Bianca looked at her flatly. “You say that every time you have a mild inconvenience.”
“My stomach tried to kill me.”
I sat on the side of the bed, rubbing Billie’s back as I checked Bianca’s temperature.
No fever yet. Thank God. Maybe this would be one of those viruses that passed within twenty-four hours.
Outside, rain lashed against the windows in violent bursts. Wind bent the trees, making the shadows move wildly across the walls whenever lightning struck.
Somewhere downstairs, the house groaned.
Billie immediately pointed toward the hallway. “The storm is inside now.”
“The storm is not inside.”
She squinted. “How do you know?”
“Because I pay the mortgage, and I would notice weather entering the building.”
Just then, another miserable groan drifted down the hallway, but this time, it was human.
“Oh no,” Bianca murmured.
CJ staggered into the room, wearing sweatpants and an inside-out T-shirt. He was pale, sweaty, and hunched over, his arms curled around his stomach.
“I think,” he said hoarsely, “I’m dying.”
“Get in line,” Billie told him.
CJ made it approximately three more steps before he lunged toward the bathroom.
I hurried after him.
“Use the downstairs bathroom next time. This one has already been christened,” Bianca said.
The next hour devolved into complete chaos. Small, miserable bodies lay scattered across my bed like survivors of a maritime disaster. At some point, Billie threw up into a grocery bag, then apologized profusely to it afterward.
CJ spent ten straight minutes insisting he was handling his illness with dignity, then missed the bucket entirely as another bout of vomiting attacked him.
Bianca kept attempting to diagnose everyone using symptoms she’d read about online.
“No one has cholera,” I said for the third time.
“You can’t know that conclusively.”
“We absolutely can.”
“It’s the vomiting plus atmospheric conditions.” This was followed by a long digression into the possibility of paranormal activity and our bodies being possessed.
“You are not being haunted by a nineteenth-century disease.”
Billie looked alarmed. “Can ghosts throw up?”
“Please stop helping,” I begged.
By four-thirty, I’d given up entirely on sleep and dignity.
I had also given up on clothes, since mine now smelled of sweat and my children’s stomach acid. I dragged my hands through my hair and surveyed the scene.
