My mother had a sixth sense. The fact that she wasn’t waiting at the door was already miraculous, but I would never make it to my bedroom and back without triggering her internal alarm.
In fact, she came around the corner as the door silently snicked shut. Clutching her chest, she heaved a sigh of relief as she collapsed against a nearby wall with enough dramatics to win an Academy Award.
“Oh, thank god. I thought you’d died in a ditch. I’ve been texting you for an hour. Why haven’t you answered? How’s your stomach? Did you eat?”
“Couldn’t text. Didn’t have a signal.” I weaved around her and headed down the hall.
“I made dinner. Did you eat that sandwich? You didn’t. I know you didn’t.”
“I can’t stay. One of the guys is waiting for me outside. We’re heading to Noah’s to edit footage. I probably won’t be home tonight.”
“Ozrik, you promised.”
“I didn’t.”
I located my keys and wallet and darted back the way I’d come. Mom blocked my way, taking me by the shoulders and raking her gaze over every inch of me. “You’re soaking wet.”
“It was raining.”
“You can’t go out soaking wet. You’ll catch your death.”
“I would be so lucky.” I tried to squeeze past, but she refused to let go and angled me toward my bedroom, giving a shove.
“At least change your clothes.”
“Mother—”
“Don’t argue. I’m getting the thermometer. You feel warm.”
“Christ.” I headed back to my room and found dry jeans and a clean tee before racing to the front hall, hoping to slip out before I had to endure an examination.
No such luck. Stella Devereaux was fast and waited for me at the door, armed with a thermometer and an unmarked bottle of pills.
“The doctor prescribed these,” she said, shoving the device under my tongue.
It amazed me that she thought her stories logical. What doctor prescribed pills to a person they hadn’t seen or examined? And after business hours at that.
The answer was none, but it was easier to go along with it than fight.
Stella clamped my chin in a vice grip as she watched the numbers on the screen.It could be worse, I thought, remembering the days before I grew a backbone and she insisted on taking my temperature rectally because it was more accurate. Fourteen-year-old Ozrik had fought back one day and won, threatening to call the cops if she so much as touched me below the belt, let alone shoved anything up my ass again.
I eyed the orange bottle that poorly mimicked a prescription bottle, wondering what she’d hidden inside it. The thermometer beeped, and I grabbed it from her before she absconded with it and invented numbers to fit her narrative.
“Oh, look. Ninety-eight point six. No temperature.”
She’d already moved on, uncapping the bottle and dumping two pills into my palm. “These are the inhibitors you took last time. The doctor wants to start here before he considers chemotherapy. They might make your stomach upset. You should stay home.”
Oh, they would make my stomach upset all right. That was the goal.
She produced a water bottle, already uncapped, and waited while I took the pills. I knew the drill and took them with as little water as possible, then showed her the inside of my mouth and the underside of my tongue. The cancer angle was ballsy. She had to realize I wasn’t a stupid kid anymore.
Stella cupped my face and stroked my cheeks. “You’re so pale, sweetie. Let me pack you something to eat.”
“No. It’s fine. We’re getting pizza.”
“That’s too hard on your stomach.”
“I’ll muscle through it.” I dislodged and slipped out the door before she could think of some other means of making me suffer.
