Page 62 of Because of Them

“Fuck,” she whispers as she pushes out of the bed. Her legs swing over the side and she takes a few deep inhales before standing. “Michael, can you go to the twenty-four-hour pharmacy around the corner? We need Hydralyte and ginger ale, get some of those glucose jelly beans too. Disinfectant spray, maybe even gloves and some facemasks. I really don’t want to get sick. I can’t get sick. Fuck, the babies. Michael?”

Aware of the vomit stuck to my arms and chest, I place my clean hand on Audrey’s shoulder and rest my forehead on her back.

“You stay in bed I’ll take care of Maisie and hopefully that way you won’t get sick. We can worry about all the other stuff in the morning.”

Maisie whimpers from the foot of the bed. “I don’t want to make mummy or the babies sick.”

“Then it’s sorted.” I kiss between Audrey’s shoulders, then climb out of the bed to help Maisie.

Audrey whispers a faint “thank you” as we head for the bathroom.

After her quick rinse and a clean pair of pyjamas, Maisie is exhausted. Her bed is still out of action, so I put her back tobed on the couch. She hasn’t vomited again, but I still lay towels underneath her and prop a bucket from the laundry beside her head.

“Maddy?” she whimpers, her eyes still closed as she snuggles against the pillows.

I sit on the floor beside her, tracing my fingers around her face. “Yeah Maisie?”

“Thank you.”

Once she falls asleep, I strip her bed, setting everything in the washing machine ready to be washed tomorrow when the noise won’t keep the house awake. I find clean sheets in the linen cupboard and go about making up her bed again. Shuffled footsteps make their way down the front hallway, and I stifle a yawn and tiptoe to stop Audrey.

Seeing me, Audrey’s mouth drops open in a yawn of her own. Her eyes are puffy and her shoulders droop underneath her dressing gown. “Is she okay?”

I hug her close, kissing her forehead. “Maisie is asleep on the couch. I changed her bed and will wash the sheets in the morning. You head back to bed.”

She hesitates, but I kiss her forehead and nudge her back towards her bedroom. She gives in easily, and I can only hope she falls back asleep without worrying.

Under the kitchen sink, I find disinfectant. My mind races as I go about spraying every surface Maisie might have touched.

Is this what my life is now?

It started with the very toned-down holiday season. Quiet family affairs that I thoroughly enjoyed but were so different to the wild celebrations of my past. We were even in bed before midnight on New Year’s Eve, content with getting a full night’s sleep over forcing ourselves to stay up until the clock ticked over.

Since then, mornings have been busier. I’ve had almost no time to do a workout session, and the few times I’ve been backto the apartment my home gym has screamed at me to be used. I could have, but I didn’twantto. I wanted to get back to Audrey. And by default, Maisie too.

My life has changed, I have changed.

And I was okay with it, really. But cleaning up a child’s vomit? It’s another level that I wasn’t expecting. And the thought of this becoming my new norm? A wave of nausea creeps through me, settling in my bones.

Not wanting to disturb Audrey, I curl up on the second couch. My knees are pulled right up to my feet to make room for my legs, and I wrap the thin throw blanket over my shoulders. Sleep never comes.

With every tiny movement or laboured sigh from the other couch, my eyes fly open, and I wait. For the second round of vomiting, and then the third. By the time the sky outside the back window is the muted orange of sunrise, I’m exhausted. Moving hurts, my stomach cramps, and my head pounds. I’m covered in a light layer of sticky sweat.

Maisie is still sleeping soundly, the towels under her scrunched up from her tossing and turning through the night. Footsteps echo up the hall.

“Stop,” I stage whisper before Audrey can get too close. “You can’t get sick.”

All my unease aside, it’s not worth the risk to Audrey and the babies.

“I’ll call Callum,” she responds, keeping her distance as she veers into the kitchen.

My insides twist, a fresh surge of nausea washing over me. “Thank you,” I call out as I rush to the bathroom.

AUDREY

Michael stands on the porch, shuffling his feet. He rubs at one arm, just below his bicep, shoulders hunched forward and face to the ground.

The morning sun leaves harsh shadows across his face, but as I open the door he looks up from his feet with half a smile. It grows the longer he looks at me, spreading until I can see the way his cheeks puff out in his silhouette.

---