Everything looks normal, my heart rate only slightly elevated. I frown, wondering how I can be so sick with decent vitals. I tap the button to take a second reading. The numbers come out essentially the same. I fall back asleep before Wyatt returns, but wake a couple of hours later to find breakfast left on my nightstand, the tea cold, a heart-shaped dollop of strawberry jam congealed on the toast.
The following day begins much the same way. Shocked awake by a cold sweat and impossible-to-ignore nausea. Throwing up so hard a few tiny blood vessels break around my eyes.
Wyatt and I go through the routine again. Back to bed, I’ll get you tea and dry toast, but this time he adds, Think you should make an appointment?
No. I’m fine. The virus working its way through, I’m sure I’ll be better tomorrow. Begrudgingly staying in my pajamas, in bed, trying desperately to keep the toast and tea down. Thank goodness forShelby, who takes over, helping Clementine before and after school, handling meal preparation, the house tidying. The tedious daily tasks that must be done but that bring no gold star upon completion.
There’s never a good time to get sick, but I’m on the cusp of some exciting revelations with the Leclerc. I’ve recently finished cleaning the bottom half of the painting, and the composition is finally coming through. The subject appears to be female: curved hip, pinched-in waist, a soft pouch of belly below the navel. She’s nude from what I can tell so far, though it’s still early days. The thought of not being able to work on it again today makes me antsy. However, no one else needs this stomach bug.
After the third morning of this routine—waking up and throwing up—Wyatt insists I make a doctor’s appointment.
“But I’m mostly fine,” I protest, flushing the toilet. And I (mostly) am, minus the nausea. My temperature, heart rate, oxygen levels, have all stayed steady and normal.
Wyatt raises an eyebrow, one half of his face still covered in shaving cream, the other side smooth and bare.
“Projectile vomiting at six thirty in the morning shouldn’t be called ‘fine,’ Tilly,” he says, going back to shaving the other side of his face once he’s sure I’m okay. He tugs the skin taut, and his tongue presses into the side of his cheek, helping to direct the blade neatly over his skin.
I sit on the now-closed toilet lid, waiting for him to finish with the sink so I can brush my teeth. My mouth tastes bitter, and there’s a cloying thickness at the back of my throat.
“Make an appointment,” Wyatt says, tapping his razor against the side of the sink to release the foam and fine hairs. The metallic clang echoes in our bathroom. He catches my eyes in the mirror. “Today.”
With a grumble that I will, I head back to bed. Sliding on my watch, I check my health stats again; it gives three short beeps announcing the data.
“What does it say?” Wyatt calls out.
“Normal.” I should be glad, but I’m frustrated. I sigh. “Everything is normal.”
As I say it, I realize whatisn’tnormal.
My watch. It hasn’t buzzed me in days. Wait…it hasn’t buzzed me in a couple of weeks, now that I think about it. How am I only noticing this now?
“I think something’s wrong with my watch.”
Frowning, I touch the watch face, scrolling through the menu. The notifications icon has a slash through it. “Oh, for the love of all things,” I mutter, tapping the icon to turn the notifications on.
“What’s wrong?” Wyatt asks, coming into the bedroom, wiping a towel across his chin and cheeks.
“I can’t believe it,” I say. “I turned off my notifications. When I was working. I didn’t want the distraction, but I forgot to turn them back on.”
A moment later my watch starts buzzing. Notification after notification loads onto the screen. My eyes scan the list, starting from the oldest to the most recent.
Time for breath work, Tilly?
Your heart rate is slightly above normal range. Time for breath work, Tilly?
Your basal temperature is elevated. How are you feeling?
You hit your sleep goal again. Well done!
Your resting heart rate is higher than normal. Time for breath work, Tilly?
And then…
Your period is due in 24 hours, Tilly.
Your period is 1 day late. Tap to record your period.
Your period is 2 days late. Tap to record your period.
