“I’m going to get some chicken soup started. You can hopefully keep the broth down. Get some rest and text or call me if you need me before I come back to check on you.”
“A damn cold in Septem-ember,” my speech rang botched from my teeth rattling. “It’ssssss…like eighty sa-six da-degrees outside.”
“You likely don’t have a cold, Stenton. It could be some sort of aftershock from what you experienced earlier. Not even a titanium shell like yours is immune to tragedy.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
The next time I awakened I was hurled from my sleep, choking. I sat up and leaned over toward the floor. I heard, “Holy mother of—” just before I vomited.
When I was able to open my eyes and clear my vision, I saw the red bucket right in my face and Zoey holding it up high. Then I saw the pallet she’d made on the floor next to the bed. My face wrinkled.
“I was afraid you’d have to do that and didn’t want you choking on it or getting it on my floor.” Her face was tight with sleepiness. “You think you’re done?”
I nodded my head. My clothes were drenched as were the sheets. I felt shitty. “I need a shower,” I croaked out, stretching my legs to scoot off the bed.
When I came out of the bathroom, my clean clothes—this time including boxers—were waiting for me on the chaise. Zoey was busy changing the sheets.
“You don’t look so hot,” she stood to announce. “Let me see if your fever broke. You’re no longer shivering.”
She finished the bed and invited me in before leaving the room. When she returned she pushed the thermometer into my mouth.
“Ain’t this JR’s?” I garbled with my mouth occupied. We used it when he was a baby.
“It serves the same purpose. Hush.”
While I waited for the device to beep its results, Zoey finished the bed. She read the device and informed my temp had dropped. She left to put the soiled sheets in the wash. When I got back in the bed I appreciated the freshness of the sheets again. I practically went out again when I wiggled for comfort. I don’t know how, but I dozed off.
~~~~~~~~~~
I don’t know how long after it was when Zoey gently woke me to eat and drink water. It was pitch black outside. The only streak of light came from her bathroom to illuminate where we were. I was too disoriented to ask for the time. She was freshly showered herself in a silk pajama short set. I drank as much as I could and swallowed the pills she handed me for my fever.
“You’re sweating. Maybe I need to roll down a few blankets.”
“No!” I growled. “I’m cold as shit.”
I rejected her next serving of the broth, feeling nauseous again and needing to lie down. I fell out as soon as my warm, misted head hit the cool pillow. I woke up sometime later and found the red bucket sitting next to the bed, cleaned. Next to it was an empty pallet. Zoey was gone. Why did that minor detail cause me to feel grievance? I staggered over to the bathroom, took a leak, washed my hands and got right back in the bed for lights out.
~~~~~~~~~~
“Stent, come on. You have to eat something,” I heard in the distance as I felt tugging at my side.
I turned to find Zoey with a bowl of something. I eyed her warily.
“You have to eat. You slept all day yesterday. If it weren’t for hearing the toilet flushing a few times and coming in here to empty glasses of juice, I’d’ve thought you were dead.”
Barely processing her message, I scooted off the bed to take to the bathroom. When I returned, she was in the same place, accompanied by a familiar maternal glower. I wasn’t hungry, yet neither was saying no to Zoey an option in the moment. I crawled back into bed and she fed me oatmeal…old fashioned. My taste buds were so coated and numb, I couldn’t appreciate the taste, and after three spoonsful I was done. Zoey held the next serving in the air and instead of verbalizing my inability to take in more, rolled over into slumber.
En route, I heard her mumble, “Seriously, Stent? What am I going to do with all this oatmeal? Gee, thanks!”