Page 96 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
“No, there was only gray fuzz on everything in your fridge.”
I want to protest, but I’m too sick.
“Chicken soup and another pill. Then you can go back to bed. I promise.”
“My throat hurts.”
“The soup will fix it.”
I manage three bites and down a glass of water with my pill before I fall back asleep.
“How long have you been here?” I ask with a moan when I wake up next.
“Since lunch yesterday.”
“Is it…” I squint at the sunshine streaming through my windows.
“Monday morning. I wish you had texted me.”
“I thought I did.”
“Sooner,” Mom adds.
“I was fine.”
“Raging fever and having not eaten anything for thirty-six hours is not fine.”
“You didn’t have to clean. I do that on Saturday.”
“It was no problem.”
“You slept on the couch?”
“I did.”
“It pulls out into a bed.”
“I figured it out.” Or did she have help? She must have, because I don’t remember how I got from her car to my bed. Mom dons her glasses. “Pauline says another dose of this, and you should be turning a corner.” She hands me an orange pill that looks too big to swallow.
“Take it. We’ll have you chase it with more soup and some orange rolls if you feel up to it.”
“You made orange rolls for me?”
“They’re your favorite.”
“You haven’t made me orange rolls in thirteen years.”
“That’s not true,” Mom says, plating a roll onto one of my thrifted antique plates and handing it to me.
“It feels true.” I take a bite of my mother’s orange roll. Like a cinnamon roll but made with orange zest and orange syrup and just a dash of cardamom. And for a moment, I almost remember being lifted by a pair of strong arms and carried into my cottage.
I shower after breakfast and change into a fresh pair of pj’s. I’m exhausted, but I join my mother on the couch. I’ve had enough of my bed for the time being “I know you want to.”
“What?”
“Ask me about Mike.”
“Malcolm fromMacbeth? Benedick inMuch Ado?”
