February 27th

When Greg comes out of his bedroom, it is to find the downstairs area deserted. There's no fragrance of coffee and breakfast from the kitchen, no sound of activity or voices from the office, no washer or dryer at work on laundry, not even the radio. There is only silence.

He takes a shower and gets dressed, dumps his dirty clothes in the wheeled hamper Sarah bought for him the week before, adds in the plates and glasses, and hauls them into the kitchen. The inspection-day prank is long since over and his room reeks, something he does not enjoy in the least.

The kitchen is pristine, peaceful in the morning light. Nothing has been touched since the night before. With a frown he pulls his cane from the hamper, abandons the laundry, and checks the driveway from his window. Minnie Lou sits in her usual place, so Sarah is still in the house.

An unwelcome sense of apprehension fills him as he makes his way upstairs one slow, cautious step at a time. The door to Sarah and Gene's room is cracked open, but even if it wasn't he'd still go in. He didn't make the privacy rules.

Sarah is in bed asleep. She lies on her side, frizzy auburn curls spread over the pillow.

(His mother lies on the bed, shoes kicked off and the sheet pulled in a tangle over the lower half of her body, though she is fully clothed. She snores softly, her light brown hair tousled, completely unlike her usual tidy wash-and-set 'do. He dares to reach out and shake her.

"Mom. Wake up."

It takes several tries, but she finally rouses and peers at him. Her gaze is unfocused; she looks a little confused. "Wh . . . what?"

"Are you okay? You're sleeping in the middle of the day again."

She closes her eyes. "'m'fine. Do laundry, Greg. Needs t'be done."

"Mom . . ."

"Do it . . . or . . . tell your father."

He stares at her. After a moment his bewilderment gives way to a hot resentment edged with resignation. Slowly he turns away and closes the door behind him, doesn't care if it makes a loud noise. She won't hear it anyway.)

Greg can tell Sarah's ill; her face is flushed, her breathing a bit labored. He goes into the bathroom and roots around in the medicine cabinet over the sink, retrieves a digital thermometer. When he comes back and sits next to her, it is to find she is awake. Her eyes are fever-bright but she recognizes him, though she looks embarrassed at her vulnerable condition.

"Don't talk," he says. "Just open your mouth." When she obeys he pops the thermometer in and raises his brows at her. "Wow. If I'd known you were this easy I would've hit on you a long time ago."

She doesn't even roll her eyes, just closes them. He picks up her wrist and takes her pulse. It's a little fast, but more or less normal. After a few moments the thermometer beeps. The reading is 101.5.

"It's official, you're sick," he says. "Stay down, stay hydrated, and see you in a few days." He looks at her out of the corner of his eye to see how she takes his advice.

"Wash your hands," she says. Her soft voice is hoarse, barely audible. Greg gives an impatient sigh.

"And you accuse Wilson of being a martyr. You're perfectly willing to let me abandon you with nothing to say but 'wash your hands'. I expected a witty rejoinder at least."

"I'll be fine." Her breath catches on the last word and she coughs hard. When the spasm stops he says,

"Yeah, I can see that. You're an idiot."

She says nothing further, only rolls away from him and makes an ineffectual attempt to pull the covers up over her shoulders.

"Who would have thought it?" he says, secretly amused. "You're a bad patient."

Sarah's response is to curl in on herself. The tee shirt she has on, clearly one of Gene's, has slipped and some of her upper right back shows through the stretched-out neck. His amusement fades when he sees faint silver scars on her fair skin. He knows those marks all too well, because he has some of them himself. Belt, he thinks, and feels a little shudder deep within. Aloud he says "It'll be easier for you to manage things if you come downstairs." Without further speech he rises and limps off.

Half an hour later she appears on the stairway wrapped in the comforter. She grips the banister as she moves slowly down the steps. Greg sees her out of the corner of his eye as he pretends to watch a movie. She says nothing as she passes him, only crawls onto the couch, pulls a cushion into place beneath her head and lies down. Huddled under the thick quilt, she looks about five years old.

A short time later he goes into the kitchen and puts the kettle on. While it heats he rummages through the cupboards and finds a box of cherry jello. It is a simple matter to make the gelatin according to the instructions; he pours some of it into a mug, puts the rest in a bowl and refrigerates it, takes a small hand towel, soaks it with cool water and wrings it out, then returns to the living room. He puts everything on the stand next to the couch and pulls his chair next to Sarah.

"Sit," he says. She does as he asks and takes the mug he offers her.

"Hot jello," he says. "Vodka shots are better, but I'm not wasting perfectly good alcohol on a sicko."

It's hard for her to swallow, she flinches each time she has to do it, but again she says nothing. When she's done he palpates the glands under her jawline, his touch gentle. They're swollen but not hard, a good sign. When she's finished the drink she lies down. He can see she is exhausted by even this small effort. He puts the towel on her forehead and brings the comforter up to her shoulders.

"Don't get any stupid ideas about dragging your ass off the couch to do chores." He takes her wrist in his fingers, counts her pulse. "Stay put and rest."

She doesn't even argue with him. Greg frowns as she closes her eyes and slips into sleep.

By evening her temperature is up to 102.3. It's still within the average range of fever spikes for something simple like the flu, but he keeps a close eye on her all the same. She drinks the tea he gives her and manages a few bites of the chilled jello, but it's quite clear she is incapable of anything but simple existence.

While she sleeps he stumps up the stairs and gets a couple of pillows off her bed as well as her bathrobe and a clean tee shirt. Once they're stacked on the unused easy chair at the other end of the couch, he takes himself off to the kitchen and starts a batch of laundry, puts plates, cups and silverware into the dishwasher to run once the wash is done, and searches the pantry for the ingredients he needs to make a soup recipe he memorized years ago from a contraband cookbook.

(He sorts the whites and colors as the back of the detergent box instructs, puts a load in the washer and adds the soap. The sun shines outside in the yard, the grass a beautiful shade of green beneath the big tree he has already explored and turned into a secret haven from neighborhood bullies. Maybe later after he's hung out the wash he can sneak a book up there and read in peace and quiet, with just the carpenter ants and a few birds for company. At least they don't care if he's worthless.)

The washer chugs away as Greg chops an onion and sautes it in some browned butter in Sarah's beloved cast-iron skillet. He doesn't really mind the lack of company. Solitude has never bothered him all that much unless the pain is so bad he needs a distraction, but then he felt that way before the blood clot wreaked its havoc. If he's honest, he finds most people incomprehensible; they tend to live their lives in the warm shallows of puerile emotion and soap-opera dramatics, and are content to do so. He's never understood who the hell would want to live that way; he's always preferred to explore, question, analyze, dissect, and most important of all, think. It's easier to do all those things without pointless emotional distractions. And yet he finds himself tempted, drawn to the potential comfort of blissful ignorance. It's always a disaster when he gives in, but that hasn't stopped him yet.

When the rest of the vegetables are in the skillet he checks on Sarah. She's asleep, but it's a fitful rest and she is flushed. Her fever's up again. When he takes her temp, it's 102.9.

"Any higher and you're going to whatever serves as an ER around here," he says under his breath, and wakes her to drink some water. She is cooperative, but when he tries to get her to finish the cup she flinches away from him. Stricken, he sets the water aside. "Sorry . . ." he says, unsure what to do to make things all right.

"Just a reflex," she whispers. "Not your fault." Her hot, dry fingers clasp his for a moment. "It's okay."

She's still in there, he thinks, and feels a foolish sense of profound relief. Sick as a dog and she comforts me. Typical. He can't help a soft chuckle as he tucks her hand under the covers. "Shut up."

That elicits a slight smile. Then she's asleep again. Her breath rasps a little but she doesn't struggle or labor, a good sign.

He's just taken a finished pot of soup off the stove when the phone chirps. The caller ID reads 'Goldman, Gene'.

(The phone rings right before dinnertime. He's just constructed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—the only thing he knows how to make besides box mac and cheese, canned soup and scrambled eggs with butter. When he answers it his father says, "Let me talk to your mother."

He clutches the receiver and fights his instant anxiety. Mom will be passed out for the rest of the evening, just like every other time she's gone to bed in the daytime.

"Greg?"

"Sir," he says, casts around wildly for something, anything to say. "Uh—she's—she's sleeping."

"Well, go wake her up." Dad sounds calm, but Greg knows that tone. With a sigh he puts down the receiver and goes into his parents bedroom.

Five minutes later he returns. "She—she won't wake up. I tried-"

"What the hell is going on? Is your mother sick? Is she out of the house? Tell me the truth!"

He swallows. "She . . . she doesn't want to get up, sir. I tried, but she just—just went back to sleep."

Silence. Then, "You did this."

Horror and fury surge through him. "I didn't do anything!" But what if I hurt her somehow and wasn't smart enough to know?

"You little jerk, she's worn out from dealing with you all day every day! Can't you ever stop to think even once about the consequences of your actions? You're killing your mother!"

The accusation slaps at him hard, but he's still surprised to find tears in his eyes. It's stupid to cry, it's weak. He wipes the drops away with his free hand, ashamed. I didn't mean to make her sick! She can't die, I'll be all by myself! "Dad—I—I'm-I didn't mean-"

"Don't whine, dammit! Just write a note for her to call me back when she wakes up. It doesn't matter what time it is. You can do that much at least?" Scorn fills his father's voice.

"Yessir." He grabs his homework tablet and penny pencil and takes down the number Dad gives him, reads it back, and waits with his head bowed for the inevitable pronouncement of sentence. It doesn't take long.

"Worthless, that's what you are. Make sure you do her chores as well as yours before you go to bed. I'll know if you don't, do you understand?"

"Yessir." But his father has already hung up. He replaces the receiver in the cradle with hands that tremble, and abandons his makeshift dinner to get busy on the tasks he's been given.)

"She's sick," Greg says when he answers the phone. There is a brief silence on the other end.

"Symptoms?" Gene asks quietly.

"Lethargic, diaphoretic, elevated temp, pulse is a little fast but strong."

"How high is her fever?"

"Just shy of one oh three."

"Okay. It's about to break." Gene sounds concerned but not angry or upset. "This is her typical pattern when she gets the flu—a quick high spike to scare the fuck out of everyone, then she's down for a few days with laryngitis and general weakness. Make her stay in bed and keep hydrated. She'll be up and around fairly soon. You know how to deal with things if she gets worse." He pauses. "How are you doing?"

Greg hesitates, surprised by the question. "Fine—I'm fine."

"Pain levels okay? You'll be hurting if you've been up and down the stairs much. Take Lyrica and the ibuprofen prn, just do it on a full stomach. I'll let Sarah know I cleared it if she's still counting your meds."

He doesn't know what to say. Gene saves him the trouble. "Is she awake and coherent enough to talk with me for a bit?"

When Greg hands Sarah the phone she smiles at the sound of Gene's voice. "Hey," she whispers, and coughs. Greg goes back to the kitchen and puts the soup away, cleans up the utensils and throws the wash in the dryer. He returns to the living room to find Sarah asleep, the phone still in her hand. He picks it up and replaces the receiver on the cradle, goes back into the kitchen to make himself some slices of peanut butter toast, and ends up in his chair to watch tv with the sound turned down. He's sore and in pain from all the extra movement, but some hot water therapy and an extra Lyrica later on will take enough of the edge off for him to handle it. No sleep meds tonight though. She'll want to check my meds after her fever's broken and she's had some rest. The thought doesn't bother him; in fact it gives him an odd sense of reassurance. He switches over to the Sixers game—one bonus of life in New York, the sports subscription channels don't black out Philly teams unless they're playing at the Meadows—and munches his toast, content to be where he is.