on her boot, resituating the massive puff of sheets on her hip. Her tongue was wedged into the upper right corner of her mouth. “There’s a surprise waiting for you downstairs.” A grin stretched wide and her eyebrows flicked into her forehead. With that, she closed the door. I listened to her melodic giggles as she and Rhoda made their way down the wooden corridor.
I sighed, heavily conflicted. If not for being acutely aware that the odor excreting from my pores was less pleasant than that of food rotting at the bottom of a garbage disposal, I might have raced—maybe walked, on second thought—downstairs in lieu of a shower. But I did smell—foul was the word that came to mind. I stared at the door, gauging the distance between there and my bed. My ardent hope was that Dominic had been too far away to catch scent of me. Please let that be true, I pleaded silently. For another smelly moment, I remained where I was, rereading his card and trying to process all that my mother had told me of the last—was it a couple?—days.
What explanation was there to his insistence upon seeing me? And what was I to make of the flowers? Did friends give each other flowers?
They must, I decided. Dominic had told me this himself; friends was what we were. As far as my other questions, I could ruminate those complexities in the shower just as easily as I could sitting here, reeking like a human compost pile. Making haste, I swallowed a few deliciously tepid spoonfuls of broth, relishing the act of sustenance going down my throat instead of ejecting upwards. When the bowl was dry, I picked up a handful of saltines, taking them with me as I walked over to the balcony doors. Raising the blackout shades, I opened both doors as wide as they would go.
Outside, it was a gorgeous day, somewhere in the early to mid-afternoon judging by the sun’s placement in the sky. I breathed in the aroma of fresh air and sunlight, letting the warmth spread over my face and bare toes. With my eyes closed, I remembered my poppy on the ledge. Immediately they flung open, then pulled back together in a protective squint. When I had last seen it—Monday it must have been; the morning after The House of Hope—only the smallest bit of growth was visible. I remember being surprised then, because only a day or so before, there was no growth at all. And now, again, I was surprised by what I saw; for there, rising proudly from the soil was a solitary green stem—flimsy, and no more than three inches tall. I smiled to myself, wondering if the small bit of pride I was feeling was a sliver of what my mother referred to earlier. Beyond my kids and Rhoda, both of those responsibilities shared with others, this plant’s survival was entirely up to me.
A breeze came floating up, shaking the Bougainvillea woven through the trellis above me. I stepped out onto my balcony, quickly making my way toward the ledge and pulling the pot protectively into my arms. Glancing around in search of perspective homes, I didn’t notice something until after I’d set it down on a small wooden stand, right behind a potted freesia. I shielded my eyes and bent forward slightly to get a better look. A little gasp of wonder at what I saw had me squatting down the rest of the way to put myself even closer. A happy smirk pulled at the corner of my mouth. There was no denying what I saw. At the very tip of the stem was a tight bud, wrapped safely around itself. It wasn’t much quite yet, no, but it was something for sure; the promise of a flower on the verge of opening up.
Chapter Twenty-four
Much better, I thought to my reflection. Freshly cleansed and reclothed, my skin tingled, glistening a polished ivory from the body scrub I’d used generously—and at times roughly—up and down my body. Necessary, I told myself when it began to chafe. Wet hair was seeping through my thin chiffon top, creating a damp spot near the middle of my back. I hardly noticed, though, feeling so blissfully human again. Hanging up my towel on the hook, I shut off the bathroom light with second thoughts of changing, to which I almost immediately changed my mind again. The blush pink tank and a loose gray skirt was a bit on the dressy side, I knew, but after wearing sweats for the last however many days, the outfit was a welcomed opulence. I slipped my feet inside fuzzy white slippers, and gently roused Rhoda; she didn’t like it when I left the room without telling her.
Walking down the vestibule, our steps muted by the navy runner, my foot slid out of my slipper and I had to stop. As I did, I inhaled a deep satisfying breath, catching the scent following me. Familiar as it was, the peaches and honey bath gel coupled with the matching lotion was sensory heaven. Skipping down the stairs, I grabbed the banister and paused, winded. My mind may have recovered after the nearly hour long, piping hot, restorative shower, but evidently my body was going to need more time. I was already hungry again, too. Strawberries dipped in brown sugar, I thought longingly, shifting my overly ambitious stride to a more appropriate stroll. My mother would never allow it—not so soon, anyway. Maybe tomorrow, if I proved myself cured, I might be able to convince her.
That hope aside, I once more began to imagine what might be waiting for me downstairs. Having spent the first twenty minutes of my shower doing this, coming up with possibilities both grandiose and simple, I had eventually decided it might be best not to think much about it. After all, the point of a surprise was to be surprised. The only problem with that was the fact I was not so much a fan of the unplanned and unpredictable. Little flutterings across my chest abounded as I arrived at the kitchen entryway. I noticed right away how quiet it was, but reflexes quickly took over. My eyes immediately went into scout and scan mode, gliding past the granite island, counters, bar area and bistro, then moving on when I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Rhoda squeezed by me, using her wet nose to nudge me aside, and lumbered toward the patch of sun streaming through the window, warming the planks of dark wood.
My dad, who—with one cursory look—I knew was ensnared tightly inside a daydream, was holding his coffee cup aloft, never having quite made it to his lips. He was perched at the bistro table, head turned aside, staring absently out the large bay windows. I stood there unnoticed for the time being, not exactly sure what I should do. Leave? Say hello? I could imagine only too well the disastrous consequences if he were jostled out of his mind’s musings, made all the worse by the fact that he was armed and dangerous with the coffee cup. I pictured first the look of blank alarm, followed by the dark liquid sloshing over the rim of his cup and onto his hand. If it were still hot he might be burned, I thought worriedly. Either he would fall backward while trying to catch the cup, or at best, it would shatter on the ground, producing a predictable five part sequence: jump up, exclaim an F word—from one of the following . . . Fungus, Flagellum, or Follicle—attempt to catch object with hand flailing, lose balance, and lastly stand above broken object chastising himself with mutterings. So far I had adopted all parts to the sequence, excluding two. There was still plenty of time, however, to master the complete ritual.
From behind me, someone put their hands on the side of my shoulders. I jumped, and would have lost my balance if not for the firm grip of someone prepared for this. “It’s just me,” my mom said quietly, a laugh in her voice. She squeezed my shoulders, then let go. “Did I catch you daydreaming?”
I laughed, rubbing circles over my wild heart and sighed. “You did,” I admitted, sending a pointed glance toward my father who had yet to hear or see us.
She made a breath
y noise and shook her head. “You two are scary sometimes, you know that?” Squatting down, she retrieved two small plants with reedy green stems and bright violet petals. On the leaves were white splotches—like mold, but without the fuzz. I didn’t need to ask why she’d put them on the floor before touching me.
“Here,” she said handing both to me, “take these for me, will you please? I need to run back out to the greenhouse and grab the last one.” She had that look of someone with purpose: distracted, with feet that would dart away at any second. With a half-smile, she spared a moment to look fondly at my father, then whispered. “Just keep your voice low when you say hello. You should be okay, I think. And . . .” She narrowed her eyes. “I’m ninety percent certain that coffee isn’t hot. Unless he just microwaved it, I would expect it’s been cooling for some time.” She left me with that—and two plants—disappearing through the adjoining corridors.
One pot in each hand, I took a deep breath, cringed, then spoke—cautiously. “Hi, Dad,” I said, announcing my presence. Blinking, he turned toward me, only partially released from the stronghold of the daydream. No jumping or spilling, though, to my great relief. Life came flooding back into the familiarly green eyes, and he smiled as I walked toward him. Seeing I carried something with me, his eyes lowered, filling with frank interest, then concern.
“Fluxroot!” he exclaimed. “Are those the Solanum Dulcamara? Are they sick again?” he asked on a heavy sigh.
I stopped, placing the pots carefully on the island. “Well . . . I’m not sure . . . about either question. Sorry,” I said. “Mom should be right back; she just went out to the greenhouse to get the last plant.”
He nodded, staring absently at the plants. “I wonder what could be doing that.” Noticing his coffee cup, he set it down on the newspaper, and swiveled to face me as I bent down to give him a kiss.
Remembering my own sickness, I shot back up, covering my mouth as I spoke. “Oh, I don’t know if I’m contagious still. I would hate to give you what I had.”
He thought seriously on this for about two seconds. “No . . . I’d say that’s highly unlikely,” he remarked, the authoritative scientist in his tone. “The incubation period for what you had will have been potent for the first seventy-hours, but after that only a minimal amount of contagion would have been present. Not enough to infect someone with an uncompromised adult immune system.” He smiled warmly, opening both arms invitingly. “How are you feeling?” he asked as he released me.
“Refreshed,” I said emphatically, peering out the window. “What were you looking at?”
“Looking at? Oh, that—yes.” I could tell by his wearied tone of voice, that whatever that was . . . it was causing him grief. He pushed the bridge of his glasses up his nose and swiveled the other way. “I think it’s possible the recent temperature fluctuations may have affected the solar panels; the gauges aren’t reading accurately—or if they are, then by all accounts we should have turned to ash by now.” I gave him a questioning look, but he didn’t see. “The only way to tell for sure . . .” he said, sighing with resignation, “is to climb up there and test the voltage of the cells.”
All it took was picturing my dad on a ladder, and I spoke without hesitation. “Do you think you should let Mom do that, instead?” I caught the makings of a flinch cross his features, then a wry sort of smile as understanding turned to a slow head-bob. Instantly, I regretted the impulsive remark and tried to salvage my blunderbuss statement. “Only because she weighs less, of course, so it would be easier for her to climb and move around up there,” I clarified. “And then you could be at the bottom in case something were to happen,” I added judiciously.
His glasses had fallen again and he peered at me over the top of the rims. “Well . . . your mother is busy in the greenhouse, so—”
“No, she’s not,” announced my mother, coming into the kitchen carrying a tiny red pot, the same bright flower with white spots on its leaves. She crossed quickly to the sink, set the pot down inside it, and removed her gloves. “The Nightshade is sick again,” she said over her shoulder with a solicitous brow. “I can’t figure out if it’s the hybrid enzymes irritating its genome or if it needs more sunlight, or . . . something else.” She cocked her head, staring down into the sink. “I did something different with all three, and they each continue to produce the same white spots. What aren’t you telling me?” she whispered to the plants.
“Did you—”
“Prune the sick areas, yes, I tried that,” she said without turning. “It spread even faster.”
“How about—”
“Isolating the bacteria didn’t work, either. It’s pandemic.”
“You could try—”
“I am—but don’t say it aloud.” She turned, a sneaky smirk on her lips, and winked. “I think that’s why they aren’t getting better; they’re prepared for our defense.”
My dad smiled back, the way he did only for my mother. As I watched and listened to them finish each other’s thoughts, I was reminded of why I had come in here in the first place. A last look around, and then I was ready to move on to the next room. Before that, though, I needed to make my mother aware of my father’s proposed intentions, while not overtly making it seem as though I didn’t think him capable of handling the task on his own.
“You find your surprise?” my mom asked, noticing my wayward glances.
“Not yet,” I answered.
My dad looked between the two of us, a deep furrow down the middle of his face. “Surprise? Oh—”
“Shh!” With a grin, she silenced him before he could say more. “Let Foster find it, honey.”
My dad wiggled his eyebrows, pushing air through his lips so they wobbled. “Good thing your mom was here; I would have told you what it was.” He reached for his coffee cup, missing the handle a few times before finding purchase.
I laid a hand on his shoulder and smiled, a slice of guilt scraping across my stomach. “I think I’ll look in the den first,” I said, then began backing out of the room, retracing my footsteps as I made my cowardly exit. “Oh,” I added, as if I had suddenly thought of something. “Good luck with the panels, Dad; I think I last saw the ladder in the garage.”
Though I was fully turned around now, I could sense my mother’s whirl at the sink and the pointed stare she directed at my father. “Panels? The solar panels?” she said, her voice rising in both octave and incredulity. “James Samuel Kelly, there is no chance of you going up on the roof.”
~
Minutes later I was back in the kitchen, finding my parents cuddling by the sink. I breezed past the island, intent on my destination. I’d scoped out the most likely places, coming up empty on three of the five rooms I had searched. Halfway through the corridor that connected the kitchen to the dining room, my mother turned in my father’s arms, hollering out to me.
“Oh! Before I forget, Fost . . . I called The House of Hope and let them know you wouldn’t be coming in today.” As if struck by lightning, I halted to a stiff stop. It occurred to me then that I still had yet to figure what day it was. I had assumed Wednesday had come and gone; as sick as I was, it was unlikely I had only been sick for two days, but the next day I was scheduled to see them was . . . no. Surely it hadn’t been six days. I would know if nearly a whole week had passed. Wouldn’t I? Not possible, I reassured myself as I reentered the kitchen. She was confused. Mixed up my schedule, is all.
“What’s the matter, baby?” My mother walked toward me, her brow wrinkled with concern. She stared, searching for signs of a fever.
“Oh, nothing,” I said quickly. “Sorry, I feel fine. It’s only . . .” I smiled, but it was not one of genuine comfort or ease; it felt defensive, an attempt to keep at bay something bad or unwelcome. “I don’t go in to see my kids until Sunday.” She and my father shared a brief glance, flecked with both amusement and sympathy.
“Sweetie,” she murmured, gently taking hold of my elbows, “it is Sunday.”
I felt my lips
come apart and chin drop an inch or so. Though my mom was known to have a mischievous side, I had massive doubts she was playing a trick on me. I glanced at my dad, searching for his tell—picking of his cuticles. Not finding it, my doubts were solidified. Still, in a manic cha-cha, my eyes darted around the kitchen, looking for verifiable proof it was not as they said. The only proof to be found, the newspaper—as verifiable as it got—waylaid my hope with its Poynter font, stating it to be Sunday, March 22.
Six days.
Not possible, I thought again, this time with all the misery of knowing it was the truth. It might as well have been a month! That’s how long it would take to catch up. And really, it wasn’t so much that I feared I wouldn’t be able to figure things out on my own, but at a minimum, I would have five reports due, three exams to study for and makeup, and then there was the Senior Piece which accounted for nearly half of my grade. Add this to the average of four hours of homework assigned per night, and I would be lucky if I got to bed before three a.m., for the next few weeks. More concerning than any of that, however, was the time away from the kids I would need to take in order to meet these requirements—on top of the dereliction of this week’s neglected visits. Never—not even once—had I missed this many consecutive days with them. I closed my eyes at the stab of pain, cowed as I imagined what they must be thinking.
“Fost?”
At the sound of my name, I resurfaced hazily. “Hm?” I felt disoriented and unsure as to where to start in processing this new information. “Did you—did you call earlier this week and let Mr. Sandhearn know I was sick?” I asked, unable to keep the flagrant panic mixed with hope out of my voice.
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