Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
LUKE: Who? The food police?
HOLLY: No, my mother. She’ll show up with a frozen casserole and OPINIONS, and then you’ll really be in trouble. My mother does not mess around.
LUKE: That’s not the way I want to meet your mother. I’ll order pizza.
HOLLY: Good. And Luke?
LUKE: Yes?
HOLLY: I like that you want to meet my mother…
The message sits there on my screen, making me feel light and hopeful again, even in the midst of the SickPocalypse of Christmas Present.
Sunday morning arrives with the unwelcome confirmation that my throat is also now scratchy.
Very scratchy…
I lie in bed for a moment, taking inventory. Sore throat? Check. Headache? Check. That kind of body ache that says, “Congratulations, your cells have been invaded?” Check.
“Damn it,” I mutter.
But judging by the moans coming from downstairs, my siblings still seem to be worse off. I drag myself out of bed, pull on yesterday’s clothes, and head downstairs.
The scene has not improved overnight.
If anything, it’s worse. Bran has migrated to the recliner and is snoring with his mouth open. Ashton is awake but looks like she’s been punched in both eyes. Elliot is now on the second sofa, wrapped in his own cocoon of misery.
“Morning,” I croak.
Three sets of bleary eyes turn my way.
“You sound terrible,” Ashton observes. “Do you want to die? I still really want to die. Or just…take my skin off for a while.”
“Not yet,” I say. “But definitely sick.”
“Welcome to the club,” Elliot says weakly. “There’s no membership card, but plenty of suffering to go around.”
I spend the morning on autopilot dispensing more medication, more fluids, and cleaning the thermometer with anal-retentive attention to detail between temperature checks. I change the sheets on Elliot’s bed—in his feverish state last night, he knocked over a glass of water, and is now too weak to move more than a few feet from the couch—and make toast that no one eats. I fetch tissues and start work on another grocery order, forcing myself to keep fighting the good fight.
Just as I’m debating between orange and cherry Pedialyte, my phone buzzes.
HOLLY: Good morning! How are your patients today?
LUKE: Not great. And I’ve joined the ranks of the infected.
HOLLY: NOOOOO! Rats! I’m so sorry. How are you feeling?
LUKE: Like I’ve been hit by a truck. A truck carrying the flu virus… But I’m still standing. Mostly. And trying to make sure everyone stays hydrated.
HOLLY: What? Sit your butt down, Grumpy! Take some medicine, drink approximately a gallon of water, and rest. Doctor’s orders.
LUKE: I can’t. I’m still the least sick.
HOLLY: Big brother hero mode is all well and good, but sometimes you have to step back and take care of yourself, Luke. Can you at least go take a nap for an hour or so? Surely, they can manage on their own for that long.
I glance around the living room, at my three miserable siblings and the mounting pile of tissues, then down at my phone—I’m not sure they can, but don’t worry, I’ll be okay.
She sends a stern-faced emoji. That’s it. I’m coming over.
My fingers fly across the screen—No. Absolutely not! I don’t want you anywhere near this.
HOLLY: Luke, you need help, and I’ve had my flu shot.
LUKE: No. I’m serious. I’m fine.
HOLLY: You’re not fine. You’re sick with three people to take care of and no one to take care of you. Let me come. I’ll wear a mask and keep my distance as much as possible.
LUKE: No. It’s too risky. And honestly, worrying about you catching this would only make things worse. I’ll feel much better knowing you’re safe at home. Please.
HOLLY: Ugh, all right. But ONLY if you promise me that you’ll find some time to rest. You owe it to your immune system to give it a fighting chance.
LUKE: I promise, I’ll rest. Eventually…
HOLLY: LUKE!
LUKE: I’ll rest SOON. That’s the best I can do right now. I have to finish the grocery order and check Ashton’s temperature. She’s turning bright pink again…
HOLLY: Okay. Go. Take care of your people. But I’m checking in every hour. If you don’t respond, I’m coming over to demand proof of life.
Throughout the day, she keeps her word. Every hour, like clockwork, a message appears.
HOLLY: Status report, Nurse Ratcliffe?
LUKE: Still alive. Barely.
HOLLY: Have you eaten anything?
LUKE: Three crackers. Working on the fourth.
HOLLY: Good job. Keep it up. And watch your front porch. I called in a chicken soup delivery from Kit’s Diner. They have the best chicken soup.
LUKE: Thank you. Chicken soup does sound kind of good.
HOLLY: Good. Check in after you’ve tried it. I want to hear your thoughts on the sweet potato chunks.
The messages become a lifeline, something to look forward to in the monotony of illness and caregiving. She sends me pictures—more puppies, a photo of the sunset over the town square, a truly terrible Christmas sweater she’s washing for an ugly sweater party next week.