Chapter 16 As Luck Would Have It
AS LUCK WOULD HAVE IT
Icancelled on Tanner. Mabel got the flu.
We rescheduled for the next weekend, and I cancelled again. Owen had the flu.
Now, Thursday night and I’m hanging over my toilet, sick as a dog.
My presence at work has been spotty at best. I’ve had to cancel all my in-person appointments and I’ve mostly been working from home.
Holt brought my laptop by when Owen got sick.
I’d already missed a few days with Mabel.
Now that I’m sick, luck would have it my kids are fully recovered.
This means Mabel is at the height of toddler energy.
I swipe a cold cloth over my face as another wave of nausea boils up inside me—and then it boils over.
I’ve never been good at puking. I’m not sure if anyone is good at it. But I’m particularly bad at it. Every retch sounds like something is crawling up from the deepest pits of hell, roaring destruction to any and all to whom it crosses paths.
When I’ve retched every last bit of food in my belly and the very air in my lungs, I slump back against the wall with my cold cloth.
My skin is so hot and dewy with sweat, but I can hear Mabel shrieking excitedly downstairs.
I need to pull my ‘mom’ pants on and parent—but I can’t.
I double forward and retch again. Nothing comes up.
Somehow that’s worse.
Whatever this is it feels like death.
This time, I don’t fall against the wall. I hit the cold tile of the bathroom floor. Somewhere along my vomiting spell, I ditched my shirt. It’s a habit I’m not proud of, the habit of stripping down to practically nothing when I’m deliriously ill.
Tate used to say it was endearing. How the man found my suffering endearing, I will never know.
I used to call him an asshole whenever he’d chuckle as he dumped a big heap of blankets onto the floor, knowing I wouldn’t manage to leave the bathroom for the entirety of my illness as I shifted between hot and cold, the tile and the blanket.
But never mustering the energy to flee my domain of torment until the illness passed.
There is no blanket this time, and no Tate.
I sob. The sobbing triggers another wave of nausea.
I vomit bile.
Mabel shrieks happily and something crashes. I groan.
I’m not sure I don’t pass out.
The bathroom door cracks open, and I blink up at my mother-in-law from where my cheek is pressed to the tile. I feel like I’m burning up.
“Oh my,” Elise titters.
“Nooo,” I groan. She takes a step toward me, but I lift my palm in a sad attempt to wave her away. It falls to the tile with a slap.
“Honey…”
I groan again. My head is throbbing. “The light,” I croak. “Turn off the light.”
The light flicks off. My body sags into the floor.
“Owen called me,” Elise says worriedly. “Should I call an ambulance?”
“This is always how she gets when she gets the stomach flu.” I whimper when I hear my son.
“Tate used to say it was bad.” Elise ushers him from the room with a, “Go get your things.”
“No…” I groan again. “Herman just had—surgery.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re in no shape to mother those children.”
“It’s contagious,” I manage to mumble.
I try to lift myself, but with the attempt comes another wave of nausea. I cling to the toilet bowl and Elise closes the door so only a crack of light spills in.
“Oh dear,” she tuts from the other side. “I’m afraid to leave you like this.”
“I just need sleep.”
“In a bed, preferably.” Elise pokes her head into the bathroom with a grimace. “I can try to carry you.”
“No.” Good lord, if she touches me… “Just, please go.”
“Faye…”
“I just need time.”
“Okay.” She takes a step back. I don’t blame her. “I’m taking the kids. And Duke.”
“Thank you.” I can’t even muster the energy to fight her. I flush the toilet and fall back to the floor.
“I’ll check in.”
I don’t reply. Dizziness swims through the pounding in my head and nausea swirls in my empty belly. Mabel cheers excitedly from her room down the hall because she’s going to stay with Grandma and Grandpa. I hear Owen worry about leaving me and Elise assure him I wouldn’t be alone.
I’m not sure who she thinks will be here.
Mom and Dad are away for the week, visiting friends in Victoria. I hope she didn’t call them home for this.
I don’t have time to think on it before the house is silent and I slide into darkness.