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Authors: Christine Pope
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counter, the cap still off, as if my father hadn’t possessed the strength or will to put it back on again. Fingers shaking, I picked it up and twisted it onto the bottle, then put the ibuprofen back in the medicine cabinet. I didn’t want to leave a messy house behind.
Messy for whom, I didn’t know. From what my father had said, it didn’t sound as if anyone was getting out of this alive.
The thermometer was lying on the top rack in the medicine cabinet. I already knew I wasn’t sick, but I needed the external reminder. I took it out, opened the bottle of rubbing alcohol, and wiped down one end of the thermometer. Then I stuck it in my mouth and waited.
98.1 . Up a little from the last time, but still below normal.
I rinsed it off and put it away. Then, moving so slowly I felt as if I were dragging my feet through mud, I went back to my parents’ bedroom, half expecting to see a pile of dust there. To my surprise, my father’s eyes opened when I came into the room. They were bright with fever and had those telltale dark circles beneath them, but they seemed lucid enough. Maybe he wasn’t as far gone as he had thought.
“Dad, I could try some ice — ”
A very small shake of his head. “No. Once you have it, you’re done.” His eyes shut, and I could see how his big frame was wracked with shivers, even though he’d pulled the blanket up to his chin. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” I repeated, wondering what he had to be sorry for. “None of this is your fault.”
“No — not that.” He shifted under the covers, then opened his eyes again. “Sorry that we’ll all be gone, and you’ll still be here.”
Something in his words chilled me. In that moment, I could see how dying along with everyone else might be preferable to being left in a world with no one to talk to, no one to even know I’d somehow managed to survive. Voice brittle, I replied, “Oh, I’m sure I’m not long for this world, either.”
“Fever?”
“No.”
He closed his eyes. It seemed as if he didn’t have the strength to keep them open and focused on me for more than a few seconds at a time. “You’re immune, Jess. Don’t know how…or why….”
That is not your fate. Despite the stuffiness of the room, I shivered as I thought of those words, spoken gently by someone who wasn’t there.
“Write down what’s happened. Maybe…there’ll be someone left to tell.”
I nodded, then realized he couldn’t see me. “I will.”
“Might as well put that English degree to some use.”
Oh, Dad. Even at the end, he had to make a joke. “All the commas will be in the right place. I promise.”
No reply. He could have simply fallen asleep, but I didn’t think so. Unlike my mother and Devin, he’d pushed all the way to the end, burned the candle until no more wick was left.
Somehow I put one foot in front of the other, walking slowly until I reached his side of the bed. A finger against his throat, telling me that he had gone, had left this world and was with Mom and Devin. I had to believe that. I’d break apart otherwise.
Since his eyes were closed, I didn’t bother to pull the sheet up over his face. Soon it wouldn’t matter anyway. He’d be a pile of dust, as no doubt my brother was by now as well.
I didn’t recall going downstairs, but the next thing I did remember, I was standing in the kitchen, staring down at my father’s half-drunk glass of Scotch. The ice had mostly melted, shifting the color to a pale gold. Without thinking, I lifted the glass and brought it to my lips, poured the liquid within down my throat. It burned, but not as much as I had thought it would.
What did it matter that my father had drunk from that same glass? According to him, I was immune. The thing that had killed him couldn’t touch me.
At last I could feel tears pricking at my eyes, stinging like acid, but I knew I couldn’t let them fall. If I did, I knew they would never stop. What was that old song, about some girl’s
Messy for whom, I didn’t know. From what my father had said, it didn’t sound as if anyone was getting out of this alive.
The thermometer was lying on the top rack in the medicine cabinet. I already knew I wasn’t sick, but I needed the external reminder. I took it out, opened the bottle of rubbing alcohol, and wiped down one end of the thermometer. Then I stuck it in my mouth and waited.
98.1 . Up a little from the last time, but still below normal.
I rinsed it off and put it away. Then, moving so slowly I felt as if I were dragging my feet through mud, I went back to my parents’ bedroom, half expecting to see a pile of dust there. To my surprise, my father’s eyes opened when I came into the room. They were bright with fever and had those telltale dark circles beneath them, but they seemed lucid enough. Maybe he wasn’t as far gone as he had thought.
“Dad, I could try some ice — ”
A very small shake of his head. “No. Once you have it, you’re done.” His eyes shut, and I could see how his big frame was wracked with shivers, even though he’d pulled the blanket up to his chin. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” I repeated, wondering what he had to be sorry for. “None of this is your fault.”
“No — not that.” He shifted under the covers, then opened his eyes again. “Sorry that we’ll all be gone, and you’ll still be here.”
Something in his words chilled me. In that moment, I could see how dying along with everyone else might be preferable to being left in a world with no one to talk to, no one to even know I’d somehow managed to survive. Voice brittle, I replied, “Oh, I’m sure I’m not long for this world, either.”
“Fever?”
“No.”
He closed his eyes. It seemed as if he didn’t have the strength to keep them open and focused on me for more than a few seconds at a time. “You’re immune, Jess. Don’t know how…or why….”
That is not your fate. Despite the stuffiness of the room, I shivered as I thought of those words, spoken gently by someone who wasn’t there.
“Write down what’s happened. Maybe…there’ll be someone left to tell.”
I nodded, then realized he couldn’t see me. “I will.”
“Might as well put that English degree to some use.”
Oh, Dad. Even at the end, he had to make a joke. “All the commas will be in the right place. I promise.”
No reply. He could have simply fallen asleep, but I didn’t think so. Unlike my mother and Devin, he’d pushed all the way to the end, burned the candle until no more wick was left.
Somehow I put one foot in front of the other, walking slowly until I reached his side of the bed. A finger against his throat, telling me that he had gone, had left this world and was with Mom and Devin. I had to believe that. I’d break apart otherwise.
Since his eyes were closed, I didn’t bother to pull the sheet up over his face. Soon it wouldn’t matter anyway. He’d be a pile of dust, as no doubt my brother was by now as well.
I didn’t recall going downstairs, but the next thing I did remember, I was standing in the kitchen, staring down at my father’s half-drunk glass of Scotch. The ice had mostly melted, shifting the color to a pale gold. Without thinking, I lifted the glass and brought it to my lips, poured the liquid within down my throat. It burned, but not as much as I had thought it would.
What did it matter that my father had drunk from that same glass? According to him, I was immune. The thing that had killed him couldn’t touch me.
At last I could feel tears pricking at my eyes, stinging like acid, but I knew I couldn’t let them fall. If I did, I knew they would never stop. What was that old song, about some girl’s
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