43. Faith
CHAPTER 43
Faith
I rolled over and looked at the clock. Almost noon. I’d been fighting a cold all week, but today was the worst. My head hurt, my nose was rubbed raw from hundreds of tissues, and every muscle in my body ached. I’d been spending most of my waking hours trying to figure out how to handle my new identity crisis. It seemed like only a matter of time before another page turned up, and I still didn’t know the best way to handle the situation.
Mr. Darcy hopped up on the bed and walked around in circles, finally settling in next to my side. “Hey, buddy. I’ll get up in a minute.”
The cat purred and curled up into a ball. I stretched my arms over my head, then slowly sat up in bed. Wadded-up tissues littered the floor, and my nightstand held an assortment of half-full water glasses and abandoned mugs of tea.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so awful. I lifted the edge of the comforter to fling it off. Somehow, today it weighed a ton. Freed from my layers of blankets, I shifted my legs over the side of the bed and felt around on the floor for my slippers. There was one. My other foot tapped around on the carpet but couldn’t find the match.
As I stood up, a wave of dizziness washed over me, and I grabbed onto the nightstand to steady myself. Every part of me hurt. I gently shook my head to rid it of the pounding sound between my ears. Shaking, I released my grip on the nightstand and managed to stand.
The pounding continued. Someone was actually banging on my door.
“Oh, crap. I can’t deal with this.”
“Faith?” The knocking continued.
I shuffled my one slippered and one bare foot toward the front door. Shuffle, whap. Shuffle, whap .
Knock, knock, knock. “Faith?”
“I’m coming.” I tried to yell, but it came out more like a croak. Reaching the door, I peered through the peephole. Dante stood on my stoop with two brown paper bags in hand. I slumped against the door for support. “Go away.”
“What? Faith, are you in there?” The knocking paused.
I couldn’t let him see me like this. My voice cracked as I tried to speak louder. “I said go away.”
“Jess told me you’re sick.”
“I feel like crap. Go home.”
“I’ve got tissues.” He pulled a box out of the bag and waved it in front of the peephole.
Tissues, eh? I’d run out of tissues on Thursday and had been wiping my nose with toilet paper and paper towels for the past thirty-six hours. The tissues were tempting.
“Just open the door, and I’ll slide them inside,” Dante said.
He would have to tempt me with Kleenex. Desperate for the little square box of pillowy softness, I turned the deadbolt and tugged on the handle, cracking the door about six inches. Dante slid the tissues in as promised, then wedged his boot in the doorway so I couldn’t push it closed.
“Come on. I don’t want you to see me like this.” My voice sounded muffled, even to my own ears. That’s what having a head full of green snot would do to a gal.
“I’m not going away. I don’t care what you look like. I’m coming in.” He gave the door a slight push, and I had no energy to resist.
I stepped out of the way, and Dante pushed through the door and into my stuffy, dark apartment.
“Jeez, how long have you been like this? You look like shit.”
“Thanks. You’re already making me feel so much better.” I shuffle-whapped over to the couch and curled up into a ball, then yanked a fuzzy blanket over my head.
Dante set the bags down on the table and walked over to sit down on the side of the couch. He slid the edge of the blanket back to put a cool hand to my forehead. “Have you taken your temperature lately? You’re burning up.”
“I ran out of medicine last night. You shouldn’t even be here. You’ll catch the crud.”
He stood up and walked over to the kitchen. The sound of cabinets closing and drawers opening filtered through the blanket. I peeked out to see him fill a plastic cup from the tap. Then he brought the cup of water and a bottle of pills over to me.
“Lucky for you, I brought some ibuprofen. Here, take this.”
I propped myself up on an elbow and managed to swallow the pills he held out.
“Let’s get you back to bed.”
“No.” I grabbed onto his arm. “No movement.”
“Okay. Then you just stay here.” Dante continued to talk, but I tuned him out. As I drifted off to sleep, he might have said something ludicrous about making me soup, but I must have been already dreaming. Dante making soup. What could be more ridiculous than that?
Dante
“A roux, my boy,” Meemaw’s voice carried across the kitchen. I looked up to make sure Faith hadn’t woken up on the couch.
“But the flour’s getting all brown.” Meemaw had been trying to walk me through making her homemade creamy chicken soup for the past half hour, and I’d already thrown away the first two attempts.
“Stir it faster. Just keep whisking.”
“The whisk is the beater thing, right?” I asked. “I don’t think she has one of those. I’m just using a spoon.”
“Oh, child. I should have tried harder with you. Where are you exactly?”
“I’m at Faith’s. She’s got a horrible cold, and I wanted to make her some soup.”
“That poor girl. Step away from the stove. I can be there in a little over an hour.”
That’s all I needed, Meemaw busting in and taking charge. I groaned. “No, that’s not necessary. If you can just tell me again.”
“All right. We’ll go through it one more time.” Meemaw started from the beginning once more, and I did my best to follow along. By the time she’d covered the whole recipe, I had something that kind of resembled soup bubbling on the stove.
“Thanks, Meemaw. I owe you one.”
“Nonsense. You don’t owe me a single thing, you know better than that. By the way, I saw that Cheryl the other day in town.”
“Oh yeah?”
“She asked about you.”
“There’s nothing going on between me and Cheryl.” I glanced over at the couch where Faith laid curled into a ball. I pressed the button to take Meemaw off speaker, just in case.
“You might want to tell her that, Dante. Now, I don’t want to get involved in your business?—”
I let out a loud laugh. “Since when?”
Meemaw clucked her tongue through the phone. “I know how you young ‘uns are nowadays. No one gets married anymore. Y’all just string each other along?—”
“I thought you didn’t want to get involved in my business?”
“That’s right. You’re a grown man now. I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”
“No one’s getting hurt, Meemaw. There’s nothing going on between me and Cheryl. I told her that on Christmas.”
“You’d be a fool to get involved with the likes of her. Why, she can’t even make a decent pie.”
Meemaw’s standards, although somewhat questionable, were pretty clear. Made me wonder if Faith could bake.
“You’re still stirring, right? Don’t let it boil. Keep it at a simmer. I don’t know how in the world you manage to feed yourself without me. I told that Cheryl things were getting serious between you and Faith. She’s such a nice girl. I can tell she really likes you too.”
“Oh yeah, how?”
“It’s the way she looks at you, sugar. I’ve spent eighty-two years on this earth watching love blossom between folks, and I think you’re onto something with her.”
I wasn’t ready to think about my feelings for Faith, much less talk about them with my grandmother. “Don’t you need to get to the senior center for bingo?”
“That’s right,” Meemaw said. “Good luck with your soup, hon. Tell Faith I hope she’s feeling better real soon. If she’s all stuffed up, she should rub some oils on her chest. Just mix a little coconut oil or lotion with peppermint or eucalyptus.”
“Okay, Meemaw, I’ll tell her. Thanks again.”
“Or that Vicks Vapor Rub. You can’t go wrong with the Vicks.”
“Got it. You don’t want to be late for bingo.”
“All right now. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Love you, old woman.”
“Love you, too.”
I disconnected and turned my full attention to the stove. Time to taste my concoction. I dipped a spoon into the pot and held my breath. Not bad for a first-timer. Now to find the bowls.