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7
CARLEIGH
One week after Bryson's birthday, I get sick.It really doesn’t come as a surprise.The signs were all there.I’ve been tired since Tuesday-ish, but I write that off as poor sleeping, which is sort of a persistent problem of mine anyway.On Wednesday, my pre-dinner run is sluggish and time is awful.On Thursday, my throat is like sandpaper, and by the time I finish another set of revisions and crawl into bed that evening, my legs and arms are mildly achy.
Today, I wake up with a full-blown cold.
The one silver lining is I don’t have class on Fridays; it’s usually a writing and research day for me at the library.The downside is I’m going to have to call in sick for work tonight at the bar, and probably tomorrow, too - which are the two days of the week where I make the best tips.
Plus, it’s five-thirty in the morning, and I can’t sleep in, because Bryson is singing again.
This time I’m pretty sure it’s not even a real song, but something he made up, because there are lyrics that reference sauerkraut and fishing.No way those two things would end up sharing a verse in an actual song.It’s probably an annoying habit, I figure, but he’s so cheerful while he does it - so quirky, genuine, and quintessentially Bryson that it’s become kind of endearing.
Except now.Now I want it to stop.
So, I drag my tired, aching body out of bed and wrap the comforter around me.It’s the end of May now, with the near-summer city heat just burgeoning outside, but I’m freezing in my usual t-shirt and pajama shorts.It drags on the floor behind me as I shuffle to my bedroom door, open it, and croak, “Bryson, please.”
He’s in the kitchen eating an egg sandwich, already dressed for work in what I recognize as his mandated t-shirt for work.Navy blue, withGlover Constructionemblazoned on the chest.He’s wearing a backward baseball cap, as he nearly always does, with a pen sticking out of the side, the purpose of which I’ve never really understood.
“Oops, sorry.”Bryson makes an apologetic face as he notices me.“Go back to sleep, I’m almost gone.”
That’s certainly in my plans.But right now, since I’m awake, I should pee and find some cold meds to knock me out.“It’s okay,” I say, as I approach the kitchen gingerly, infusing my voice with all the energy I can muster.“I think Nyquil is in my future anyway.”
His eyebrows knit together in concern.“You not feeling great?”
I shake my head.“Summer cold.To distinguish itself from my fall, winter, and spring colds, this one comes when it’s nice outside.”It’s a bit of an exaggeration, but not really: I do get sick a lot.
Which is why, when I open the cupboard above the microwave and find my last Nyquil package empty, a sad moan sounds.“Oh no.”I should be more prepared for this.
Bryson hovers over my shoulder.“You out?”
I sigh.“Yeah.”I raise the heel of my palm to my forehead.I’m going to have to go up the block.“When does that bodega open, six?”I ask, mostly rhetorically.
I begin to trudge back toward the bathroom to at least take care of my bladder, then throw a favorite sweat suit on, and hopefully that’ll make me feel good for enough time to make it there and back without collapsing.
Two hands halt my progress on my shoulders.“Whoa.”Bryson appears in front of me.“Where ya think you’re going?”
“To use the bathroom, then to go buy meds,” I say, in what I’m horrified to recognize as a wheeze.
“No, no you aren’t.”Bryson crosses his arms over his chest.I don’t even have the energy to really appreciate how good his biceps look in his shirt.“Well okay, the peeing thing you can do.But no way in hell are you going anywhere like this.”
I have no energy to argue with him; he has to leave for work right away, so I’ll just go as soon as he’s gone.“Fine.Hold my blanket while I pee, then,” I say, hoisting my heavy comforter off my body and into his hands.
I use the washroom as quickly as my tired, sore body will allow.As I wash my hands, I appraise myself for the first time in the mirror.And wow, do I ever look truly awful: my eyes are kind of red, with darkening shades of purple beneath, and my already pale skin has taken on a sickly, pallid tone.As I leave the bathroom, regret washes over me for not dumping the comforter just outside the bathroom door, because not only are goosebumps fluttering up my arms and legs, but I don’t sleep in a bra and that fact is now very apparent.
I wrap my arms around myself as I exit the bathroom, feeling suddenly small and child-like.How embarrassing.
Bryson is waiting in the kitchen where I left him.He holds the comforter open for me when I approach, and folds it around me with his long arms as I step into it.“Here you go,” he says, in a far more gentle tone than I’ve heard him use before.“Now come on, let’s put you to bed,” he adds, leading me with an arm around my shoulders toward the bedroom.
I want to inform him,I’m a big girl and can do this part myself.I should.But I’m so tired, and he’s warm with his arm around me.Plus, he’s essentially a friend now, right?
My brain must be working slower than usual, because by the time I work through this dilemma in my head, Bryson’s already gotten me to lay down on the bed and is tucking the comforter around my feet.He disappears for a minute, then returns with a glass of water and a jar of what appears to be…
“Garlic,” Bryson proclaims.“Lacto-fermented garlic.Eat some when you feel up to it, okay?Garlic will help.But just in case ‘modern medicine’ -” he punctuates this with air quotes - “has something going for it, I’m going to run to the bodega to get you some Nyquil, too.”
No.“You’ll be -” I wheeze - “you’ll be late for work.It’s okay, I can go -”
He dismisses my protest with a wave of his hand.“I’ve got a great record, Carleigh, Stop arguing, I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
