news.”
When Bailey turned to look at him, she had the eyes of a middle-aged woman. Tears came before Mark could say another word. I quickly sat next to her and pulled her onto my lap.
“Who?” was all she said.
I am tired of death.
November 23
As I awoke this morning, I immediately made my way to my wash bowl and vomited blood. I grabbed the bowl and ran to the front door. All I was wearing was my white flannel pajamas. I carelessly put on my boots, jacket, hat and gloves and went into the front yard.
I didn’t feel in charge of my own actions. I grabbed a shovel that we used for snow removal and started to look for a place to bury the contents of the bowl.
“What are you doing out here, honey?” asked Mark. “Come in before you catch your death.”
I looked at him directly. “I already have.” I tried to tip the bowl slightly to show him, but before I could do anything, the vomiting began again.
I feel to the ground, knees hitting the hard packed snow. I yelled at Mark to back off, and found a walkie in the pocket of my jacket.
“We need a medical transport to the Patton house, immediately,” I said weakly, just before vomiting again, this time into the bucket.
“Stay. Back.” I told Mark, punctuating my words.
Annie ran outside to see our little play unfolding. She tried to run to me, but Mark held her back.
Jackson and Bri came running up to the house, wearing what looked like very sad versions of movie hazmat suits.
One look at me, and they each took an arm and pulled me to my feet. It was all I could do to not heave as I let them support me until we got to the golf cart. I couldn’t let myself look back at the two faces I knew were bent in a pain of their own.
I was beginning to feel dizzy and wanted to speak to Bri before I inevitably passed out.
“Bri, I have to tell you something. I need my camera and my journal from my room,” I told her plastic covered face. “Please, I need them. I also need you to start documenting how you made it to Monterey, what you do here, everything. It’s important, promise.”
“I will, Aunt Laurie,” she told me. She didn’t try to argue. I must look bad.
∞
I woke in what looked to be a hotel room, what was a hotel room. It was the Hotel, the one we use as quarantine. There was an IV in my arm, and I tried to push myself up, but couldn’t. On the table beside my bed lay my camcorder and my diary, waiting there for more entries. I could barely reach my arm to my camera to turn it on.
The needle in my arm stung, and the queasiness was bad. My head was pounding, and I could feel my heart working in sync with my head. They must have been in cahoots.
Doctor Malcolm came in, adorned in the same type of strange outfit my “drivers” wore earlier.
“I am glad you are awake,” he said.
When I went to reply, my tongue was thick, and I couldn’t get out the breath it would take to answer, so I opted to just shake my head, instead.
“Just nod or shake your head to answer me, okay?” he said.
I nodded.
He pulled out a breathing mask from beside my head and put it over my mouth.
“Did you feel sick before you began to vomit the blood, like during the night?” he questioned.
I shook my head to indicate no.
“Do you think that you can swallow a little ginger tea? It will settle your stomach some. I gave you some Compazine earlier, but we are running low.” He looked sad. “Amanda made the tea.”
Amanda.
I nodded.
I made a scribble movement with my hand to show that I wanted to write something. Doc Malcolm pulled out a hotel pen and pad of paper from the desk drawer.
“Ha,” he said, slightly amused. “Finally, someone will actually use one of these. Maybe later you can write a post card.”
I smiled, more in thanks than at the joke.
I wrote: “Family?”
“They are okay. They are concerned. I told them that we seemed to have caught it early.”
I nodded.
When he left the room, I lay there for a bit before picking up the pen.
When Bailey turned to look at him, she had the eyes of a middle-aged woman. Tears came before Mark could say another word. I quickly sat next to her and pulled her onto my lap.
“Who?” was all she said.
I am tired of death.
November 23
As I awoke this morning, I immediately made my way to my wash bowl and vomited blood. I grabbed the bowl and ran to the front door. All I was wearing was my white flannel pajamas. I carelessly put on my boots, jacket, hat and gloves and went into the front yard.
I didn’t feel in charge of my own actions. I grabbed a shovel that we used for snow removal and started to look for a place to bury the contents of the bowl.
“What are you doing out here, honey?” asked Mark. “Come in before you catch your death.”
I looked at him directly. “I already have.” I tried to tip the bowl slightly to show him, but before I could do anything, the vomiting began again.
I feel to the ground, knees hitting the hard packed snow. I yelled at Mark to back off, and found a walkie in the pocket of my jacket.
“We need a medical transport to the Patton house, immediately,” I said weakly, just before vomiting again, this time into the bucket.
“Stay. Back.” I told Mark, punctuating my words.
Annie ran outside to see our little play unfolding. She tried to run to me, but Mark held her back.
Jackson and Bri came running up to the house, wearing what looked like very sad versions of movie hazmat suits.
One look at me, and they each took an arm and pulled me to my feet. It was all I could do to not heave as I let them support me until we got to the golf cart. I couldn’t let myself look back at the two faces I knew were bent in a pain of their own.
I was beginning to feel dizzy and wanted to speak to Bri before I inevitably passed out.
“Bri, I have to tell you something. I need my camera and my journal from my room,” I told her plastic covered face. “Please, I need them. I also need you to start documenting how you made it to Monterey, what you do here, everything. It’s important, promise.”
“I will, Aunt Laurie,” she told me. She didn’t try to argue. I must look bad.
∞
I woke in what looked to be a hotel room, what was a hotel room. It was the Hotel, the one we use as quarantine. There was an IV in my arm, and I tried to push myself up, but couldn’t. On the table beside my bed lay my camcorder and my diary, waiting there for more entries. I could barely reach my arm to my camera to turn it on.
The needle in my arm stung, and the queasiness was bad. My head was pounding, and I could feel my heart working in sync with my head. They must have been in cahoots.
Doctor Malcolm came in, adorned in the same type of strange outfit my “drivers” wore earlier.
“I am glad you are awake,” he said.
When I went to reply, my tongue was thick, and I couldn’t get out the breath it would take to answer, so I opted to just shake my head, instead.
“Just nod or shake your head to answer me, okay?” he said.
I nodded.
He pulled out a breathing mask from beside my head and put it over my mouth.
“Did you feel sick before you began to vomit the blood, like during the night?” he questioned.
I shook my head to indicate no.
“Do you think that you can swallow a little ginger tea? It will settle your stomach some. I gave you some Compazine earlier, but we are running low.” He looked sad. “Amanda made the tea.”
Amanda.
I nodded.
I made a scribble movement with my hand to show that I wanted to write something. Doc Malcolm pulled out a hotel pen and pad of paper from the desk drawer.
“Ha,” he said, slightly amused. “Finally, someone will actually use one of these. Maybe later you can write a post card.”
I smiled, more in thanks than at the joke.
I wrote: “Family?”
“They are okay. They are concerned. I told them that we seemed to have caught it early.”
I nodded.
When he left the room, I lay there for a bit before picking up the pen.
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