Page 35 of Caught A Vibe

“We’re going to get you back on your feet, but you need to eat.”

I know he wants me to laugh at his terrible rhymes, but I’m not in the mood to be cajoled. I want to wallow. “Make what you want. I can’t taste it anyhow.”

His shoulders fall, and I feel like a bitch for being so cranky with him. I’m just so over all of this bullshit, and my filters burned up with my fever.

“Ok, pasta it is,” he says.

Damn it, I hurt his feelings. Why is he still here, putting up with my shit? The tears I was fighting win the battle and slide down my cheeks.

“Hey, or soup. I can make the soup. Or I can put the pasta in the soup?”

“Why are you being so kind to me?”

“Because you’re sick and need help with dinner?”

His genuine confusion sets me off. “What is the point? I can’t do anything! I can’t eat. I can’t exercise. Christ, walking to the bathroom gets me winded. I can’t be with you. I can’t be alone. I can’t work, but I can’t stop thinking about everything I should be doing either! This just sucks!” Once my frustration overflows its banks, it floods my brain and exits in an angry stream from my mouth.

“It does. It completely and utterly sucks.”

His ready agreement acts as a temporary dam, halting my rant. “What? No cheerful advice about keeping my head up?”

“No. This whole situation is completely fucked up, and I wish I could wave a magic wand and fix it but I can’t. It absolutely sucks. I think admitting that is just as important as continuing to try anyway.”

Somehow the acknowledgement that the situation is genuinely shitty—and not just my fever brain coloring the way I see the world right now—makes me feel the tiniest bit better. Enough to dry my cheeks and attempt a smile. “When did you get so smart?”

“Can I get that in writing for my mom?” he jokes. “So, pasta?”

“Sure. Pasta.”

Dash

Three weeks into isolation, I am damn lucky I can effectively do my job from quarantine. This lockdown has thrown everything into chaos, and people are leaning more and more on technology to make life function from the boundaries of their homes. My articles are in high demand. I know there are so many struggling to work from home, but for me it’s working.

Although this isn’t exactly home. My meager possessions sit in boxes shoved up against the wall. I’ve only unpacked what I absolutely need. Even that has managed to explode all over the couch and the floor.

It might be better if I had a dresser or a closet or a bed that wasn’t also the couch, but I don’t because I don’t live here. Right now Penny is stuck in her bedroom so it doesn’t matter, and once she’s back on her feet I’ll be finding my own place. Also, to be honest, even with my own space it would probably still look like a tornado hit.

Why doesn’t organizing give me the same dopamine hit as video games? My life would be a whole lot easier if it did. Unfortunately, if I can’t see things, I lose track of them completely. So I tend to leave everything out, all the time.

My watch beeps, and I realize the morning has flown by. Time to make some lunch for us. I’m falling back on classics I remember from my childhood sick days. We’ve gone through cinnamon toast, canned chicken soup, saltines, jello. Today, tomato soup and grilled cheese. It’s a classic for a reason. I even manage not to burn the bread this time.

I fix a little tray, don my mask, and knock on her door.

“Come in!”

I balance the tray on one yellow-gloved hand, turn the knob with the other, and nudge the door open with my foot. I’ve gotten good at this balancing act over the last few weeks. When I see Penny, she is sitting up in bed and grinning like she’s won the lotto. I’m so surprised, I bobble the tray and spill a little soup. After weeks of despondent at best, downright angry and sad at worst, a smile is a welcome change.

“You all right there?” she asks.

“You’re smiling,” I say, still stalled in the doorway.

“I don’t have a fever!” She grins wider and aims the laser thermometer at her forehead for confirmation. “98.8!” she crows.

“That’s great!” I grin back behind my mask. This is absolutely worth celebrating. “Do you feel up to eating lunch?”

“I probably won’t taste it, but yes I am hungry for the first time in weeks.” She claps her hands like a toddler at McDonalds and reaches for the tray. I set the tray on her lap and retreat from the room. I connect to the video call on my computer in my lap, and she answers immediately. This has become our routine. I watch her take a hopeful bite of the sandwich.

“Anything?” I ask.

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