Page 43 of Checking It Twice
Crisis Management
Mitchell
I’m going to fix this.
I don’t know how yet, but Clare is lying in my childhood bed, looking like she’s been hit by a truck. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to DO something. To fix it. Make it better. Solve the problem.
The fact that migraines aren’t actually fixable is irrelevant.
First step: intelligence gathering.
I grab my phone and Google “migraine relief” while Clare dozes fitfully beside me, one arm thrown over her eyes to block out even the dim light filtering through the curtains. The search results are overwhelming—ice packs, heat packs, pressure points, essential oils, dietary changes, and medications.
My phone buzzes with a text from Mom:Pancakes in 20 minutes!
Panic shoots through me. Pancakes mean family breakfast, which means loud conversation and kids running around everywhere asking where Clare is, and Mom probably trying to force pancakes on her.
I text back:Clare’s sick. Migraine. She needs quiet.
The response is immediate:Oh no! What can I do?
This is why I love my mother.
Keep everyone downstairs. She needs dark and quiet.
Of course. Bringing you both breakfast on trays.
NO.I type frantically.No food. She threw up. Maybe later.
Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. Finally:Poor thing. I’ll make sure the house stays quiet.
Problem solved. Sort of.
I look back at Clare, who’s barely moved in the past ten minutes except to press her palm harder against her forehead. The sight of her in pain causes an uncomfortable twist in my chest.
Phase two: environment optimization.
I pad around the room in my bare feet, unplugging the digital clock because even that tiny red glow feels too bright. I push the curtains together more tightly, eliminating the thin strip of morning light sneaking through. Better, but not perfect.
“Too bright still?” I whisper.
“It’s okay,” she mumbles, but I catch the way she winces when I shift on the bed.
It’s not okay. Nothing about this is okay.
I grab every towel from the bathroom and start hanging them over the curtain rod, creating what I can only describe as a textile blackout situation. Then I remember the duct tape in Dad’s toolbox and use it to seal the edges where light might sneak through.
“Mitch,” Clare says weakly. “What are you doing?”
“Making it darker. Light makes it worse, right? I’m eliminating the light.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m not done yet.”
Because I’ve moved on to phase three: medical intervention.
I creep downstairs as quietly as possible, though the wooden steps seem determined to announce my presence with every creak. The kitchen is mercifully empty—Mom must have taken the troops outside to give us space.
