Chapter 12
Clementine has been sick for two days. Vomiting, fever, zero energy. The sort of illness that takes a bright-eyed, bouncing seven-year-old and reduces her to a pale, limp, sad-sack version of herself. We set her watch to rest mode, which is recommended during illness.
I take one day off work, Wyatt the other, and Shelby fills in the gaps—laundry, warming up soup, mixing cups of electrolyte drinks. It’s nice to have a third set of hands on days like these, and I know Shelby likes being useful.
Kat, when I send her and Maeve a note that I won’t be at class, tells us three of her four are coming out of a fever cycle.
She proudly declares that she and the baby remained healthy, citing her iron-clad immune system thanks to years of marinating in the cesspool of school germs, and breastfeeding.
Double up on your zinc and vitamin C, she says, before wishing Clementine well.
A gift card for takeout arrives in my inbox about fifteen minutes later from Kat and Nick, which we put to good use that evening.
On day three Clementine wakes up hungry, and I’m relieved. Her fever is gone, her energy back with no signs she was ill, except for a slight hollowing in her cheeks. You don’t realize the relief of having a well child until you’ve had days with a sick one.
Then, on day four, I wake up and immediately know something is off. Specifically, my stomach.
I bolt to the washroom. It comes on so fast, so furiously, that by the time Wyatt gets out of bed I’ve already flushed the toilet and am spreading paste on my toothbrush.
“You okay?” He comes into our small bathroom, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He sets his other hand against my back and rubs gently.
I spit out the toothpaste, another wave of nausea cresting that thankfully doesn’t escalate. “Think I caught Clem’s crud.”
“Back to bed,” Wyatt says, shushing me when I protest that I’m too busy for that luxury. “I’ll bring you some ginger tea and toast.”
I murmur my thanks and oblige, not having the energy to do much else. The nausea is better, but the fatigue is brutal.
Once in bed I click “health check” on my watch, waiting the few seconds for the data to load. Temperature: 97.5 degrees, the screen reads. Resting heart rate: 65 bpm. Oxygen saturation: 98%.
Everything looks normal, my heart rate only slightly elevated.
I frown, wondering how I can be so sick with decent vitals.
I tap the button to take a second reading.
The numbers come out essentially the same.
I fall back asleep before Wyatt returns, but wake a couple of hours later to find breakfast left on my nightstand, the tea cold, a heart-shaped dollop of strawberry jam congealed on the toast.
The following day begins much the same way. Shocked awake by a cold sweat and impossible-to-ignore nausea. Throwing up so hard a few tiny blood vessels break around my eyes.
Wyatt and I go through the routine again. Back to bed, I’ll get you tea and dry toast, but this time he adds, Think you should make an appointment?
No. I’m fine. The virus working its way through, I’m sure I’ll be better tomorrow.
Begrudgingly staying in my pajamas, in bed, trying desperately to keep the toast and tea down.
Thank goodness for Shelby, who takes over, helping Clementine before and after school, handling meal preparation, the house tidying.
The tedious daily tasks that must be done but that bring no gold star upon completion.
There’s never a good time to get sick, but I’m on the cusp of some exciting revelations with the Leclerc.
I’ve recently finished cleaning the bottom half of the painting, and the composition is finally coming through.
The subject appears to be female: curved hip, pinched-in waist, a soft pouch of belly below the navel.
She’s nude from what I can tell so far, though it’s still early days.
The thought of not being able to work on it again today makes me antsy.
However, no one else needs this stomach bug.
After the third morning of this routine—waking up and throwing up—Wyatt insists I make a doctor’s appointment.
“But I’m mostly fine,” I protest, flushing the toilet. And I (mostly) am, minus the nausea. My temperature, heart rate, oxygen levels, have all stayed steady and normal.
Wyatt raises an eyebrow, one half of his face still covered in shaving cream, the other side smooth and bare.
“Projectile vomiting at six thirty in the morning shouldn’t be called ‘fine,’ Tilly,” he says, going back to shaving the other side of his face once he’s sure I’m okay. He tugs the skin taut, and his tongue presses into the side of his cheek, helping to direct the blade neatly over his skin.
I sit on the now-closed toilet lid, waiting for him to finish with the sink so I can brush my teeth. My mouth tastes bitter, and there’s a cloying thickness at the back of my throat.
“Make an appointment,” Wyatt says, tapping his razor against the side of the sink to release the foam and fine hairs. The metallic clang echoes in our bathroom. He catches my eyes in the mirror. “Today.”
With a grumble that I will, I head back to bed. Sliding on my watch, I check my health stats again; it gives three short beeps announcing the data.
“What does it say?” Wyatt calls out.
“Normal.” I should be glad, but I’m frustrated. I sigh. “Everything is normal.”
As I say it, I realize what isn’t normal.
My watch. It hasn’t buzzed me in days. Wait…it hasn’t buzzed me in a couple of weeks, now that I think about it. How am I only noticing this now?
“I think something’s wrong with my watch.”
Frowning, I touch the watch face, scrolling through the menu. The notifications icon has a slash through it. “Oh, for the love of all things,” I mutter, tapping the icon to turn the notifications on.
“What’s wrong?” Wyatt asks, coming into the bedroom, wiping a towel across his chin and cheeks.
“I can’t believe it,” I say. “I turned off my notifications. When I was working. I didn’t want the distraction, but I forgot to turn them back on.”
A moment later my watch starts buzzing. Notification after notification loads onto the screen. My eyes scan the list, starting from the oldest to the most recent.
Time for breath work, Tilly?
Your heart rate is slightly above normal range. Time for breath work, Tilly?
Your basal temperature is elevated. How are you feeling?
You hit your sleep goal again. Well done!
Your resting heart rate is higher than normal. Time for breath work, Tilly?
And then…
Your period is due in 24 hours, Tilly.
Your period is 1 day late. Tap to record your period.
Your period is 2 days late. Tap to record your period.
Your period is 3 days late. Tap to record your period.
This morning’s notification:
Your period is 7 days late. Please take a pregnancy test, Tilly!
I think I might throw up again, but instead I start crying.
Wyatt, getting dressed, stops midway through pulling on his pants, alarm on his face. “What’s going on?” he asks. “Are you okay?”
I’m crying so hard I can’t speak, so I hold out my watch, my other hand covering my mouth. Wyatt’s khakis pool around his ankles, and he kicks them off hurriedly. His fingers encircle my wrist as he turns my watch, reading the most recent notification.
“Son of a gun,” he says, crouching in front of me. I take my hand from my mouth. The shock on his face matches my own. “Tilly…are you pregnant?”