Charlie could only point to her head. To her surprise, Kayla came to her side, felt her forehead.
No fever. That’s good.
She winced. She was grateful Kayla was here, but also wished she hadn’t touched her—the pain now pooled in the spot where her hand had been, as if magnetic.
I’ll go get the dormkeeper.
Thanks, Charlie managed.
First school sick sucks. You’ll be all right.
Charlie did not feel all right, and though it didn’t really occur to her until Kayla said so, being ill away from her parents did add a layer of terror to the experience. Their dormkeeper, Michelle, escorted her to the infirmary, Charlie with her hands out in front of her like a sleepwalker, afraid to fully open her eyes in the morning sun.
With a decade’s worth of school nurse interactions under her belt, she wasn’t expecting much. Charlie remembered a running joke from middle school: if a kid turned up carrying his own arm, Nurse O’Leary’s first course of action would still be to offer him a Tums. Once she got to Jeff, the protocol was to accuse students of drug habits—no matter the ailment, the nurse would demand a list of illicit substances ingested, as if there was no other possible way for a teenager to fall ill. So Charlie was expecting Tylenol if she was lucky, and that had done jack shit the last time. But when they arrived at the infirmary, she was momentarily stunned out of cynicism when the nurse stood from her swivel chair and said:
Can I help you?
Except for via interpreter at her last visit to Colson Children’s, Charlie had never been able to understand a medical professional. She flashed back to all the notes pinned to her shirt in elementary school, all the appointments at which a doctor and her mother had talked right over her head.
Hello? The nurse waved.
Headache, she said. A strong one.
The nurse opened a large white cabinet overhead filled with generic bulk medicines. She took down a bottle, then stopped midtwist of the cap, and placed it on her desk.
Have you taken anything in the last 48 hours?
Despite the gouging pain, Charlie smiled a little. Some things were the same everywhere.
No.
The nurse motioned for her to come, sheathed a thermometer in plastic, and took her temperature.
Perfect—98.6.
I run cold, Charlie said.
But the nurse just poured two pills into Charlie’s hand and told her she could rest until they kicked in.
Thanks.
Charlie peeled back the curtain that cordoned off three cots wrapped in exam table paper. She lay down, but the room’s fluorescent light cut through her eyelids.
Hello? she called to the nurse, hoping she might be able to turn off the light.
No response. She would have to get back up. Maybe, she thought, if she moved as fast as possible, her body wouldn’t have time to register that it was happening. And so Charlie hurled herself at the curtain, and immediately vomited the remains of last night’s chicken salad onto the gray tiled floor. When she opened her eyes again, the nurse was standing there, trying not to look peeved about having to clean up puke so early in the morning.
I’ll call your parents, she said.
* * *
—
At home her father helped her into bed and told her to sit tight.
Dad? she said as he turned to go.
The words felt unlikely in her mouth even before they were fully formed: Can you call Mom?
He returned a few minutes later with water and pills and a bag of frozen spinach. He helped lift her head and put the icy bag at the base of her neck.
I talked to your mother, he said. She said she used to get migraines when she was your age. Something about hormones.
It was hard to decide what felt most improbable: Charlie’s mother having been a teenager, the two of them having this visceral thing in common, or how very much Charlie wanted her here now, how the pain bore a mother-shaped hole her father’s tenderness did not fill. But the pain was also exhausting, and soon—despite the chill of the ice pack and the fact that she never slept on her back—Charlie felt herself sliding out of consciousness.
* * *
—
She woke later, startled by something she’d dreamt. She had a feeling she was supposed to be somewhere. What time was it? She tried to reach for her phone, but her arm was heavy, torpid. She dipped into sleep again, waking some time later, clammy, her father’s hand on her shoulder and her pillowcase mottled with spinach melt.
How you feeling, sweetie?
She considered. Her vision was gauzy but the pain was no longer viselike. It was broader, but as it spread it had also thinned.
Better.
Do you want me to call you out tomorrow?
Charlie shook her head, said she wanted to make sure she had all her assignments for over the break, but really she just wanted to be back with her classmates. She thought of the people she was slowly coming to count as her friends—Austin, Kayla, and even the stage crew kids—and hoped she hadn’t missed anything interesting.
That night, she opened her phone to find an unfamiliar icon in the notification bar. When she clicked it, a small video of Austin appeared.
You o-k? Missed you today.
She set her phone upright on her bureau, smoothed down her hair.
Sent home sick, but I’m o-k.
Good enough for pizza Tuesday?
For sure.
Charlie sent the message, then stood there staring at her phone screen until it went black and the reflection of her own goofy grin snapped her out of it. She wondered whether the invite for pizza counted as a date, though even if it didn’t, it had to mean something that he’d checked in on her. What exactly, she wasn’t sure. She wasn’t even sure what she wanted it to mean. Still, the exchange warmed her, and she went to sleep buoyed by the hope of what tomorrow could be.
and you’re sure they’re treating you well. You swear?
February sat on the couch, rolling and unrolling her shirtsleeve as her mother gave her all the latest Spring Towers news via videophone. Her mother was thriving, constantly busy with a daily spread of activities, and February once again felt conflicted—mostly pleased, of course, but not without a pang of jealousy, too. It was infantile, she knew, to want her mother to miss her the way she missed her mother. Selfish. But if she couldn’t help feeling it, at least she could quash it quickly.
We’re having a great time! said her mother. It’s so nice to be with Lu again.
I tried calling yesterday.
I saw that, but you know, in the morning we were playing shuffleboard, and then for half the day we couldn’t find the remote to check the message. And do you know where it was? In my slipper!
At the sound of her mother’s laugh February could feel her own smile shift, no longer forced.
I’m glad you’re having fun.
I feel young again!
Excited to see you next week, February said.
Me too! Can’t wait for Mel’s pie.
You and me both.
So you’ll pick me up Thursday morning?
I will. I was thinking around 10.
Perfect. Now will you go get your father for me? I need to ask him something.
Dad? said February, stalling.
She couldn’t tell her, not again. She’d broken this news dozens of times, and each time her mother was stunned and wounded, just as she had been the night he died. What a cruel disease, she thought, to steal from a person all their best moments, and make them relive the worst ones nightly. To force their loved ones to deliver these blows of memory until they, too, were subsumed by the echoing grief.
He’s resting.
February heard the jangle of Mel’s keys as she came in the side door and plopped them on the kitchen counter.
Hey, babe, Mel called. Do you want me to do something to this lasagna?
He ate too much pie? said her mother.
February nodded.
He always does that!