Page 47 of The Cost of Forgetting You

“You look like you feel about as good as Henry does.”

My eyes fly open and I jerk upright, but I’m instantly informed that was a terrible mistake when the world spins rapidly around me. Roberta catches me as I slump backward. Pulls me into her chest. She holds me the way I always begged Mom to, but Mom was too afraid of germs. I lift my arm weakly, bringing a trembling hand to cover my mouth. “I’m sick. I don’t want to breathe on you.”

Even speaking sends a wave of nausea up my throat. I pinch my lips tight, desperate not to vomit again. I have nothing left. My stomach is achingly empty.

“After years of working in hospitals, I have an immune system of steel.” Her tone holds a thin layer of amusement, like decoration adorning a warm underbelly of empathy. “And I’m masked.”

I squint up at her. The light now falls across her face. A blue medical mask hides her ever-present smile, but I can still see it in the crinkles of her eyes.

“Henry was on the couch, pale and moaning over a salad bowl when I walked in. I thought you’d slept through work, so I was going to wake you up once I got him settled in bed.”

Guilt, painfully vile, slithers up my spine. “I need to get up. Need to help.”

“Respectfully,” she says, amusement coloring her tone, “you’re not helping anybody in your state.”

A groan rumbles in my throat. It’s the spark the nausea kindling in my gut needed. I lurch forward, collapsing over the toilet as stomach bile and not much else works its way out of my body. Roberta strokes a steady hand up and down my spine over the thin fabric of my T-shirt. “Let it out, honey. I know that hurts.”

I can’t flush the toilet this time. My arms are shaking too badly. Roberta does it for me, then braces a hand under my armpit and pulls me away from the toilet.

“Can you stand?”

I roll my head back and forth in some semblance of a shake.

A hum vibrates her lips, the sound muted by her mask. Then she releases me and stands. I whimper at the abandonment, suddenly reverting to the emotional capacity of a two-year-old in the face of being alone.

“I’m not leaving you, Delilah. Just needed better leverage.” Her forearms brace underneath my biceps and lift. I forget how to assist, and my arms fly up, my shoulders meeting my ears. “You’re going to have to help me a bit here. I’m strong but not that strong.”

I blow out a breath and nod. This time when she hoists, I’m ready. I use every ounce of strength left in my body to brace my feet against the tile and push. With a lot of grunts and a few concerned breaths, I make it to a standing position, though I’m leaning heavily on Roberta.

“Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

I allow her to lead me toward my room, but I whine, “What if I need to be sick again?”

“Surely there are multiple salad bowls in this house.”

I’d laugh if I weren’t certain it’d lead to vomiting.

She opens the door and ushers me inside. I drop onto my mattress with the grace of a two-ton elephant, then curl into the fetal position. Sand from last night’s escapades scratches my skin, sending a tinge of regret up my spine. As if I weren’t feeling bad enough already.

Did Truett deserve for me to blow up at him? Probably not. After everything he’d just done for my dad, the least I could do was show him a bit of grace. But nothing I said was untrue. He did leave me to fend for myself, like everyone else in my life. Surely that entitles me to some anger.

But as sleep tugs me back under, it’s not anger that I feel creeping over the barriers surrounding my heart. It’s a feeling much more concerning, one that leaves me exposed. Vulnerable. And not only because I’m too sick to thank Roberta when she deposits a bowl beside my bed.

Exhaustion takes me, but not before the word for that feeling drifts through my mind like a wayward breeze.

Need.

I wake to the buzzing of my phone near my ear. It could be minutes since Roberta escorted me to bed, or possibly hours. My concept of time is warped by whatever virus is plaguing my body. My hand weaves through pillows and clumps of bunched-up sheets until it lands on something smooth and cool. My cell.

“Hello?” My voice is all sharp edges and rasp, like I’ve raked my vocal cords over hot coals. Or vomit. So. Much. Vomit.

“Oh my God, Delilah. Are you okay?” My boss’s voice hits my eardrum like a mallet. I wince. Knowing Cameron means well doesn’t stop it from hurting like hell. “I’ve called a few times. You didn’t log on, and I thought something might’ve happened with your dad.”

Tears prick my eyes. Even closing them doesn’t ease the stinging. I’m weak, tired, and an emotional wreck from the events of the last twenty-four hours. And I never miss work. Certainly not without calling first. I meant to earlier, when Roberta brought me back to my room, but sleep came on so fast.

“I’m so”—I gag around the words, then swallow back the rising bile—“sorry. Dad’s okay.” I crack an eyelid, spying a glass of water on my bedside table that I assume Roberta left for me. I grab it and bring it to my lips, taking a few small sips. The way my throat burns, you’d think I was throwing back a glass of razor blades. “I’m sick. Some kind of stomach flu.”

Cameron groans, his normally bright voice turning to a gravel tumbler. “Oh man, Charis had that a few weeks ago. It took her daycare by storm. Must’ve made its way to Alabama.”

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