Jacqueline Druga - The Flu

“What’s the matter?” Lars asked.

“Him.” Henry pointed to Mick. “Chief Owens.”

“What about him?”

“Okay, I think I can pretty much call myself an expert about this flu. From what I learned, healthcare workers immediately came down with the flu within forty-eight hours of initially starting to help. Unprotected workers got hit with a vengeance. So…” He looked at Lars. “If that’s the case, if those are the facts, why is that man not down and out?”

“I don’t know.” Lars answered with a hard look at Mick. “But you know what?” He started to walk away from Henry. “I’m gonna find out.”

Tom had to admit he was tired and worn. His chest was hurting from the coughing and his throat was sore from forcing out the phlegm that always got stuck there. He could have probably just fallen fast asleep, but there was always something about the movie The Green Berets . No matter how many times he had seen it before, he could never turn away before watching the entire movie.

End music playing, touched once again by John Wayne’s heroism, Tom lifted the remote and flicked off the set. The silence of the room was broken with the crash of glass. Quickly he jolted his head toward the sound that seemed rather close. “Marian?” he called out. “Marian, you break something?”

He waited for a response and didn’t receive one. Figuring he wasn’t projecting his voice, he tried again. “Marian!” He coughed from the strain and grew worried at the silence.

Lifting the covers off his body, Tom slowly climbed out of bed. The room spun for a second from the lack of circulation. After catching his balance, Tom used the bed and other furniture for support and made his way across the bedroom.

He called the entire route. His ability to stand up straight was nil, and his hand stayed on the wall the length of the corridor. Just as he got to the top of the staircase and readied to descend, he froze.

Thinking that he saw wrong and hoping it was a trick his eyes played on him, Tom slowly looked behind him to the bathroom.

Feet. Marian’s feet.

Seeing this gave Tom an immediate infusion of strength. He spun around and flew into the bathroom.

Had he been wearing his bedroom slippers, at the force he ran inside, he probably would have fallen. His bare feet splashed in the puddle of water that splattered across the linoleum where Marian lay, unresponsive, unmoving. He knew she was still alive because he heard her breathing, and that wasn’t a good sign. When he dropped to his knees to aid his wife, he noticed the thin trickle of blood that flowed like a stream through the spilled water. Tom’s horror multiplied; not only did he hear the rumbling of congestion emanate from Marian’s chest, it was coupled with the sight of blood that completely encircled Marian’s head.

The shelves were empty, the products were removed, but the big white sink was the giveaway that it was, at one time, a broom closet. While Kurt took the time to x-ray Marian, Lars took the time to create a private space for her. He cleaned out the closet with the help of Mick, moved a hospital bed in there, and designated it Marian’s room.

She couldn’t be at home, Lars knew that. It was too far for him to constantly be going over to check on her. They had one doctor in the hospital who was fortunate enough to be showing immunity to the flu.

Marian needed to be watched. Tom couldn’t do it, despite how insistently he argued with Lars. Lars ordered twenty-four more hours of rest.

“Tom,” Lars said as he stepped into the very small room, “I told you earlier to go home.”

“You said rest. I’m resting. Aren’t I sitting in this chair?”

“Yeah, go on,” Lars said with sarcasm. “You sit in that chair. You rest, then you have a heart attack when the fluid squeezes the hell out of your heart and suffocates it. Because it’s not the pneumonia, congestive heart failure is what is killing those who don’t pass on from septicemia.”

“I always hated you.” Tom held Marian’s hand.

“No, you did not. You were just jealous…” Lars pulled up a chair. “Because I was her first.”

“First what?” Tom asked.

“First love,” Lars exhaled.

Tom laughed. “Oh, shut up, Lars. You know that she felt sorry for your pathetic skinny ass because you were this young kid in college, the brainiac who everyone picked on. Delusional then, delusional now.”

“Yes, well… no one knows that. Tom… we agreed,” Lars said, “I put that awning on the video store, you never tell anyone the truth about my one true love.”

“Stalker,” Tom snickered. “Anyhow, deliver it to me, Lars. I have a good feeling.”

“As well you should.” Lars explained. “That’s why I want you to go home. Nine stitches, a concussion, and the flu.” He whistled. “But you’re lucky. She’s been symptomatic for at least a day. A day, twenty-four hours. If she was septic, she would die. She’s not septic.”

The appropriate reaction would be to show his relief, but Tom didn’t feel the need to outwardly acknowledge it. Long before Lars had said anything, he knew that Marian would be fine. He’d been married to her too long, and was too in tune with his wife, not to be that sure.

Though his complete exhaustion caused his body to sink into the bed, Mick didn’t sleep. Even with his clothes on, he just enjoyed lying there on his back with Dylan in his arms.

Just a moment or two stolen in the quiet of the evening, before Mick began round fifty.

“And she’s gonna be fine,” Mick told Dylan.

“I know. Lars told me,” Dylan spoke as if her thoughts were focused elsewhere.

“Nine stitches in her head.” He received a relaxed ‘a-hmm’ from her. “Dylan… quit that.”

“What?” She lifted her eyes to him. “I just find it curious how your nipples get so hard through your tee shirt for no reason.”

“It isn’t for no reason, you keep rubbing them to make them that way. Now stop.” He lifted her left hand from his chest. His eyes caught a glimpse of the wedding band and he smiled. He rolled her fingers around his hand and kissed them. “Have I told you lately how happy I am you married me?”

“You tell me every day.”

“That’s because I am.” Mick kissed her then lifted his eyebrows at the double knock on the wall behind his head. He grumbled, “Chris is most definitely feeling better.”

Dylan smiled. “He should be sleeping.”

“I’m not tired,” Chris’ voice carried through the wall.

Mick shook his head. “At least Dustin and Tigger are out.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I would suggest… you know. But…” he motioned his head toward the wall.

Dylan laughed.

Chris pounded on the wall.

Chuckling, Dylan snuggled closer to Mick. “We should sleep. Both of us. Just like this.”

“Want to?” Mick asked.

From the other side of the wall, Chris replied. “Please. I need quiet.”

Mick lifted his arm and banged once. “Go to sleep.” Arm still out, he reached to the night stand and grabbed the alarm clock. He started to set it. “I’ll get up in an hour, check the boys, then crash for the other two. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds good.” Dylan reached down for the blanket and covered them, then snuggled up close to Mick. Her hand rested on his chest.

“Don’t play with my nipple,” Mick joked.

Chris gave a pound. “That’s gross.”

Smiling, Mick looked down at Dylan. “You didn’t say anything about what Lars told me.”

“I’m glad.” Dylan nodded. “Very. But it doesn’t seem quite fair.”

“I blame it on the swine flu when I was four.”