I can’t remember.
Were I able to remember, I don’t believe I’d want to talk about it either.
Am I eating cotton balls, or is there some other ailment of my mouth that requires a doctor’s attention?
“Dad! Dad! Dad, there’s a carnival today.” The earth shakes around me, and the dynamite in my stomach threatens to explode.
“Will you take us? We were angels for Mum. We deserve to go to the carnival.”
“Bet they have funnel cake.”
“And lemon shake-ups.”
“And fried Oreos.”
“And burgers.”
“And cotton candy.”
“And fried fish.”
I groan and clutch at my head.
If I clutched my stomach, I fear it would revolt.
“Boys. Off your father’s bed,” Lana says.
“But we missed him, Mum.”
“Not that we didn’t love being with you.”
“Of course not.”
“We just missed him too.”
“You won’t miss him much longer if he pukes on you.” Lana’s cheerful voice reminds me of another reason I never married her.
She’s evil when I’m ill.
“Is it already eleven?” I whimper.
“It’s eleven-thirty,” one of the boys reports.
The ice pick picking at my skull hammers harder as my children climb off the bed. The sudden stillness makes me feel as wretched as the bouncing initially did, and I take several deep breaths to keep from losing the contents of my stomach.
This is bad indeed if I’m this close to vomiting.
I never vomit.
“We’re hungry,” Charlie says.
“And there’s a carnival,” Eddie says.
“With food.”
“To feed us.”
“We’re starving, actually.”
