Page 50 of Loving the Legend
I reach over him to turn on his nightstand lamp. He’s shivering and murmuring something with his eyes closed.
I place my palm against his forehead. He’s burning up. Racing to the bathroom, I wet a towel with cold water. Then I search inside his medicine cabinet and retrieve a bottle of acetaminophen. If it’s in his cabinet, it probably means he’s not allergic to it. I run downstairs to fill a bowl with ice, race back upstairs, and wrap the cold towel around a couple of ice cubes. I dab the cold towel against his skin, starting from his forehead. He jerks awake and shudders.
“Hey, it’s okay. You have a fever, I think,” I whisper.
He groans.
“Can you sit up for a second?”
He winces at the question and falls back against his pillow. His eyes shudder closed. For a second, I think he’s fallen back asleep, but then he mumbles, “It hurts.”
“I know, but we need to get you medicine.”
He sluggishly arches up enough to rest on the side of his elbow.
“Open up. It’s acetaminophen.” I slide two pills in and tilt the glass of water to his mouth. He takes a sip, and his head falls back to his pillow. I pick the cloth back up and dab along his face,neck, and chest. Eyes closed, he whines but doesn’t seem to have enough energy to stop me. I hate the cold, too, when I’m sick, but it works. I continue down his chest, having to reach under the covers to get to his lower body. His legs are so hot that all of the ice melts and the cloth is warm when I pull it away. I toss it around in the ice water before continuing.
When his teeth chatter, I give him a break. He’ll need fluids and something bland to eat when he wakes up to take painkillers. I run downstairs to take inventory of the fridge. It’s thankfully stocked. I chop up veggies and peeled ginger and throw it all in a pot with water to boil. My mom used to include the stems of parsley and mushrooms, so I do the same. I cover it and let it do its thing. I’m grateful for all of the times I helped my mom cook. She made it clear that she didn’t want to live in a house with men who didn’t know how to cook or clean up after themselves.
He’s still asleep when I pop back upstairs to check on him. Once the soup is done, I dab him down with the ice cloth one more time before I climb into bed next to him. I check my phone. It’s a little after three in the morning. I yawn, turn to face him, and find him shivering. I do what I always want when I’m sick—I shuffle over and pull him into my arms, drawing his back against my chest.
After a few minutes, the shivering stops.
He’s so warm in my arms that I reach over for the cold cloth and spread it against his forehead to help reduce his temperature.
I wakeup a few hours later. He’s still knocked out, except now I’m splayed on my back, and his face is against my chest. Ireach up and press my palm against his forehead. He’s still warm but not as hot.
He stirs at my touch.
I freeze, not wanting to wake him, but his eyes flutter open after a beat.
“Hey, how are you feeling?”
His head darts up, and wide eyes meet mine. “What hap…” His voice trails off as he presses his palm against his throat.
“It hurts?”
He nods. “Hell.”
“Warm salt water should help,” I say as I slide out from under him. He groans as his head falls into the spot I just vacated.
I return with a mug of warm salt water.
“Come on.” I help him out of bed. He sways a little once on his feet, so I wrap my arm around his waist to anchor him.
“Legs…everything hurts,” he mutters.
“Gargle with this, and then you can climb back into bed. Let it sit in the back of your throat for a few seconds.”
He grunts as we move toward the bathroom. I leave him leaning against the sink, brushing his teeth when I run back downstairs to heat the broth and squeeze oranges until I have a cup filled with juice. I hear the shower running when I return upstairs.
I search his room for fresh sheets and come up empty, but I find some in a hallway closet. I’m finishing changing the sheets when he emerges a few minutes later with a towel around his waist and steam billowing from the bathroom.
“Drink both down,” I say, pointing to the glass and bowl on the nightstand.
He stares at the bowl. “You made it?” he asks, his voice even hoarser than before.
“Yeah, figured you’d need something when you wake up. Painkillers on an empty stomach aren't good. And you need fluids.”
