Chapter 12 #2
I glance around the living room, at the blanket-covered lumps that are my siblings, the medication bottles lined up on the coffee table, the dirty tissues that have already begun to respawn mere moments after I emptied the trash.
It’s messy. Too messy to be something I’d usually feel comfortable sharing.
But this is Holly…
Taking a step back, I snap a photo and send it.
Her response is immediate: OMG, you poor thing. That looks miserable. Here, I’ll send you something cheerful to balance out all the sickly vibes.
A photo appears on my screen. It’s the corgi from the pet photo shoot two Fridays ago, wearing a tiny Santa hat, looking at the camera with a joy I know only Holly could have coaxed out of her.
I find myself grinning like a fool again, but Elliot isn’t around to tease me, so…who cares? Cute, I shoot back. Very, very cute.
HOLLY: I know! Aw, I love her. So, have you eaten yet? Remember, you have to keep yourself fueled for the fight.
LUKE: I’m fine. I’ll warm up something from the freezer later.
HOLLY: Nope. Not going to work. If you don’t send me proof of real food in the next hour, I’m calling in reinforcements.
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.
I send her pictures back—the growing pile of used tissue boxes in the recycling bin, a dramatic shot of Ashton oozing off the couch, the TV screen glowing in the dark as we watch The Princess Bride together for the first time since we were kids.
HOLLY: Oh, good choice! I love that movie! It’s one of my favorites. We should watch it together sometime when you’re feeling better and can enjoy it more.
LUKE: As you wish.
HOLLY: I see what you did there. And I like it.
LUKE: Good.
By Sunday evening, I’ve received dozens of messages, three terrible jokes (“What do you call a sick bird of prey? An ill eagle!”), and a truly awful meme about the flu that makes me laugh despite feeling like death.
She’s the best. She really is.
My last thought as I sink into sickly dreams?
I can’t wait to thank her in person.
Sunday blurs into Monday. We’re all still sniffling, but Ashton seems to be rounding the corner, complaining less about dying and more about being bored as she takes point on caretaking. Elliot has graduated to sitting upright for short periods. Bran is still staring numbly into the void.
And I’m…holding on, refusing to get worse, but not really getting better.
Holly’s messages continue, a steady stream of support and perfectly timed distraction.
HOLLY: Day 3 of the Ratcliffe Plague. How are we doing?
LUKE: Ashton is improving. The rest of us are still in hell. But hell, like heaven, is temporary. So…
HOLLY: That’s the spirit? I guess? I’m worried you’re becoming darkly philosophical in your season of sick-content.
LUKE: Ha. No, not really. Sorry. I actually find the thought that everything is temporary comforting. Is that strange?
HOLLY: Hmmm…. You know, now that I think about it, no. Not really. It’s a good thing to remember that hell is temporary, so you don’t get depressed when life is sucking butt. But it’s also good to remember that heaven is temporary, so you treasure every second you spend there.
LUKE: Yes. Exactly. I really like you.
HOLLY: Is that the cold medicine talking?
LUKE: No, it’s me. Just me.
HOLLY: I like you, too. And I hope you start to rally soon.
I’d love to go caroling together on Wednesday if you feel better.
It’s kind of a Silver Bell Falls tradition.
The whole town heads over to Reindeer Corners to carol through their downtown.
Then, they return the favor the following Wednesday.
That probably sounds like a mild form of torture, but I promise it’s fun.
LUKE: Only mild torture. Assuming I’m well, I’d love to go. Just don’t expect me to sing.
HOLLY: Of course, you should sing! I bet you have a lovely voice.
LUKE: That’s a bet you would lose.
HOLLY: We’ll see. Sleep well, Grumps. Sending healing vibes your way.
By Monday night, I feel a marked improvement. By Tuesday morning, I wake up feeling almost human.
Not entirely human—my body still aches—but human enough to shower, start a load of laundry, and join the others downstairs for an early breakfast.
Thankfully, the rest of the Ratcliffe plague crew seems to be in much better spirits as well.
While Ashton makes omelets to celebrate and Bran starts another pot of coffee, I pop into the living room to shoot Holly an update—Feeling much better this morning and looking forward to caroling tomorrow night if the invitation still stands.
She texts back almost instantly. Of course, it does! Hurray! I’ll text you all the details tomorrow. I’m at the vet’s office, shooting portraits of hamsters in tiny Santa hats and feeling like the luckiest girl in the world. I really do love my job!
Smiling, I assure her, Of course, no rush. And that’s probably why you’re so good at it. Have a great day.
She shoots back—
After a beat of hesitation, I send a heart in return, which Elliot—who has appeared behind me without me noticing—proceeds to tease me about as we head back into the kitchen.
“Shut up,” I warn, leading the way. “It’s just an emoji.”
“Just an emoji! Just,” Elliot practically screeches. “Ashton, Luke said the emoji he sent is just an emoji.”
“What!?” Ashton screeches back. “An emoji? I didn’t think you knew how to use emojis, Luke. You never send emojis.”
“Luke’s too dignified for emojis,” Bran says, adding creamer to his fresh cup of coffee. “He disdains an emoji. And I, for one, approve. When I grow up, I’m going to disdain emojis, too.”
“I don’t think he disdains them anymore,” Elliot says, in that smug way of his that’s starting to drive me insane.
“I love emojis,” Ashton says. “I wish there were even more to choose from. I wish they had an emoji for when your wine runs out too soon. And for twerking. And for that moment when Homer backs into the hedge.”
I scowl. “What?”
“You know, Homer and the hedge,” she repeats as if that should explain it. “The meme?”
“He thinks you’re talking about the Greek Homer,” Elliot says. Correctly.
Bran snorts in thinly veiled amusement as Ashton’s mouth rounds into a perfect O of surprise.
“I am not ancient, out of touch, and no fun.” I point a warning finger around the kitchen. “And even if I am, I took care of all of you for days, even when I was sick, so…you can’t make fun of me. I won’t allow it.”
Ashton grins. Widely.
“What’s so funny?” I demand.
She shakes her head, still grinning. “Nothing, you’re just having trouble being cranky, aren’t you? Even a little bit cranky.”
I scowl, half-heartedly. “I am not.”
“It was a lovey dovey one, wasn’t it?” Ashton asks Elliot. “The emoji?”
Elliot nods. “It was.”
Ashton claps her hands. “Oh, yay! You’re falling in love! The signs were all there! I knew it!”
“You know nothing,” I warn them all. “I don’t know anything yet, so you certainly don’t.”
But one thing I do know is that I feel closer to Holly than I’ve felt to anyone in ages, and that texting her while trapped in a plague house was still a good time.
As we tuck into breakfast and discuss the holiday menu, my thoughts keep drifting to trains, planes, and my car with the driver.
New York City isn’t that far from Silver Bell Falls, after all, and money is no object.
I can arrange to be here or for Holly to be in the city with me as often as we want.
Maybe hoping for something like that is jumping the gun, but on a bright, sunny, healthy Tuesday morning after a brush with death—no matter how mild the brush—it doesn’t feel crazy.
It feels appropriate. Maybe even…inevitable.
Like something that was always meant to be.
Looking back, I really should have known better. It’s like in business—sometimes the brightest forecast comes just days before the entire market crashes.