Page 32 of Not Part of the Plan
“Just let me die in humiliated peace,” she begged.
“Not gonna happen,” he told her. Niko released her hair and took the washcloth from its hook. He ran it under cold water and wrung it out before placing it on the back of her neck. “We need to get you back in bed.”
“Don’t wanna throw up in bed.” Her voice was muffled, raspy.
“I’ll get you something to throw up in. You can’t lay here on the floor.” And with that, he gently scooped her up in his arms.
“Am I fighting you off? In my head, I’m fighting you, and you’re putting me down.”
“How high do you think that fever is?” he asked.
“I’ve never been more humiliated in my entire life, and I once fell down a flight of stairs carrying a tray of entrees. I smelled like veal marsala for the rest of the night.”
Her skin was clammy. The oversized t-shirt she wore was soaked with sweat, and post vomit-shivers were wracking her body.
“I think you’ll recover from your humiliation.” He placed her carefully on the bed, and as she collapsed back against the impractical mound of pillows, he opened drawers of her dresser until he found a sweatshirt and leggings. “Here. Can you put these on?”
“Stop trying to see me naked,” she groaned, teeth chattering.
“Baby, strip now, or I’ll strip you,” he said, turning his back to her.
Emma muttered and shivered her way through the clothing change while he examined her bedroom. Like downstairs, everything was organized and in its place. The room itself was plain with white washed plank walls and the light pine flooring. Long sheer curtains—white again—flanked the window and would billow nicely in the breeze if the glass was open. The bed, curvy yet quaint with its wrought iron frame, was topped with a thick, flowered comforter in reds, yellows, blues, and greens.
Red throw pillows and a red and yellow rug gave the room a cheery, feminine feel.
“Okay, sadist,” Emma croaked from the bed.
He turned to find her huddled under the comforter, her t-shirt discarded on the floor. “Good girl.” He lay a hand on her forehead and felt the heat pumping off of her. “I’m going to run downstairs and bring you some tea. Do you want anything else? Any toast? Soup?”
Her pallor went from white to green. “No, thank you. You can go,” she told him, trying to dismiss him again. “I prefer to suffer in solitude.”
“I’ll just unload downstairs,” he lied.
In the kitchen, he found a cleaning bucket under the sink and lined it with doubled up plastic bags. Niko jogged back upstairs and stopped in the bathroom to wet a fresh washcloth. Back in Emma’s bedroom he put the washcloth on her head and slipped the thermometer he’d found in the medicine cabinet between her lips.
“I thought I told you to go away,” she mumbled.
“Quiet,” he told her. “If you have to puke, puke in that,” he said, pointing at the bucket on the floor. While he waited for the thermometer to beep, he crossed the room and opened the window. Instantly the room felt less stuffy.
“What are you doing?”
“Julia and Rob said their kids had this last week. They said to get fresh air into the house so you don’t marinate in the germs.”
The thermometer beeped and Niko looked at the read out.
“Am I dying?” Emma murmured, eyes closed.
One hundred and three degrees. “Well, let’s just say you’re not going to work today.”
Her response was a pained “ugh.”
“Just get some rest for now and let the fever cook those germs.”
She was too exhausted to respond.
Niko went back downstairs and, after texting Gia to let her know her sister was mostly alive, unloaded the shopping bags. Stashing supplies wherever he could find space in the refrigerator and cabinets, he opened the windows on the first floor and hoped that the sunshine and fresh air would murder the germs. He was organizing a tray when he heard the toilet flush upstairs.
“Emma?” He knocked on the bathroom door.
