“The school didn’t call,” I tell him because this is the way it’s supposed to happen. The school nurse is supposed to call and tell me my son is sick and then I go to the school and pick him up. But this isn’t what happened.
“The nurse just sent you home?” I ask, feeling cross at her for allowing a child to walk off campus in the middle of the school day, but also scared. Because the look on Otto’s face is alarming. He shouldn’t be here. Why is he here?
His reply is offhand. He takes a step into the room. “I didn’t ask,” he says. “I just left.”
“I see,” I say, feeling my feet inch backward.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks. “I told you I was sick. You don’t believe me?” It isn’t like Otto to be antagonistic with me.
Otto stares at me with his jaw clenched, chin forward. He runs his fingers through his hair, then jams them into the pockets of his jeans.
“What doesn’t feel good?” I ask, a lump forming in the pit of my stomach.
Otto moves another step closer and says, “My throat,” though his voice isn’t raspy. He doesn’t clutch a hand to his throat as one does when it hurts.
But it’s conceivable, of course. His throat could hurt. He could be telling the truth. Strep throat is going around, as is the flu.
“Your father is on his way home,” I force out, though I don’t know why.
“No, he’s not,” he says, voice chillingly composed. “Dad’s at work.”
“He canceled his classes,” I say, shambling backward. “He’s coming home. He should be here soon.”
“Why?” Otto asks as, in my subtle retreat, I bump softly into the fireplace mantel.
I lie, telling Otto that Will also didn’t feel well. “He was turning around just as soon as his ferry reached the mainland.” I glance at the clock and say, “Any minute, he should be home.”
“No, he won’t,” Otto says again. It’s irrefutable the way that he says it.
I suck in a breath, release it slowly. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“Ferries are delayed ’cause of the storm,” he tells me, thrusting that hair of his back again with a hand.
“How’d you get home?” I ask.
“Mine was the last to leave.”
“Oh,” I say, thinking of Otto and me trapped together in this house until ferry traffic resumes. How long will that take? I wonder why Will hasn’t called to tell me about the ferries, though my phone is in the other room. I wouldn’t have heard it if he did.
A gust of wind rattles the house just then, making the whole thing shake. As it does, the lamp on the end table flickers. I hold my breath, waiting for the room to go dark. There’s a meager amount of light coming through the windows, but as they fill with snow it gets harder to see. The world outside turns a charcoal gray. The dogs bark.
“Do you want me to look at your throat?” I ask Otto. When he doesn’t reply, I retrieve my penlight from my bag in the foyer and go to him. Standing beside Otto, I see how he’s surpassed me in height nearly overnight. He looks down on me now. He isn’t heavily built. Rather, he’s lanky. He smells of teenage boy: all those hormones they secrete in their sweat during puberty. But he’s handsome, the spitting image of Will, just younger and thinner.
I reach up and press my fingers to his lymph nodes. They’re enlarged. He might be sick.
“Open up,” I tell him, and though he hesitates, he complies. Otto opens his mouth. It’s lazy at best, just barely enough for me to see inside.
I shine my penlight in, seeing a red, irritated throat. I press the back of my hand to his forehead, feeling for a fever. As I do, I feel a sudden rush of nostalgia, bringing me back to a four-or a five-year-old Otto, sick as a dog with the flu. Instead of a hand, it used to be my lips, a far more accurate measure of temperature to me. One quick kiss and I could tell if my boys were febrile or not. That and the way they’d lie limp and helpless in my arms, wanting to be coddled. Those days are gone.
All at once Otto’s strong hand latches down on my wrist and I jerk immediately back.
His grasp is strong. I can’t free myself from his hold.
The penlight drops from my hand, batteries skidding across the floor.
“What are you doing, Otto? Let go of me,” I cry out, trying desperately to wiggle free from his grasp. “You’re hurting me,” I tell him. His grip is tight.
I look up to find his eyes watching me. They’re more brown than blue today, more sad than mad. Otto speaks, his words nothing more than a whisper. “I’ll never forgive you,” he says, and I stop fighting.
