Whispering Walls
Hildy
Istand in the hallway, my shoulder pressed to the wall, legs still feel unreliable, like they belong to someone else, but the dizziness has finally eased. When I checked an hour ago, the thermometer blinked back at me with a number that was mercifully lower than the steady 101.4 that its been now for two days.
No fever. I take that as a win.
I cannot remember the last time I was sick. Truly sick. Not tired, not run-down, not functioning on caffeine, sticky notes and my planner, but sick enough that my body simply opted out. That does not surprise me now, not after hearing everything I apparently missed over the last couple days. Time simply, but some things cannot be erased. The people who stepped in.
Lucy is still asleep. I checked twice. Her breathing is steadier now, deeper, the little hitch in her chest gone. She has kicked one sock off again. I did not fix it this time. I am learning, slowly, that not everything requires immediate attention.
Anneliese did. That realization still feels surreal.
Anneliese, the woman Lucy announced in a fever-soft voice looked like a queen, the woman who exists in my mind as someone Lenzin Faulker promised to marry. A woman of elegance, distance, and inevitability. A woman who regardless of the problem I am to that plan became a caretaker without hesitation. She moved through the house with quiet authority, like she had always belonged there, like this was not strange or inconvenient or wildly out of character.
Like caregiving was simply another role she could assume when required.
She made soup. Real soup. She handled the monitor, the humidifier, the medication schedule. She answered Lucy’s questions without condescension and mine without pity. At some point, she tucked a blanket around my shoulders and told me to, ‘lie back down and do not move’ in a tone that did not invite argument.
I obeyed, which might be the most unsettling part.
I push off the wall carefully and take a few steps toward the kitchen, to feed the little one who is growing inside of me. My body protests, but not the way it had been up until I got sick. More like a warning than a refusal. I pause anyway, hand braced on the counter and breathe until the room steadies.
The house feels different now. Not calmer, exactly, but… held. Like invisible hands are keeping everything from tipping too far in any direction.
Lenzin is at the island, back to me, shoulders squared but tense. He has not noticed me yet. Or he has and is pretending not to. I am not sure which.
He has dealt with a lot that he didn’t ask for without hesitation. From day one he stepped up helping Lucy when she was trying to change her own bedding, to fevers, and child protective services.
I heard fragments through the fog of sleep. Voices lowering. Shoes moving down the hall. Lucy stirring and settling again when Lenzin adjusted the blanket with a care that made my chest ache even then.
I remember wanting to get up. Wanting to explain. Wanting to apologize for being sick, as if illness were a failure.
“You should still be sitting,” Annalies says from behind me, not unkindly.
“I am,” I reply. “Just… vertically.”
She considers this, then nods. “Acceptable compromise, I suppose.”
Lenzin turns then, and whatever he sees on my face makes something in him loosen.
“You’re up,” he says.
“No fever,” I answer.
He nods once. “Good.”
The word carries more weight than it should.
Annaleise sets a cup of tea in front of me. I wrap both hands around the mug, absorbing the warmth. “Thank you.”
“Alright, I am heading to bed.” She yawns. “Buzz if you need me.”
She heads toward the stairs, and I tell her again, “Thank you for everything.”
“I’ve done my good deed for the year, and it’s not February yet.” She states.
Lenzin chuckles as he rounds the island, walks up, and holds the back of his hand to my forehead.
