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Fuck. Of course, on the one day he and Emma had off together in the last two months, he came down with the flu. He had known the second he woke up with sweat clinging to his back, sticking the sheets underneath him to the skin of his back, and the gravelly pain of his throat, unable to swallow properly.
With the back of his hand, he swiped at his forehead, feebly trying to wipe as much sweat off his brow while trying to gauge his fever. Unfortunately for him, he definitely had a fever.
Beside him, Emma shifted, turning her face towards him. “Morning,” she mumbled as she rubbed her eyes. “You okay? You look kinda pale.”
Not wanting to contaminate her, he sat up on the bed with a grunt (don’t judge, he’s just old and his back is killing him) and sighed, “Sorry, hon. I don’t think we can go out today. I’m feeling a bit sick.”
Immediately, Emma sat up and raised her palm to his forehead. “Yup, that’s a fever,” she quipped. “Don’t worry, babe, I don’t mind caring for you today,” she replied with a small smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sick yet. Want any chicken noodle soup? I know the family recipe.”
“That’d be perfect. Can I be of any help?” he asked, shifting to stand up from the bed. He was met with a small shove back onto the bed.
“Get back in bed. You’re on bedrest for the rest of the day—you literally look like you’ll pass out from just standing,” she chided as she playfully pinched his cheek. “I’ll get you some breakfast in bed, and I better see you in bed by the time I come back. Unless you have to pee. Do you have to pee?”
“Uh, kinda?” He hadn’t taken his morning pee yet. With a sigh, she walked over to his side of the bed and held her hand out, helping him up. “Okay, I can walk on my own, I’m not a baby.”
“Yes you are. My baby shark,” and she began singing the dreaded tune of Baby Shark as they walked over to the bathroom. All he could do was chuckle.
…
Back in his bed, after cleaning himself up, he felt a little bit better. Still like shit, but not as horrible. And as if his mind couldn’t give him a break, he was slammed with a memory from decades ago.
He was in his bed with a cool washcloth on his head. “Brendon, how are you feeling?” his mother’s soft voice asked. Looking up into her eyes, he let out a sigh. He could feel the bed dip as his mother sat next to him, feeling his forehead.
Caressing his face, she wrapped her arms around him, patting his back. “I know you feel bad, sweetie. I’ll go make some soup for you.” He could only melt in her embrace.
The lengths he’d go to feel that warm embrace only one more time. God, he hated being sick. Now his heart was all mushy gushy, and he had actual tears in his eyes. When was the last time he’d cried? Probably his mother’s funeral.
He sucked in a breath, realizing that it was starting to become harder to breathe. His heart thudded loudly against his temples as his hands began to tremble. He could feel his fingers start to tingle as every sound washed out—only a sharp ringing remained. Squeezing his eyes shut, he desperately tried thinking of anything else, but his brain remained blank.
This only pushed a strained sob out of him, tears running down his face as they pooled onto his shirt. With a shudder, he tried swallowing the next sob to no avail. It only caused pain to bloom in his throat, further watering his eyes.
“-don? Brendon? Hey,” a soft voice penetrated the ringing in his ears, followed by a small hand rubbing circles across his back. “Breathe with me. In” he sucked in as much air as he could. “Out,” he tried to exhale, but his breath caught on his sensitive throat, causing a flurry of coughs to rack his already sore body.
All the while, her hands never left.
Once the coughs died down, he took in another shuddery breath as Emma held a warm glass of water to his mouth. “Take a sip of water, your throat must be parched.” Grabbing the glass, he took large gulps of water.
“Where’d you go?” she asked while continuously drawing circles on his back.
“It was nothing,” he quickly replied. “It’s stupid.”
“Uh-uh, we are not belittling our problems.” Sitting in front of him, she took his hands, saying, “Look. I want to care for you. You’ve already done so much for me. Why don’t you let me in that secluded world of yours?” She lifted her hand to pat down the stray hairs on his head.
He sighed in surrender. “Fine. I just,” he took a pause. God, this is so embarrassing. “I missed my mom.” He couldn’t help but cover his face with his hands, turning even redder than he already was from embarrassment.
Small but surprisingly strong fingers pried his hands off his face, revealing the face he had grown to love so much. “That’s okay, Bren. I might not have met your mother, but I can tell how much she meant to you. I miss my mom so much, too,” she replied.
With a faint smile, he commented, “You know, you kind of remind me of her.”
“Really?” Those comically large, brown eyes glimmered in surprise. He could stare into them all day. “Tell me about her. I want to know about someone you loved so much. But let’s eat while we do that,” she said while grabbing the bowl of soup she had brought.
“Okay.” In between spoonfuls of soup, he told her of his mother’s “sick” soup, her calloused but soft hands that caressed his face every night while she whispered a prayer, the faint floral perfume she sprayed on every morning that clung to all surfaces of her room, the conversations they shared underneath the big oak tree to pass the summer afternoon, her unwavering determination in packing him lunch everyday despite her thinning arms and balding head.
…
As he finished the last of the soup, Emma placed the bowl on the nearby nightstand. “You’re still a little hot,” she said as she reached for the washcloth she had prepared. Folding it into a rectangle, she fluffed a few pillows and forced him to lie back down.
The cool touch of the washcloth brought back memories of his mother, but this time he smiled, “My mom used to do the same thing. How can you two be so similar?”
“What can I say? We both love you so much,” she replied. “She would be so proud of you if she saw you,” she whispered as she massaged his tense shoulder muscles.
“I think she would’ve loved you if she met you.”
“Can I?” With some hesitancy, she continued, “I know you visit her every month, but if you’re okay with it, I’d love to come with?”
“Really? Are you sure? Most of the time, I just sit and talk to her gravestone.”
“Yes, really. I want to show her that she doesn’t have to worry about you. I’ll show her how loved you are,” she said with a smile, moving to his side to embrace him.
“I’d really love that,” he said, carding his fingers through her soft hair.