Page 30 of Zeppelin
I go hard in the house, stoking the stove. The coals are still red hot in the firebox from last night. It’s easy to find them when I rake back the gray ash. All it takes is a little bit of kindling from the bin by the stove, and some of my hot air, to produce flames. I pump water from the devil bastard contraption by the farmhouse sink. How the ever loving fuck does Ginny operate this thing? It’s hard for me, and I have to have five times the power in my body that she does.
I get the large, galvanized steel tub ready. It hangs from a peg by the door like its predecessor likely did in the past, but it’s clearly a new purchase—is there really a market for this shit? Or are most of the buyers people who are into historical re-enactment. The stove makes quick work of the water, even in that massive pot, and I dump it in boiling hot so I can heat another. I’ll have a refresher made. It’s going to be as hot in thisroom as the stove is soon, so Ginny shouldn’t get cold, even if her bathwater does.
I brew a whole pot of mint tea and find a sleeve of saltines by the time Ginny walks into the kitchen. She looks at the bath first, steaming away, before her eyes track to the pot of tea, the mugs, and the crackers on the table. She’s sweaty, shaky, and extremely pale.
She walks past me and silently gets a glass out of the hutch thing in the corner. She fills it at the sink. She drinks deeply, downing the whole thing before I can advise her not to. For a moment, I think she’ll be okay, but then she curses under her breath, grabs the trashcan from the corner of the kitchen, falls to her hands and knees, and projectile vomits water into it. I’m stunned by the force of it. She spits when she’s done, but stays crouched over the black plastic can. She gags a few more times, then retches, her entire back bowing with the force of it.
I stand by the stove, overheating myself, beads of sweat tracking down my temples. I’m soaked too, but her clothes clung to her damply right from the second she walked in here.
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Her sniffle turns into another and another, and that turns into tears. She bows her head, her hair a privacy curtain in place, her slight frame trembling and shaking as she cries.
If I’ve ever questioned whether I had a heart or not, I know I do. It cracks in half in such a painful burst that I wonder if it took out a few ribs on the way. I rub the spot for a few seconds, debating with myself, but as her sobs get louder, reason loses, and instinct takes over.
I walk over to her and scoop her off the floor, cradling her in my arms. I snag a fresh towel from the metal basket onthe hutch and dab at her mouth. I use the other side to wipe her tears and mop her forehead. I walk straight to the living room with her and sit down on the couch, arranging her on my lap so that she can sit comfortably with her legs draped over my knees. I stroke her hair and then her back as her tears dry up.
“S-s-sor-ry.” Her broken tone guts me.
“Don’t apologize.” I massage her lower back.
She shakes her head and tries to pull away, but falls back against me, whimpering. “Everything hurts,” she moans.
My heart knits itself back together real fast, only to bang against my ribs furiously. “What hurts?”
I must look too freaked out because she shakes her head again, but swallows thickly and tries to reassure me with a pat on my upper arm. “Not everything. Just my stomach and my- um, well, probably everything.”
I want to move her so I’m not hurting her, but I have no idea what position that would actually be. “Do you want to get in the bath?” I imagine that if I’d had a nice, caring mother, she would have given us a bath when we were sick.
“No,” she whines, but changes her tune when she catches a chunk of her hair. She gags wetly. “Oh my god. There’s barf here!”
I stand up, taking her with me. I’m so careful with her, like she’s literally made of glass. I don’t want to jostle her and cause her more discomfort, or make her sick again.
“I’ll help you,” I tell her as I approach the tub.
She doesn’t protest. I set her on her feet, steadying her, then strip off her top. She undoes the drawstring on her pajama bottoms and pulls them down, along with her panties.
She’s always going to be a gorgeous goddess, but sex is the last thing I’m thinking about. I don’t see her body that way right now. I can appreciate her beauty, but it’s with a tenderness that does nothing to stir my blood. It digs into me, leaving tender spots in my midsection instead.
She climbs into the tub and crouches down, hugging her knees to her chest. She’s so small in there. There’s no chance that I’d fit, but the way she curls into herself leaves extra space.
I find a plastic cup in one of the cupboards and dip it into the water, bathing her shoulders and neck, letting the water cascade over her chest. She sighs and tips her head back, closing her eyes so I can rinse her hair. After she tells me where to find her cosmetic bag upstairs in her bedroom, I bring that down, along with a floral backpack that has her shampoo and other hair products.
I wet her long hair and then kneel down behind the tub and guide her head back so I can shampoo it. It’s a process and a half. I have no idea how she’d manage on her own. I hope that in the future, she showers at her parents’ house as much as possible just to save her the ordeal.
After I wash the shampoo out, I massage conditioner in, lightly kneading her scalp until she whimpers repeatedly, but not in the bad way she was doing before.
“I’ll leave that for a minute. Can I go get you fresh pajamas and a towel?”
She nods, blinking through water starred lashes, wearing a forlorn expression. She was wrung out already, but the bath is taking even more out of her. She needs calories. She’s probably dehydrated. As soon as I get her dry, I’m going to try and get her to eat and drink something, even if it’s only a few sips of water and some crackers.
“They’re in my dresser. Third drawer down. The towels are in the closet in the hallway with the extra blankets.”
“Okay. Don’t try and rinse that out without me.”
“I won’t,” she laughs humorlessly. “I don’t even want to move right now. Sometimes it’s best just to stay absolutely still and breathe through the nausea.”
I squeeze her shoulder in a shitty show of solidarity, hating that I can’t do anything for her. I’m about as useless as it gets when it comes to making her feel better. I can do the little things, and I’ll do them the best I can. Like getting her clean, dry, wrapped in a blanket, and settled somewhere with a mug of mint tea and some crackers.
Upstairs, I get out another fluffy pair of pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, then grab a towel and a worn patchwork quilt from the closet in the hall.
