17
Bethany and Olive honk the horn as they drive off, leaving me alone when I reach the front door of Anders’s place. I let myself in with the key he gave me, the necklace hanging around my neck, heavy as a weight, and head to the living room.
When he hears me approach, Anders attempts to get up from the long corner of the couch but stops midway, pressing his hand over his face. “You’re back,” he says, his voice strained.
My pace quickens, and I drop my gift bag on the coffee table and stand by him. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” he says, removing his hands from his face to reveal dark, thick bags under his eyes. His hair is soaked at the tips, as if he just took a shower, but when I see moisture at the center of his shirt and the sides of his brow, I realize it’s sweat.
Immediately, I place my hand on his forehead and neck—he’s burning.
“Oh my God.” I grip his face in my hands. “You have a fever.”
“It’s not too bad,” he says with a strained smile.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have picked something up for you.” I keep moving my hand around his face, looking for a cool spot, but he’s hot everywhere.
“At first I thought maybe I was just hungover, but after a while, I just felt worse. I’m better now, I swear.”
“Liar.” I let him go and head to the fridge. After a quick scan of the shelves, I find there’s nothing to aid with a fever. I scour through the cabinets next, when he appears beside me, laying a shaky hand on my arm.
“I’m fine, I promise. Tell me about your day?”
“You can barely stand straight,” I say, and even I hear the anger in my voice. I’m not sure why that’s the emotion choosing to appear, but it makes me move with purpose and speed. I grab his arm and drag him to his room.
“Lucinda,” he says, his eyes barely open.
“Lie down.” I shove him, and I know he’s sick because he’s usually a rock. At my force, he plops right onto the bed. “Have you eaten? Drunk? Taken any medicine?”
“I’m—”
“Say you’re fine one more time and I’ll choke you out, I swear to God.”
He laughs, then coughs, and I rush to the kitchen to bring him a cup of water. When I’m back, he’s leaning on the headboard. After he takes a few sips, I ask him again what he’s had today.
“I can’t keep anything down, so don’t make me anything.” He drops the glass on the bedside table. “And I took some pain medicine for the headaches.”
“How long ago?”
He pauses, like he can’t remember.
“I’m taking your car,” I say, “and getting some things from the corner store. Do not tell me not to, and you better be in this exact same position when I get back or the choke out happens—and I promise you, I will do it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
My time at the store is brief and efficient.
With Taina being a sickly kid, I know exactly what to look for in each aisle and what mixtures of medicine combat all symptoms without causing negative reactions.
Though my time in his car is confusing—there are way too many buttons, and everything looks a lot farther from the vehicle when you’re inside, and there’s a small scratch from a curb I’ll have to apologize for later.
For now, I let myself back in and find Anders exactly how I left him.
“Good boy,” I say, dropping one of my plastic bags on the bed. I pull out an energy drink for the electrolytes and start popping open the pills, gathering the mix in my palm. “Take this.” I hold the pills and the drink toward him.
“I don’t want to put you out,” he says.
And all I can think of is little baby Anders, cleaning up after himself, making barely a sound, locking himself away in his room, fearful of being a bother.
“All I want is to make you feel better,” I say, my brows pulling together.
He holds my gaze a moment, softening despite his rising fever, before taking the pills. How many times was he sick and suffered through it without the comfort of a loved one? Just lying in bed in pain, waiting for it to pass?
When he finishes, I take the bottle and leave it beside him. He grips my wrist. “Why do you look sad?”
I gaze down at his fingers on me, then lean in and wrap my arms around him in a tight hug.
He stiffens, then eases, pulling me closer to him.
And I think of Bethany saying he just goes with the flow, makes this easy-to-like version of himself, and I wonder if even this hug is that too.
Just reacting to me for my comfort. Maybe he doesn’t want to touch me at all, right now.
I pull away, and he brings his hands to my shoulders, his brows bunching. “What was that for? Was girls’ day that torturous?”
“No,” I answer, “it was perfect, and fun, and I want Bethany to adopt me.” I press my finger against his chest. “The hug was for kid Anders.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know,” I say, “if I do anything you don’t like, you can tell me. You don’t have to appease me because you think it’s the right thing to do. Tell me to leave you alone if you need to. And you should do that to anyone else too.”
He gives me a little shake. “What are you talking about?”
I think the fever is making it hard for him to keep up.
“Lie down.” I pull at his arm.
His gaze is trained on me, laser focused. Whatever he’s thinking, I have no inkling, but he shifts and does as I say. I reach into the bag, snap the tiny ice pack I got, and place it on his head.
“I’m going to make you something that I promise you can keep down,” I tell him. “Just wait here. If you fall asleep, that’s okay—I can warm it up later.”
His hand reaches for my wrist again, sliding down until he holds my palm in his clammy, hot hand. I brace myself for his opposition, but he watches me carefully again, and I wish I could figure out what’s going on in his head.
“I’ll be right back,” I promise, and he lets me go.
I bring the bag with me to the kitchen, then get to work, moving around as quietly as I can while putting the food together. Each time I use a dish or utensil, I wash it so Anders doesn’t see any mess if he slips out of the room.
I peel the yuca in my hand—no cutting board here—like I’ve done a hundred times before, the motion muscle memory from watching my mom do it when I was little.
The kitchen fills slowly with the scent of sofrito sizzling in oil.
I drop in the chunks of meat and vegetables and pour in water to let the sancocho stew in the pot.
My stomach keeps turning on itself as I stir the stew.
I hate when people are sick. It’s always a reminder, a trigger, watching Mom hunched over the toilet or the trash or the floor when she couldn’t get to the bathroom fast enough.
Watching her gave me this unreasonable anxiety—that anyone sick isn’t just sick, but finally showing symptoms of some grave disease that had been hiding within them all along.
I made myself sick countless times taking care of Taina. I never showed her, but every day her anemia gave her a bad spell or she had any kind of virus, I would spend all night taking turns watching her breathe, then vomiting in the bathroom from fear.
Of course, Anders is just sick. A fever is normal.
Nobody goes through life without it. Yet my chest tightens and releases like the claw in those rigged machines at an arcade—pinching closed over and over.
It’s been a while since I felt like this, but I quickly wipe away a tear when one slips, stirring the pot until it boils.
After the stew is cooked through, I pour it into a bowl and bring everything I need back to Anders. I pause at the doorway.
Now that he thinks he’s on his own, his hand is over his eyes like they’re pounding from pain, and he holds the ice pack to his neck. His lips turn down.
Anxiety gnaws at my organs.
My tiny container of medicine falls from my tray, and Anders jolts up, a strained smile on his face.
I try to do the same as I approach him. “This is sancocho,” I explain. “It’s a stew, a mix of veggies and broth. I used chicken for it—it’ll be better on your stomach. Just try a little. Don’t force yourself too much. But you do need something in you.”
He motions to take it from me, then places it on his thighs. After gathering a spoonful of broth, he brings it up to his lips.
I grip his wrist, lean down, and blow when I spot the steam rising from the spoon. When I pull away, my cheeks heating up, he doesn’t give me a funny look or call me dramatic—he just tastes it.
He sucks in a breath. I can’t tell if it’s relief for having something in his stomach or if he’s trying not to get sick. Then, he takes another spoonful, and another, until just an ounce of anxiety stops eating my insides.
The bowl is halfway empty before he says, “I think I have to take a break.”
I snatch it from him, dropping it on the tray so hard some broth splashes out and lands on my hand. I hiss, jerking away.
Anders grasps my palm, inspecting the skin. “Are you okay?” he says, filled with concern as if I’ve given myself a third-degree burn, as if he isn’t the one with glassy eyes and a head drooping on his neck.
“Yes.” I pull away, moving the tray to the bedside table, and grab my next potion.
I open the Vicks VapoRub and gather some on my finger. “Lie down?” I ask this time.
He opens his mouth, then stills when he sees whatever look of pathetic worry I have on my face, and does just that. I swipe the eucalyptus ointment on his forehead, then rub small circles at the base of his neck, moving down to the center of his chest.
“This is every Puerto Rican’s medicine for whatever sickness you can possibly have,” I say, trying to lighten the mood and explain while I’m lathering him up to smell like a human candy cane. “There’s no science behind it, but I swear it never fails.”
I sit on the bed and lay a hand by his feet. “I need to take off your socks for a moment.” He does his head tilt, and the familiar sight eases another sliver of worry. “Please?”
He nods, and I remove the fabric. Then, I gather a hefty amount of Vicks and rub hard, small circles all over the bottom of his foot.
Even when there’s enough of it on his skin, I keep massaging.
Anders’s eyes flutter shut, and I keep going to give him respite from the fever until my thumbs cramp.
After, I do the same to the other foot, then cover them with his socks.
“My mom always said this will suck up the fever,” I explain. “All the sick will leave from your feet.”
I rub the excess from my hand with a paper towel, gathering everything on the tray to remove. “I’ll let you try to sleep.” I grab the tray. “But I’ll be right next door if you need me.”
He takes my wrist again, his thumb running over my skin. “Lucinda,” he says, his voice raspy and sleepy. “Why do you look so sad?” he asks again.
“Me?” I say, way too perky to be believable. “I think your fever is making you delirious.”
When I try to pull away, he leans to me, wrapping his arms around my waist, and pulls me on the bed with him, my body over his.
Anders brings a shaky hand to my cheek. “I’m okay,” he promises, though I didn’t ask if he was. But in my head, in my heart, I keep worrying that he’s not. But he doesn’t know that.
“Of course you are,” I say, and I’m not sure why my words come out shaky and unsure.
Just as I’m unsure why, humiliatingly, my eyes burn with unspilled tears.
“Of course I am,” he says, using the little strength he has to position me beside him, my head tucked by his chest as his arm wraps around me, his other hand rubbing circles into my back.
“It’s just a fever,” he says into my hair, caressing me. “It’ll pass quick. I’m completely okay.”
“Okay,” I repeat, nestling myself closer to him.
The more he traces circles into my back, the more the movement in my stomach settles, and my eyelids grow heavy.
I know I should move, give him space, take care of him, but whenever I try to pull away, he tightens his hold on me until I give up, and murmurs small, soft reassurances that he’s okay, but they feel like he’s saying I’m okay.
Until all the worry in the pit of my stomach subsides completely.