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“Sorry,” she interrupts. Call me skeptical, but I don’t believe her. She didn’t have to stop like that and she’s smiling a little too cheekily for me. “Daddy, will you skate with me? Let’s race!”
Scott glances at me.
“Go ahead. I’m getting tired anyway.”
He leads me off the ice where I go ahead and change into my shoes and then I watch him play around on the ice with our daughters. I’m trying to stay happy, but I’m feeling grumpy because the legs of my pants are now wet thanks to Stella and it’s cold in here. It’s truly nice to see them all together. They’re happy and laughing. They’re where they love to be: on the ice. Although, Stephanie doesn’t love it on quite the same level as Scott and Stella. How is it possible for my family to be so happy and for me to not be?
A teenager walks by with an open duffel bag. Oh dear lord! It reeks of sweaty hockey gear and I gag. What crawled in there and died? The scent seems to linger in the air behind him, becoming way too much. I rush to the bathroom, overwhelmed with nausea, and am puking up what seems like everything I’ve eaten for the last year.
Fuck, what kind of virus do I have? It’s lethal.
I’m so tired afterward, it’s all I can do to sit on the floor and lean against the stall. I try not to think of all the possible germs latching onto my clothes right now, but my hands and legs are shaky. If I try to stand, I think I’ll faint or fall.
My phone vibrates from inside my pocket. I pull it out to see a text.
Scott: Where are you?
Me: Bathroom. Puked. Trying to recover.
Shit, I’m tired even texting. Where’d my energy go?
Scott: You need me?
Such a simple question, but it feels loaded. There’s always been but one answer, no matter what’s going on.
Me: Yes.
A moment later, the girls are the first to enter. They assure Scott that no one else is in here and then Scott comes in, his footsteps heavy against the tiled floor. It takes all of my strength to pull myself up and open the door for him.
“Fuck, Sylvie.”
“Momma, are you okay?” Stella asks. I glance down at her to see both of my girls look as worried as Scott. How bad can I look?
“Take me home, Scott.” My voice comes out quiet, hoarse, and weak. A rush of dizziness hits me. I intend to grab the wall of the stall, but I miss. Scott steadies me, though. He wraps an arm around my waist and begins to help me walk out of the bathroom.
“Maybe we should take you to the hospital.”
“No, I’m fine. Take me home.”
“You don’t see what I see, Sylvia. You’re getting worse or something.”
“We might as well just wait until Friday.” However, if we go to the emergency room, he’d be with me. But this isn’t an emergency, so we’re not going. “A little rest and something to settle my stomach and I’ll be as good as new.”
Scott doesn’t believe a word I’m saying and I hate, hate, hate that he’s about to go on a road trip with this as his last memory.
Me: IF YOU DON’T FUCKING LEAVE ME ALONE, WE’RE GETTING A DAMN DIVORCE!
Okay, so maybe that’s harsh, but he’s blowing my phone up and there has to be something better he’s supposed to be d
oing instead of aggravating the shit out of me. I feel better today than I did yesterday. However, it seems my temper is short. He only sent two texts back-to-back to check in, but when I didn’t answer, he tried calling. I sigh.
Me: I’m fine, Scott.
Scott: Could’ve fooled me. Threatening to leave me? W.T.F.
Great. Now, he’s pissed.
Me: I’m tired and you’re bugging me.
