Page 42 of Grump Hard
HOLLY: Status report, Nurse Ratcliffe?
LUKE: Still alive. Barely.
HOLLY: Have you eaten anything?
LUKE: Three crackers. Working on the fourth.
HOLLY: Good job. Keep it up. And watch your front porch. I called in a chicken soup delivery from Kit’s Diner. They have the best chicken soup.
LUKE: Thank you. Chicken soup does sound kind of good.
HOLLY: Good. Check in after you’ve tried it. I want to hear your thoughts on the sweet potato chunks.
The messages become a lifeline, something to look forward to in the monotony of illness and caregiving. She sends me pictures—more puppies, a photo of the sunset over the town square, a truly terrible Christmas sweater she’s washing for an ugly sweater party next week.
I send her pictures back—the growing pile of used tissue boxes in the recycling bin, a dramatic shot of Ashton oozing off the couch, the TV screen glowing in the dark as we watch The Princess Bride together for the first time since we were kids.
HOLLY: Oh, good choice! I love that movie! It’s one of my favorites. We should watch it together sometime when you’re feeling better and can enjoy it more.
LUKE: As you wish.
HOLLY: I see what you did there. And I like it.
LUKE: Good.
By Sunday evening, I’ve received dozens of messages, three terrible jokes (“What do you call a sick bird of prey? An ill eagle!”), and a truly awful meme about the flu that makes me laugh despite feeling like death.
She’s the best. She really is.
My last thought as I sink into sickly dreams?
I can’t wait to thank her in person.
Sunday blurs into Monday. We’re all still sniffling, but Ashton seems to be rounding the corner, complaining less about dying and more about being bored as she takes point on caretaking. Elliot has graduated to sitting upright for short periods. Bran is still staring numbly into the void.
And I’m…holding on, refusing to get worse, but not really getting better.
Holly’s messages continue, a steady stream of support and perfectly timed distraction.
HOLLY: Day 3 of the Ratcliffe Plague. How are we doing?
LUKE: Ashton is improving. The rest of us are still in hell. But hell, like heaven, is temporary. So…
HOLLY: That’s the spirit? I guess? I’m worried you’re becoming darkly philosophical in your season of sick-content.
LUKE: Ha. No, not really. Sorry. I actually find the thought that everything is temporary comforting. Is that strange?
HOLLY: Hmmm…. You know, now that I think about it, no. Not really. It’s a good thing to remember that hell is temporary, so you don’t get depressed when life is sucking butt. But it’s also good to remember that heaven is temporary, so you treasure every second you spend there.
LUKE: Yes. Exactly. I really like you.
HOLLY: Is that the cold medicine talking?
LUKE: No, it’s me. Just me.
HOLLY: I like you, too. And I hope you start to rally soon. I’d love to go caroling together on Wednesday if you feel better. It’s kind of a Silver Bell Falls tradition. The whole town heads over to Reindeer Corners to carol through their downtown. Then, they return the favor the following Wednesday. That probably sounds like a mild form of torture, but I promise it’s fun.
LUKE: Only mild torture. Assuming I’m well, I’d love to go. Just don’t expect me to sing.
