Letters to Nowhere(38)

Coach Bentley made me drink a cup of blue Gatorade. I avoided telling him that Stacey wouldn’t approve and swallowed another three Advil before falling back to sleep.

I didn’t wake up again until around two thirty, when Jordan came home from school. My eyes were half open, but I watched him drag his feet slowly across the living room, coughing into his sleeve.

“Uh oh,” I muttered. “You’re sick, aren’t you?”

“It appears that way.” He stumbled toward me and next thing I knew, he was lifting me under my arms off the couch. “Shortest sick person takes the short side.”

I snatched the pillow and walked three agonizing steps before falling onto the cold side of the L–shaped couch. “Just don’t stick your feet in my face.”

He reached for the ear thermometer on the coffee table and held it in his ear for a few seconds before glancing at it. “One oh three point five. I’m dying, right? It feels like I’m dying.”

“Join the club.” I closed my eyes again and barely listened in on Coach Bentley talking to Jordan, giving him Advil and Gatorade, probably.


February 16

Dad,




In the book Grandma gave me, the author says, “Death is but a transition from this life to another existence where there is no more pain or anguish.” To me, that sounds like something a very selfish person would say to convince themselves that it’s okay to be happy after you lose someone. Unless I have proof of this other existence, then I can’t believe you and Mom have gone anywhere and the only thing I should be doing is pretending it never happened. Why are people so full of crap when it comes to death? Why can’t anyone give me a straight answer?




Love, Karen




Jordan,




Hasn’t anyone ever told you that when you wear tennis shoes without socks, your shoes get really stinky?




—Karen



***

The twenty–four hours following Jordan coming home sick were a blur of sleeping, TV, listening to Jordan barf in the downstairs bathroom, the beep of the thermometer, and the letters dictating themselves in my head.

When I opened my eyes, late morning on Wednesday, the footsteps creaking around the house were lighter and different from the sound of Coach Bentley’s feet. I had already memorized his walking noises. Jordan was asleep on the long part of the couch, still in his school clothes from yesterday. I tapped the bottom of his foot and he lifted his head a few inches. “Huh?”

“Someone’s here,” I whispered. “Not your dad.”

“There’s a baseball bat in the closet by the front door.” He rolled on his side, tugging his blanket up to his neck and closing his eyes again. “What’s your temperature?”

In the few hours he and I had been awake, we fought over the TV and finally came to an agreement that whoever had the highest fever got to pick the show. I was pretty sure he skipped a dose of Advil just to be able to watch Pawn Stars last night.

“One oh two point seven.” I handed the thermometer over to him.

He barely had the strength to reach down and take it from my hands, let alone hold it to his ear. “One oh four point three. I win.”

“Hey, you’re awake.”

I lifted my head again and saw Stacey standing near the door to the kitchen. My head fell back against the pillow. “Good news, Jordan, we won’t need the baseball bat.”

He was already snoring softly, the stuffiness in his nose preventing him from breathing clearly.

“How are you feeling?” Stacey asked.

I tried to pull myself to a sitting position. This was Stacey, my coach, who wanted me to be tough and show no fear or weakness. No whining allowed in gymnastics. “I’m okay…”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Coach Bentley had to go in and get some work done. I told him I’d look after you guys. Olivia’s spending the day with Grandma.”

I was suddenly aware of the grunginess of my appearance—same pajamas for nearly two days, sweaty, matted–down, unwashed hair and un–brushed teeth. I attempted to slide sideways off the couch. “I really need to shower.”

“I’ll help you,” she said.

“No, I’ll be fine.”

Stacey rolled her eyes at me. “You’re not fine, Karen. And if you fall down the stairs or hit your head on the bathtub, I’ll be the one answering to Nina Jones and the National Team Committee. Not to mention Coach Bentley, who was more than reluctant to leave you guys today.”

I didn’t argue anymore. Not if she was okay with me asking for help. Stacey led me upstairs, turned on the bathwater, and poured in some of my new body wash, causing it to fill with bubbles. I got undressed and slid in. It felt like heaven. Like floating on clouds. Never had I appreciated hot water more than today. She left the door to the bathroom open while she wandered into my room looking for clothes. Hopefully, Jordan wouldn’t figure out a way to get off the couch and then come stumbling in here to pee.

“Looks like you need some laundry done,” Stacey said from my room.

After she started a load of laundry, she brought me clean clothes—flannel pants, a baggy T–shirt, and my favorite fuzzy socks. I sat on the toilet seat brushing my teeth while Stacey combed the tangles out of my wet hair.