Page 39 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
I lay my head on his leg. “I’ll still think it’s hot when you’re ninety.”
He bends to kiss my head again, and I turn to give him a proper kiss and …
He catches me as I sway.
“Casey?”
“I … It’ll pass. It has to, right?” I manage a wan smile. “Can’t get sick in the middle of a missing-child search. I’m sure it’s just exhaustion.”
We don’t get much in the way of viruses here. That’s one advantage to being in a closed environment, although it does mean that when a new resident carries in the flu or a cold, it seems to circulate endlessly.
I continue, “Maybe I’ll just have toast and coffee for breakfast. Or even tea.”
“Let me brew some tea.” He starts to rise and then pauses. “You sure you’ll be okay while I’m downstairs?”
“You’re fifty feet away, Eric. At worst, I can moan for help.”
He squeezes my arm and then rises. I lie there a minute, making faces at my own weakness. That’s another thing about living virtually virus-free—any illness feels like a personal failing.
I hope it’s not food poisoning. We’re so careful, but in a new town, it’s more likely to happen, as we bring our safety protocols up to speed. I start leafing through my menu from yesterday, only to realize it was mostly prepackaged bars, eaten on the run.
Exhaustion then.
I rise. There, not so bad. Get to my feet—
The smell of coffee wafts up, and my stomach lurches, and I nearly double over. I run to the bathroom and make it to the toilet just in time.
When I finish, I push to my feet and look in the mirror, which is a really bad idea. I’d like to think I’m not vain—my parents hammered in the idea that their daughters’ pretty faces would only give others an excuse to dismiss our intelligence. But I still have an ego, and when I see myself in the mirror, I’m surprised Dalton didn’t back away slowly and call for an exorcist.
Looking green is an understatement. I could play the Wicked Witch of the East after the house fell on her. My skin is gray and splotchy, and my eyes are dark holes.
I look like shit.
I feel like shit.
What the hell is wrong …
I see a partly open cupboard door, and through it, my box of tampons. A box I haven’t had to use.
Oh no.
You knew you were late.
Yes, but …
But I’d told myself it was no big deal because “being late” was the only symptom I had.
Not anymore.
* * *
I’m knocking on April’s door. I managed to hold it together enough for Dalton not to realize how sick I am—apparently, I vomit quietly. I’d asked for my tea and toast to-go and said I wanted to pop by the clinic for an antinauseant. He’d offered to come with me, but I’d asked him to take Storm for her morning walk instead.
When April finally opens the back door, she says, “Why are you knocking? The front door is—”
Then she stops and pushes the door wide to usher me inside. “You’re sick,” she says, and there’s a note of accusation in her voice, as if I’ve gotten ill just to annoy her. I know that accusation is because I didn’t come sooner, and so I don’t take offense the way I would have at one time.
My sister has some neurodivergence that puts her on the autism scale. It manifests in ways that aren’t uncommon for people like her. They’re also the sort of behavioral quirks that others expect from a brilliant and driven neurosurgeon. She’s exacting and brutally honest and ruthlessly analytical and can seem cold and unfeeling. She’s far from unfeeling—she feels very deeply and just doesn’t express it in the usual ways. That makes it easy to misunderstand her. If you think someone’s cold and uncaring, then you’ll interpret their annoyance as a sign you’ve disturbed them rather than a sign of concern.
