Page 44 of Checking It Twice
I attack her medicine cabinet like I’m conducting a tactical operation. Ibuprofen, acetaminophen, something called naproxen that sounds serious. I grab all of it, plus a thermometer—what if she has a fever? And anti-nausea medication because she threw up.
Then I remember reading something about ice packs, so I empty half the ice trays into dish towels, creating what might be the world’s most aggressive cold compress arsenal.
But what if heat is better? I grab heating pads from Mom’s arthritis stash and throw them in the microwave.
My phone buzzes:How is she?
Mom. I text back while juggling ice packs:Bad. Really bad. What do you know about migraines?
Your Aunt Linda gets them. Come find me.
I dump my medical supplies on the kitchen counter and venture onto the back porch, where I find Mom.
“Is it serious?” she asks immediately.
“I don’t know. She was on the bathroom floor. She said sometimes they last two days.”
Mom’s face softens with sympathy. “Oh, that poor girl. Your aunt swears by pressure point massage and peppermint oil. And complete darkness—you did well with the towels.”
“You saw that?”
“Honey, you were hanging towels with duct tape at seven a.m. The whole neighborhood saw that.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I just want to help.”
“I know.” She reaches over and squeezes my arm. “But sometimes the best help is just being there. Not everything needs fixing.”
“This does. She’s in pain.”
“And you can’t take that away, no matter how many ice packs you make.”
I know she’s right, but the knowledge sits wrong in my chest. I’m used to problems I can solve—opponents I can outskate, pucks I can put in the net, situations where effort and skill make a difference.
Clare’s migraine doesn’t care about my effort.
“What about peppermint oil?” I ask.
“I’ll find some. But Mitchell—” She catches my arm as I turn to go. “Don’t overwhelm her with help, okay? Sometimes people just need space too.”
I nod, but I’m already planning phase four.
Back in the kitchen, I start assembling what can only be described as a migraine survival kit: ice packs, heating pads, three different pain medications with careful dosing instructionswritten on Post-it notes, saltines in case she can keep something down later, ginger ale for nausea, and the peppermint oil Mom produced from her mysterious cabinet of home remedies.
I also grab my laptop because I’m definitely going to research this more thoroughly.
Tiptoeing back upstairs with my arsenal, I find Clare exactly where I left her, curled on her side with a pillow pressed over her head.
“I brought supplies,” I whisper.
“Supplies?” Her voice is muffled by the pillow.
I set everything on the nightstand as quietly as possible. “Ice packs for the pain, heating pads in case heat works better, different medications with timing instructions, peppermint oil—apparently that’s a thing—and ginger ale for your stomach.”
She lifts the pillow just enough to peek at the collection. “Mitch. That’s... a lot.”
“I also have saltines and more ibuprofen if the first medication doesn’t work. I was thinking maybe we should track your symptoms to identify patterns for next time—”
“Next time?”
