Welcome to 2,500 words of self-indulgent drivel inspired by being sick this weekend. Does this story have a purpose? Not really. Did I have fun writing it? Yes.
Also, the next chapter of Omission will be up in the next two days. It was impossible to write while sick and I wanted to get this down while I edited Omission. I hope you enjoy!
It started with a threatening rumbling in Riley's stomach, and that curious sensation of not feeling quite right, but also not being able to pinpoint exactly what felt wrong.
Well, it really started the two days before when Andy had insisted on sharing a glass of orange juice with him (or rather, shoving it in his face), and the kid falling ill with the stomach flu less than 12 hours later.
Riley laid in bed longer than usual that morning, trying to figure out what was wrong before his quaking stomach lurched sent him up and running to the bathroom.
The question of what was wrong was answered now, at least. Though that was a microscopic consolation as his stomach continued to heave, despite being long past empty at this point. Sweat broke out across his body and his body ached. With every fiber of his being, Riley wanted to crawl back into his bed and sleep until whatever this was had run its course.
But he could only rest his forehead on the toilet's cool porcelain and pant heavily, spitting out bile and saliva as he tried not to focus on how disgusting the toilet seat probably was.
Riley didn't trust his stomach to not betray him in the time it would take to get back to his room and into bed. He didn't want to deal with trying to hide stained carpet along with hiding how atrocious he felt, so he stayed hunched over the toilet.
By now, however long it had been since he'd broken land-speed records to get to the bathroom, his shirt was saturated with sweat stuck to his back. Riley's skin felt clammy and he felt stuck on a pendulum that swung wildly between way too hot and way too cold.
"Are you done yet?" Riley felt the reverberation of each loud knock in his guts and he could have sworn his sister's aggressive voice split his skull. "You've been in there forever!"
Riley tried to answer, but the tumultuous storm in his stomach only led to more sputtering and retches instead of words.
"Ri, sweetheart, are you okay?" this knock was softer. His mom was outside the bathroom now, which meant that any chance of keeping this a secret was, for lack of a better term at the moment, flushed down the toilet.
"Audrey said you've been in there for awhile." Riley inwardly snarked "snitch" at his sister before trying to gather himself with deep lungfuls of air. He may not be able to hide the fact that he's sick from his Mom, but that didn't mean she had to know the extent of it.
With all his strength, Riley pushed himself up from the bathroom floor, ignoring the dizziness and his vision threatening to white out. Opening the door, the first thing he saw was his Mom's slightly worried expression twist into full-on alarm.
"Aw, baby, what's wrong?" She reached out and put her hand to his clammy forehead, and it took everything Riley had to not pull back and slam the door shut. The thought of anyone, especially his Mom, knowing he was sick sent a fresh round of nausea to his volatile stomach.
Much the same way Riley got his answer to what was wrong from rushing to the toilet to vomit, his Mom got her answer as he jerked away from her touch and twisted back to the toilet, falling to his knees and being sick all over again.
This time, the misery of heaving out his insides was accompanied by shame pumping through his veins with every heavy thrum of his racing pulse. He wasn't accustomed to anyone seeing him sick. At all. Riley took care of himself when he was sick. And he hadn't died yet.
Though the agony of the bathroom floor constantly shifting from under him and his inability to catch a full breath between retches made him think that maybe his time had come.
Enduring his own misery was a practiced pastime for Riley, so he had no idea how to react when a hand landed on his back, gently rubbing up and down between his shoulder blades.
The next several minutes were a dizzying blur of his stomach trying to escape through his throat and softly whispered comforts from his Mom, who had situated herself behind his crouched position on the floor.
When it was done, and Riley sat his forehead on his arm, struggling to get air back into his lungs, he barely heard his Mom say that she wanted to get him back to bed.
So much for trying to keep it a secret, Riley chastised himself. But the warm, fuzzy feeling of his Mom taking care of him mostly silenced his dissenting inner-voice.
By the time Riley's Mom had gotten him wrangled into a fresh change of clothes and comfortably laying in her bed, he was exhausted. He was sure that he'd been minimally helpful in changing clothes, as he'd felt more like a heavy sack of potatoes rather than a person, but she didn't complain.
Lying in the king-sized bed under a thick duvet, Riley did feel somewhat better. He wasn't sure if it was from no longer having the sickly tang of vomit in his mouth and being rid of his sweaty clothes that made the difference, or if it was the novelty of someone taking care of him while he was sick. Either way, he was just relieved that he wasn't stuck hunched over a toilet any longer.
As he curled on his side, wrapping his arms around his aching stomach, he saw a garbage can on the floor next to the bed that typically wasn't present. At least he didn't have to worry about extracting himself from blankets and running to the bathroom when his stomach turned on him.
Riley wasn't used to being this comfortable when he was ill. To having water offered to him, a hand on his forehead followed by a thermometer in his ear, blankets tucked tighter around him when a shiver seized his body. And even though he wanted to cringe when she ran her hand through his hair (it has to be so disgusting with how sweaty he was earlier), it felt too good to ask her to stop or leave him alone to his misery.
It was with her fingers carding through his hair, lightly scratching his scalp, that Riley's eyes fluttered shut, the exhaustion of the morning winning out.
Inevitably, whatever stomach bug that he felt was killing him reared its ugly head again, waking him from his nap with a daze and not knowing which way was up as he tried to find the garbage can to throw up into.
He was immensely relieved when the garbage can from earlier materialized in front of his face and he could give into the urge to vomit. The same comforting hands and the same tender words made his episode a bit less excruciating.
Growing up, Riley had always convinced himself that he wasn't missing a parent taking care of him when he was sick. What could a parent do to make him feel better that he couldn't do for himself? He could get himself water and wrap his tattered sheets around himself just fine. Medicine was harder to come across when he'd been younger, but again, he'd lived. Having someone there to rub his back and kiss his forehead wouldn't have made a single difference.
And yet, there was a solace that came with knowing that he didn't have to get himself more fluids or risk dehydration. And the consolation that came with having someone there to brush his hair back from his forehead when he was sick? Riley couldn't believe how much calmer her tender care made him.
Riley still tried to tell himself that it wouldn't have made any difference to have her care growing up. The care he'd given himself was more than adequate.
But he fell asleep arguing with himself about the issue as a cool cloth was draped over his forehead, followed by her hand running along the nape of his neck.
The next time Riley awoke after a nap of undetermined length, it was to a turn for the worse. His stomach wasn't being squeezed in an unrelenting fist this time, but the aches and discomforts from the fever were vicious. Everything hurt. His clothing sitting on his skin hurt. His eyelashes hurt when he blinked, if that was even possible.
Riley felt like his limbs were made of lead and he wished that he'd never woken up at all.
Misery radiated from his every pore, but Riley didn't know how to ask for help. Why ask for what he knew he wouldn't get?
Fevers had always been his least favorite part of enduring sickness as a kid. The delirium made him wonder if he would ever get better or if he would die there alone on an ancient mattress in that godforsaken house. If he died, would anyone even know to come for his body? Would his father have a funeral for him or just turn his back and with a good riddance?
Usually he fell back asleep in his increasingly morbid spiral of thoughts. From experience, Riley knew it was really bad if his thoughts spiralled so deep that he reached the desperate, "I want my Mom" state. At that point, during one particularly nasty case of strep, he'd repeated that over and over, tears spilling over his cheeks and into his mouth as he lay curled up, trying to glean any comfort from hugging himself. Sleep was a mercy when it finally pulled him under.
Unwittingly, a whimper turned whine ripped from Riley's throat. The fevered pain in his lower back was intense and all-consuming.
"What's the matter Ri?" His Mom's face appeared over him, brow furrowed in worry, but her voice as soft as he'd ever heard it. Before he could answer, her hand covered his forehead again, feeling like ice against his skin. She pulled it back with a worried inhale.
"Back hurts," Riley mumbled, wriggling around to try and find a position to alleviate his pain.
He barely felt the thermometer in his ear again and before he knew it, his Mom was encouraging him to sit up.
"Come on baby," she crooned, trying to permeate his misery. "Sit up and take this. It'll help you feel better Ri." He didn't want to sit up. His back hurt too terribly for that. He was too cold to remove the blankets, the mere thought sending a shiver down his bones. And even though he hadn't thrown up in a few hours, waves of nausea still crested over him, threatening to send him heaving again.
His Mom applied an encouraging pressure to his upper back, whispering to him that she knew he felt bad and she was sorry for making him feel worse. When he was sitting up, or more accurately, curled into a ball that was vertical instead of horizontal, his Mom coaxed him to open his mouth to take the pair of pills in her palm. He eyed them cautiously, along with the bottle of ginger ale, fearful that he would swallow them only to see them a few minutes later under worse circumstances.
"This will help your fever baby. Take them for me?"
It was the absolute concern and love that shone across her face convinced him that she was only trying to help. Riley took the pills and swallowed back the nausea that came with them.
"Good job Ri, you'll feel better soon baby." She pressed a kiss to the top of his head, and Riley was too sunk into his pain to care that his hair had to be far more disgusting than it had been earlier. Clearly she didn't care. He appreciated it.
As she helped him lay back down, she put a hand on his lower back, applying pressure and rubbing back and forth. He sighed. It was the only relief he'd found from the all-encompassing pain. Riley expected it to be a brief gesture, just a momentary bit of comfort offered to him. But she kept the motion going, the pressure and rhythm easing him back into a drowsy state.
Riley was almost sad that he couldn't stay awake long enough to enjoy every moment of loving, tender care.
All in all, it was mostly a 24-hour bug. The next morning, Riley's fever had broken and his nausea was just a regrettable memory.
When Riley woke up the next morning, he was confused for a few moments until he recognized that he was still in his Mom's bed. He was sweating again, but it was because of the heat from being cocooned under a heavy duvet, not because of a fever.
Fatigue still made him feel paper-thin as Riley sat himself up. The back pain that had pushed him close to tears the night before was only a vague shadow now.
Throwing back the blanket and taking two tries to stand up, Riley sat right back down on the bed, deciding it wasn't worth trying to walk anywhere yet.
He didn't know how long he sat on the edge of the bed, somehow already feeling ready for another nap, when his Mom walked in. Riley blinked back the incoming sleep, a light grin pulling his lips up without his permission.
"Are you feeling better baby?" She again checked his forehead with her palm, this time giving a soft kiss after she withdrew her hand.
Riley nodded, soaking up the affection and wanting to remember every second of it.
"Good. You still look tired Ri. Why don't you get some more sleep?" It didn't take much convincing as she guided him to lay back down, this time putting a lighter blanket over him.
This time, as Riley's body slid toward sleep, he couldn't help but think what a fool he'd been to believe that being cared for when he was sick wouldn't make a difference.
If he was still on his own, would he have survived this? Of course. Fever and vomiting were nothing he couldn't handle. Dehydration? Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. The pain would have sucked, but he would have endured. Riley could take care of himself.
But he didn't have to.
Riley didn't have to go through it alone this time. His mom had been by his side every moment she'd known he was sick. She hadn't just taken care of the things he needed, like water and medicine to reduce his fever. She'd taken care of Riley, giving him the love and tenderness he'd only dared to dream about in the most fevered delirium before unconsciousness. She'd assuaged the needs that he didn't even know he had.
So, with his Mom at his side, again rubbing comforting circles into his lap, Riley let himself go. He stopped comparing this time to the last. Because she'd caught him, even when he hadn't asked.