Chapter 26 #2
Her mouth hangs open and for a moment I was a little worried about being too graphic, considering our new friendship and current setting.
“Huh. No shit?”
Her reaction was similar to how I responded in college when I learned; dresses and skirts were considered gender-neutral up until the 18th-century.
I shake my head, “No shit,” repeating her words right back.
“Well… Sláinte! I guess it’s good that we get along so well.” She winks as she raises her glass in a celebratory gesture before draining the Rosé.
I smile politely and nod, unsure how to counter the odd choice of words.
When lunch is through, Mairead moves at a slower pace.
She is also in the mood to try on clothes.
The spending crazed-girl gawks over mannequins draped in sparkly, sequin dresses and literally squeals, whenever we come across a collection of furs.
My friend has a very particular taste in fashion, but to each their own.
Peeling a hot pink, cocktail number off the display, Mairead skips off to the dressing room.
“Wait right here. Tell me what you think when I come out.”
I make myself comfortable on the circular ottoman, within the horseshoe of changing rooms. Checking my phone to see if I have missed any messages, I confirm there’s nothing.
She pops her head out of the small room. “Can you zip me?”
I stand despite my aching feet protesting for me to sit back down and go to assist the sprightly girl in the extremely loud dress, covered in strawberries.
As I glide the zipper up and fasten the clasp to the dress, I can’t help but notice a thin lined tattoo on her shoulder blade.
It’s a skull with shamrocks for eyes. I, myself, don’t have any tattoos, so I wonder what encouraged her to pick this particular design.
I didn’t want to be rude and question her choice in body art, especially when she’s already treated me to such a lavish day.
I keep the question to myself and tell her she looks nice in the outfit.
She, of course, bought the dress. Using the same black shiny card to pay as all the other times.
Could it be her father’s card? I wasn't jealous. Just curious… what it’s like to have parents that help you out.
Her dad seemed nice when I met him at the Craft Bazaar.
Dressed in head-to-toe designer labels, it kind of explains his daughter’s ideology.
My parents worked very hard. We always had a roof over our heads, food in our bellies, and truly everything we needed.
After I got out of the hospital, we moved out of my favorite childhood home and into something much more conservative.
Maybe the house was too badly damaged after the explosion, but it never really made sense why we constantly moved.
The house I still see in my dreams was my grandparents originally. They decided to move back overseas, where their ancestors originated, to spend their remaining years living on a houseboat along the Mediterranean Sea.
Back when my hearing was intact, I remember my mom playing a grand piano in the great room.
If my memory serves me right, my dad used to cook in a massive, shining kitchen with a chandelier above the island.
I was little so some things were a little fuzzy, but after I the accident and the relentless bells began…
we led much different lives. No more music in the halls, no more grandiose cooking spaces.
Things were simpler. Nothing flashy. As soon as I became acclimated with a new house or school, we moved again… always within Boston.
I know my parents were trying to do right by us.
Instilling the importance of family over lavish things.
Anytime I was sick, dad made his homemade Italian penicillin to make me feel better.
He learned the recipe from his father. My mom tried to be present, never missing a school function.
As I got older, our parents worked longer hours.
I still had Theo, and I wouldn’t ever exchange my time with him for any designer bag or sports car. I just wish I understood why they cut me off. I’ve always had the sense that Theo was the favorite.
Yes, they offered us both college but sometime between him graduating and his death, it changed. Like I did something wrong and now my parents won’t help me. Do they blame me for their favorite child’s death?
Okay. Spiraling. Get a grip Cindel. You're loved. You’re here. That should be enough… but why do I feel like it’s not?
By the time we get to the third floor, I didn’t feel so good.
Maybe because I was having an existential crisis over why my parents didn’t love me as much as I wanted them too.
Yet, my body ached and I found myself feeling both overheated and freezing.
Regardless of the number of times I took on and off my sweater, I just couldn’t regulate my temperature.
A mild headache was starting to set in that quickly began to wrap itself behind my eyes, causing my vision to become slightly distorted.
I took up residency in a small chair in the corner of a high-end jewelry store.
Mairead has her eye on a set of pink, diamond earrings to go with the eccentric fruity dress she just purchased. I can’t continue on like this. I’ve hit my limit.
“Mairead!” I called over to her from my seated position. “Hey… I’m not feeling so well. Could you please call that driver to come?”
She makes a pouty face but seems to realize my poor state.
Fortunately, she pulls out her phone to make the call.
Without stopping at any more stores or retrieving her previous purchases, she wraps her arm around my waist and walks me toward the closest exit; where we find the chauffeur waiting for me.
“Feel better, sis’! Tell that lover boy of yours, Mairead says ‘hurry up!’”
I must have been running a fever, because nothing she said made any sense. She gently helps me into the car and kisses my forehead before waving us off.
The driver is very kind, insisting he walks me all the way up to my apartment door.
Maybe he started growing concerned when I asked to pull over so I could empty my guts onto the side of the interstate or perhaps the fact I stripped off three layers of clothing and was down to only a tank top on a frigid, autumn day.
Either way, I was thankful for him and Mairead’s generosity.
Once inside, I drop my bag, shoes, and everything else I carry as I make my way to the bathroom.
I shakily draw myself a cool bath and check the medicine cabinet for anything to help bring down the fever.
Expired Tylenol will have to do, until I run to the store or have some kind of delivery service bring something stronger.
I felt as though my head was being crushed within an invisible vise.
My teeth chatter as I lower myself into the tub, my body throbbing as if I fell down a flight of stairs.
I just need to stay here long enough for the medicine to do its job.
When my fingers start to prune, I reluctantly lift my trembling body from the tub, just managing to wrap a towel around me.
Instantly, another wave of nausea consumes me.
Lucky me, the bathroom has anything and everything I could need.
After multiple episodes of heaving in the toilet, nothing is left in my stomach.
Regardless of how close I was to my bedroom, I gathered clean towels from the shelf, along with an extra bathrobe; dropping them right onto the floor.
I didn’t want to be far if another bout of nausea courses through me.
The only thing I brought into the room with me was my cell phone.
It lies somewhere in this room. I barely have the energy to claw at the piles of random linens to form a soft nest for my body to collapse into.
I also didn’t bother putting my hearing aids back in.
Not only was I too weak to care, but I honestly couldn't remember where I set them.
Was Andrea home? Would she stumble into the bathroom and find me like this? Did I have work tomorrow? What day is it tomorrow? The room was bright, light still on, but it didn’t matter. Sleep consumed me.
When I finally managed to pry my eyes open, it only felt like seconds had gone by, but I wasn’t in a pile of rogue fabric any longer. I was in my bed, and it was light out. The sun still hung in the sky. Was it the same day?
Instinctively, I reached for my phone to find it on the nightstand, plugged in. Today was Saturday, November 2nd. A whole day has gone by.
I sit up trying to get my bearings and notice three separate medicines next to me. They're all new and unopened, with a full glass of water within reach.
I scan the room to find most of my room in order, but more in order than usual.
Clothes that normally litter the floor now sit neatly folded on my vanity chair.
The trash bin beside it has been emptied, and even the closet doors are closed.
One of the accordion door tracks is usually janky, never lining up properly, so why does the closet actually shut tight?
I look down to find my normal swirl of blankets is laid out, smooth and tucked into the edges of the mattress.
Is my bed made? Am I made into bed?! I search for my hearing aids, thankfully finding them nestled on their charger beside me.
There’s no way I did all of this! Maybe Andrea took care of me? She must be home.
Carefully, I put on my aids, tear open one of the packages of cold and flu.
Then drain the water from its glass. Pulling my shaking body from bed, I’m surprised to find that I’m no longer naked, fresh out of the bath, but I’m dressed.
In duck pajamas? What kind of time travel paradox took place between the bathroom floor and now?