Page 40 of Grump Hard
I survey the living room, which now looks more like a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Used tissues overflow from both trash cans. Empty ginger ale cans litter the coffee table. Someone—I’m guessing Bran—has left a damp towel on the floor that I nearly slip on while tidying up.
Ashton is asleep, finally, her face flushed but peaceful. Bran is awake but silent, staring at some nature documentary with the glazed expression of someone whose brain has gone numb with suffering.
I wipe down the tables, take Bran’s temperature again just to be safe, dispense medication, and refill their water bottles with the mechanical efficiency of a man who’s definitely not cut out for this kind of nurturing but is too stubborn to fail at it.
When my phone buzzes in my pocket near seven, I lunge for it like a lifeline.
HOLLY: How are the patients, Nurse Ratcliffe?
LUKE: Multiplying with every passing minute. Elliot went down a few hours ago, and the living room looks like a war zone.
HOLLY: Oh no! So, you’re the last line of defense against the dark forces of the plague?
LUKE: I am. And I’m starting to think nurses should be paid more. Much more.
HOLLY: No doubt. Send me a picture of the war zone. I will empathize with you from afar.
I glance around the living room, at the blanket-covered lumps that are my siblings, the medication bottles lined up on the coffee table, the dirty tissues that have already begun to respawn mere moments after I emptied the trash.
It’s messy. Too messy to be something I’d usually feel comfortable sharing.
But this is Holly…
Taking a step back, I snap a photo and send it.
Her response is immediate: OMG, you poor thing. That looks miserable. Here, I’ll send you something cheerful to balance out all the sickly vibes.
A photo appears on my screen. It’s the corgi from the pet photo shoot two Fridays ago, wearing a tiny Santa hat, looking at the camera with a joy I know only Holly could have coaxed out of her.
I find myself grinning like a fool again, but Elliot isn’t around to tease me, so…who cares? Cute, I shoot back. Very, very cute.
HOLLY: I know! Aw, I love her. So, have you eaten yet? Remember, you have to keep yourself fueled for the fight.
LUKE: I’m fine. I’ll warm up something from the freezer later.
HOLLY: Nope. Not going to work. If you don’t send me proof of real food in the next hour, I’m calling in reinforcements.
LUKE: Who? The food police?
HOLLY: No, my mother. She’ll show up with a frozen casserole and OPINIONS, and then you’ll really be in trouble. My mother does not mess around.
LUKE: That’s not the way I want to meet your mother. I’ll order pizza.
HOLLY: Good. And Luke?
LUKE: Yes?
HOLLY: I like that you want to meet my mother…
The message sits there on my screen, making me feel light and hopeful again, even in the midst of the SickPocalypse of Christmas Present.
Sunday morning arrives with the unwelcome confirmation that my throat is also now scratchy.
Very scratchy…
I lie in bed for a moment, taking inventory. Sore throat? Check. Headache? Check. That kind of body ache that says, “Congratulations, your cells have been invaded?” Check.
“Damn it,” I mutter.
