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What if they didn’t get there?
It’s not the weekend, is it?
No. It’s a school day. I remember Mia’s backpack. Her little face was set and determined. She was telling me about the fire drill yesterday.The bell rang forever. It made my skin hurt, Bristol.
That can’t be right, can it? Herskin? It’s a bell. A loud, obnoxious bell, but her skin?
God, I feel bad.
Shit. I need to call in to work. My phone is wedged into the gap between the cushion and the arm of the couch. I pull it out with two fingers. Swipe at the screen. Dial.
“Hughes Financial Services. This is Greg Winthrop’s office.”
“Hi, it’s Bristol Anderson. I need to take a sick day.”
“You already called, hon,” says the lady on the phone. “I passed along the message. Is everything all right? Need me to call and make a doctor’s appointment?”
“I made one,” I lie. “Thanks so much, though. Sorry. Thanks.”
I hang up, my throat on fire. It hurts so much. It was bad when I woke up this morning. Now it’s worse. I dread the next time I have to swallow. The pain makes it feel like I have to.
It’ssoquiet.
Wait.
Did the twins go to school, or not? I remember Mia’s backpack and the story about the fire drill, but not locking the door behind them. That makes me a sitting duck. If the guy in the green Ford isn’t outside today, anybody could walk in. Nobody would know.
I push myself up from the couch. My head pounds. It’s a hundred miles to the door, and when I get there, it’s locked. I must have locked it, then. They must be at school.
I should check, though. Just to be sure.
It’s a good thing the apartment has walls, otherwise I’d be on the floor. I drag a palm over the new paint while I traverse the kitchen and the first couple feet of the hallway. From here, I can see that their bedroom is empty. Beds messy. It would be nice to lie down.
But before I can take another step, a stab of pain cuts through my throat. It hurts so badly that my stomach lurches. I stumble into the bathroom in a cold sweat, my knees hitting the tile with another shock of pain.
My throat burns, and all that comes up is broken glass. I’m in hell.
My head throbs, and my stomach hurts, and for a minute, I can’t get up.
I want my mom.
With my eyes squeezed shut and my skin overheating, it’s hard to tell where I am. It would make the most sense to be a kid. Little kids get sick like this, not adults.
“Mom,” I whisper. Even my breath hurts. It’s like sandpaper. Like sand. A hellish beach vacation.
My mom doesn’t answer.
Oh, right. That’s because she’s dead.
Tears land on my leggings. They drip onto the tile.Breathinghurts. How am I supposed to live if breathing hurts? The main problem is the crying. It’s making me have to swallow, and every time I do, I’m closer to death. I’m beginning to think that sweet oblivion might not be so bad, except I don’t want to die in a bathroom. Even a nice bathroom. It becomes a vicious cycle. Swallow. Cry. Dread. Repeat.
I break it down into small steps. Flush. Sit. Stand. Lean over the countertop until I’m sure I won’t fall. Wash my hands. Rinse my mouth.
Toothpaste on the toothbrush.
Brush teeth.
Swallow as little as possible.
