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Chapter Nineteen
Emilia
Max and I spend the next week wrapped in a bubble of our own making. While we don’t manage to carve out time for another actual date, he stops by during my lunch break a couple of times. We finally agree on a cozy night in at my house on Friday evening, but when the day arrives, I’m forced to text Max and ask for a rain check.
Emilia: Sorry, nasty stomach bug. Need a rain check
Grams was down with a nasty stomach bug last night. She’s marginally better now, but unfortunately I caught the bug too. So I’m hugging my toilet seat, emptying the contents of my stomach for the third time in two hours. I don’t even have anything left to throw up, for God’s sake. It has to stop at some point.
“Violet, honey, should I do something?” Grams asks, standing in the doorway of the toilet, her silver-gray hair hanging in sweaty curls. Normally, hearing her call me my mother’s name would bring me to tears. As it is, I can’t even muster the energy for that. I don’t know if the sting in my throat is from the stomach acid or from fighting a sob. I’m a freaking mess.
“It’s okay. Go to sleep, you need it after being sick last night.” It’s barely eight o’clock, but she needs her rest. Grams shifts her weight from one foot to the other, resembling a lost child and not my strong grandmother, before nodding and disappearing from my sight. I can’t help thinking how this situation would have looked more than one year ago. I would have looked after Grams when she was sick, and she would have done the same when I was unwell. But now even the slightest change in her routine turns her upside down, and I’m taking care of both of us. I don’t mind at all, but just for today, I want my Grams back. The old Grams. Feeling my stomach heave again, I lean over the toilet. Nothing comes out, but I don’t dare move away. I reek of vomit, but I’m too exhausted to even rise to my feet and make it to the sink and clean my face.
I have no idea how long I stay like this, with my head on the cold tiles of the bathroom, curled in a fetal position. My stomach is rumbling violently again when the buzz of the door echoes throughout the house. Go away. There’s no way I can pull myself together long enough to make it to the door. I listen intently for sounds that would indicate Grams is opening the door, but the house is silent. My own fault, I suppose. A while ago I convinced her to use earplugs at night, so she won’t be bothered by the sounds of the street.
Whoever is at the door buzzes twice more before giving up. I sigh against the tiles, wishing they were softer. The side I’m lying on is starting to ache. I’m weighing my chances of making it to the bed when a loud sound from the living room startles me. I wince so violently that I knock the top of my head against the toilet.
“Owwww.”
“Emilia? The back door was unlocked,” Max’s voice sounds from the living room. “Where are you?” My stomach recoils at the sound.
“I’m in the bathroom. Don’t you dare come in here.”
Which is exactly what he does, of course. I try to scramble into a sitting position, but all I manage is to hit my head against the toilet again. Stupid toilet. Why is it standing in my way?
“Holy shit,” he exclaims when he steps inside, which I suppose sums the situation just about right. I’m lying on the floor, reeking of vomit, and I might have two concussions from hitting the stupid toilet bowl. Max holds two small bags with pharmacy signs on them.
“What are you doing here?” I ask on a groan. “I texted you saying I need a rain check.”
“Because you’re sick.” Holding up the bag, he adds, “I went to the pharmacy and bought everything they had for stomach bugs, which isn’t much. The pharmacist says it’s important to let it all out.”
“It’s all out, trust me. If anything more comes out, I’ll be vomiting my intestines.”
“Where is Grams?”
“Sleeping. She’s okay now.”
Max crouches next to me. My first instinct is to push myself away so he can’t smell me. I decide against it because there’s a high chance I’ll smack my head against the toilet bowl again, and I think I might pass out this time.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says softly, pushing a strand of hair that sticks to my cheek out of my face. Vomit clings on it. I want to die.
“Max, please go. I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“Are you insane?”
“I’ve hit my head twice against the toilet, so I can’t rule out the possibility. I’m very embarrassed right now.”
He sits next to me, propping my head on his thigh. I’m marginally better, because his thigh is softer than the floor. Not soft enough though, because my man works out too much for that.
“We’ve seen each other when we had measles. This is nothing in comparison,” Max says.
“What are you talking about? We never had measles. I didn’t at least. Maybe you had it after I moved.”
“Yes we did. That time when we had red spots everywhere.”
“That was chicken pox, Max.”
“Whatever.”
