Page 89 of Even After This
A loud thud calls me to action. I clutch the doorknob and press my forehead to the door. “Harlan?”
A grunt is the only reply.
“I’m coming in.” I crack the door open and peek in. The pitiful picture of Harlan in the fetal position, shaking, is more than I can bear. “Oh, honey.”
His arm is extended toward the side table, and I glance down and notice his phone on the floor.
Kneeling by the edge of the bed, I place the back of my hand on his forehead. My opposite palm finds his sheets drenched in sweat. He is sweating out a fierce fever.
Harlan shudders. “I may not be up for taking you out tonight, sweetheart.”
At least I think that’s what he said. The intermittent shakes break up his words.
I scratch my head. “I think you caught the flu. This year’s strand is supposed to include super high fevers.” Vomiting is also on the list, but I can’t bring myself to mention this. “I’ll find you a MinuteClinic. But at some point, I need tomorrow’s flight information. No way are you going to be able to travel.”
“Trying to get me to stay longer, are you?” This might sound cute if he wasn’t coughing up a lung.
“You’re the one who got sick. If you wanted to stay longer, you could have just asked.” I bend over, pick up his phone, and place it on the side table. “Okay, let’s nail down the logistics. Where is your itinerary?”
Harlan’s teeth chatter. “Call Penelope. She’ll know what to do. Do you still have her number?”
Penelope is handy. I need a Penelope.
I pull my phone out of my back jeans pocket and shake it. “I’ve still got her number. I’ll be back in a minute, honey.” I run a hand through his damp hair before I step out of the room.
Rushing into the kitchen, I throw my phone down on the counter. After scrubbing and drying my hands, I pull antibacterial wipes out of their container and proceed to clean my cell with the meticulous detail of a surgeon. Satisfied with my decontamination process, I thumb through my contact list and hit Penelope’s number.
Just as she answers the call, I catch the uneven pounding of feet through the hallway, followed by the most horrific sounds.
“Penelope.” My breathing becomes labored as my frantic eyes dart around the room.
“Who am I speaking with?” The curt words cut through the line.
“Penelope.” I grasp my chest and pull in a choppy breath through my nose. “It’s Meredith.”
“Is Harlan with you? He’s supposed to be in Dallas until tomorrow.”
I claw at a drawer, pry it open, and grab a paper bag. I shove the phone between my shoulder and bent neck and give words to my biggest nightmare. “He’s throwing up.”
“Harlan’s throwing up? Well, that kind of thing happens, Meredith.”
Her reply gives me a chance to shake the bag loose and fix the opening around my mouth. I inhale and exhale three breaths. “Not in my house,” I say into the paper.
“I’m not surprised. The flu spread through the cast the last few weeks of shooting. High fever? Coughing? Vomiting?”
“Don’t.” The bag expands. “Say.” The bag contracts. “The V-word.”
“I’ll contact the on-set doctor to call in prescriptions for him. Can you text me your local pharmacy number, or do you want me to look it up?”
More gagging noises fill the house, and before my knees give out, I sit at the breakfast nook. Phone still cradled to my shoulder, one hand on the lifeline bag and the other covering my head, I start rocking back and forth.
“Meredith? Should I figure out how to get a sedative ordered for you?” Her offer might sound comical, but her voice is no-nonsense.
“I prefer Xanax and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.” Obscene amounts of the latter.
The bag crinkles with my inhale. My phone alerts me to an incoming call, and I glance at the screen.
Prissy.
