Page 43 of Ghosts Don't Cry
“Had worse.” The room won’t stop spinning. Everything is tilting, but I have to make her understand. “Just need to?—”
Her hands catch me as I lurch to my feet. I try to pull away, but my body isn’t working right. It won’t do what I tell it.
“Stop fighting me.” Her voice sounds far away. “Ronan, please. Let me help you.”
“Can’t miss school.” The words slip out from between chattering teeth. “Only place that makes sense. Only thing I’ve got.”
Her hand touches my face again. I try to move away, but everything hurts too much.
“I know.” Her voice breaks slightly. “I know school matters to you. But right now, you need to let me take care of this. Okay? Can you do that?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. There’s silence for a long time. I’m not sure if she’s still here or gone, or maybe just a fever dream. But then rustling reaches my ears. Movement. And something hot touches my lips. The smell cuts through the fog in my head. Chicken broth?
“Here. Just a sip. Please, Ronan.”
“No.” But my throat is raw, burning with every breath, and I’m so cold my bones ache with it.
“It’s just broth. It’ll help.” Her voice is patient, coaxing. “Small sips. That’s all. I’ve got you.”
The cup touches my lips again. The heat of it alone makes something in my chest loosen. I take a sip, barely more than a swallow. The liquid burns going down, but it’s a good burn. Different from the fever. It soothes the broken glass feeling in my throat, and spreads warmth through my chest.
Her hand supports the back of my neck when my own strength fails, keeping my head tilted just enough to drink without choking. The gesture is so gentle it makes my eyes sting.
“That’s good. You’re doing good.” She helps me take another sip. Then another. “Just a little more.”
“Mom used to …” The words slip out before I can stop them. “When I was sick. She’d make tea with honey. Before?—”
Don’t. Don’t tell her things. Don’t let her in.
But the memory is already there, impossible to ignore. Mom’s hand on my forehead, checking for fever. Her voice humming something soft while she waited for the water to heat. Back when she was stillMom, before the pills turned her into someone else.
Something soft and warm settles over me. A blanket. Arealblanket, thick and heavy, not like the threadbare thing I currently use. The weight of it pins me down in a way that should feel claustrophobic, but doesn’t. It’s warm.So warm.
She tucks it around my shoulders, then down my sides.
“It’s just us against the world, baby.”Mom’s voice echoes from years ago. Before the pills. Before Rick. Before the needles. When she still tucked me in at night and meant it.
“You need medicine.” The girl’s voice pulls me back.
“No pills.” My gaze focuses on her palm, and the little white tablets there make my stomach turn. “Saw what they did … made her forget …” The words turn into another coughing fit.
“It’s just Tylenol.” Her voice is so gentle it hurts. “For the fever. Nothing else, I promise.”
I want to fight more. I want to make her leave, push her away before this costs me something else I can’t afford. But everything is going dark at the edges, and I’m so tired.
So tired of being cold.
So tired of fighting.
“Why are you here?”
She’s quiet for a moment. When she speaks, her voice is thick. “Because you weren’t at school. Because I … I was worried about you.”
“Nobody worries.” The fever strips away the walls I’ve built, and makes the truth too easy to share. “Nobody sees anything. And nobody cares. Just gotta … I need to?—”
“I see you.”
Three words. That’s all. But they hit hard.
