Monday, September 19, 2005
Shadow Soldiers11: Rain and Sickness
This begins the final week of episodes for this story, but you can buy the complete book at Books by Jeri Massi
Carrie felt hesitant about seeking out the young martial arts master. She let a day pass. Rain and sleet came, and the air, now with a steel edge to it, reminded her of the cold storage bins.
She could wait no longer, she thought the next day. She decided to visit Anne again that evening. The darkness and chill built in the afternoon. Rain, sometimes mixed with sleet, fell in steady, cold curtains as Carrie pulled up to the storage bins. The pull-down door was closed, but yellow light from the bin's single, strong overhead light bulb made a line of illumination between the weather stripping and the concrete.
She had no umbrella, but she pulled up the collar of her jacket, left the engine running, and ran for the narrow wooden door. Outside, the steady rain set up a regular sweeping noise. She knocked loudly against the wet orange wood of the door. Anne's voice replied with a cautious, almost distressed tone: "Who's there?"
"It's Carrie Drake!" she shouted. She tried the knob, and to her surprise it gave. She pushed it open and peered inside. Anne Thompson was crouched down in a tight huddle of misery, hugging herself. She was leaning against her stacks of cartons, her knees to her chin. Her hair was wet, and her shoes were wet. But the new hooded sweatshirt that she wore was dry, as though she had just pulled it on. Her voice was frightened. "I'm sick."
Carrie slipped inside, closed the door, and pulled off her wet jacket. She threw it over the hanging heavy bag, hurried to Anne's side, and crouched down. "Where are you sick?"
"I don't want to go to the hospital," Anne said. Her eyes were sunken, her skin chalk white.
"Are you throwing up?"
"Once, and the rest was all . . . " She gestured at the ground and hugged herself. "And I have such bad stomach cramps. It won't stop."
Stomach flu, Carrie thought, or possibly some sort of mild bowel infection. But Anne was so underweight that an attack of diarrhea was dangerous for her, and what others might shake off easily could ravage her low defenses.
Carrie felt her forehead and cheeks. She was hot, but that might have been an effect of the dehydration. Though her temperature was feverish, she was not sweating, a sign that she had lost a significant amount of fluid.
"How many times were you sick?" Carrie asked. "Did you eat too much chocolate, dear?"
"I don't know how many times. It just keeps happening. I was running outside, around back, but I can't do it again. I get dizzy on my feet." Then she added. "I didn't eat any of the chocolate except the one, with you, yesterday."
"It's probably not that," she said. But she wondered guiltily if the cinnamon buns and the one candy bar had been too much for Anne's system after months of near starvation. "You can come with me. Let me get some clothing for you."
Anne began to shake. "I can't go to the hospital." Then she added, as a means of legitimizing her protest, "I'm not insured."
"You can come to my place," Carrie said. She quickly rifled the open cardboard cartons. For a moment it had been perfectly clear that she must do this. She wanted to do this. The sight of Anne suffering was enough to spur her into an instant generosity. Then she wondered if she were really prepared to cope with Anne Thompson as a house guest.
But Anne gave a shuddering gasp. "I don't---what if I have to be sick on the way?"
"We'll find a gas station or just make due," Carrie said. She stuffed several articles of clothing into a paper bag. Anne bowed her head to her knees and drew in several breaths. She was quite weak and uncomfortable. And she was embarrassed. And, for some reason, she was afraid.
Carrie pulled on her own jacket, stuffed the bag under her arm, and tried to be brisk. She crouched down and put a steadying arm around Anne.
"Come on. My car is nice and warm. We'll be at my house in 20 minutes."
Anne nodded. Her skin was dry, and Carrie could see that her lips were dry as well: early signs of dehydration. Anne stood shakily, then leaned over and took up the small bag from the grocery store, the chocolate bars. "I have to keep these with me, even if I don't eat them." Anne said.
"All right." She helped Anne through the rain to the car, and Anne trembled the entire way.
For once the traffic on I-40 moved well, in spite of the rain. Anne stayed huddled on the front seat, with her feet drawn up. But whatever had prompted the first several bouts of illness was slowing down, perhaps eased by the warm jets of air from the car's heater. Carrie covered the list of preliminary questions in her mind: the water sources that Anne relied upon, what she had eaten that day, where she had gone.
They reached the apartment without having to stop along the way, but Anne's legs were unsteady. Carrie helped her up the long flight of steps to the back door and let her in.
"Can you get to the back?" she asked. "The bathroom is down the hall."
Anne nodded and hurried away. Carrie put water on the stove to heat and dropped in the thermal pack that she relied upon for muscle soreness. Constable Magpie, alarmed to see such a commotion at his peaceful back door, came to the glass and meowed a single, loud call. She let him in and then hurried to find spare night clothes for her guest. The Constable didn't like the sleet either, but he had numerous sheltered niches where he could curl up and keep dry. He entered without a drop of water on him.
She checked the medicine cabinet in the master bath room, found the paregoric, and retrieved a full glass of water. She set these down on the bedside table.
Anne was quite sick, and after several minutes had passed, Carrie heard the shower head switch on as the girl tried to use hot water to ease her stomach cramps.
"Anne, be careful," she called. "Don't let yourself faint. Let me pass a night gown to you."
Anne was modest, so the door opened only a crack, but her large eyes peeped out around the edge.
"Leave the door unlocked as a safety precaution," Carrie told her. "Don't stay too long under the hot water. There are clean towels folded up in the overhead cabinet in there. I have a hot pack for you, dear."
The eyes registered brief surprise at the word "dear", but Anne nodded, took the nightgown, and closed the door. Carrie, one ear tuned to the sounds of the shower, quickly found the spare flannel sheets and made up the single bed in the guest room.
Wondering at what was going on, Constable Magpie came in to the small guest bedroom to watch. He sat down and began to groom his paw and hook it over his head, washing one ear. He seemed calm, but this was his way of letting her know he was ready for his supper. Carrie quickly tucked in the sheets and spread a fresh quilt over all.
Anne appeared, the borrowed night gown ridiculously short, almost up to her knees. But it was loose on her thin frame. Carrie drew back the covers. "Lie down here, Anne. I've got some paregoric that will help you."
Anne was oddly obedient. She hadn't lost all sense of her fear. She got into bed and let Carrie cover her, but she said, her voice now oddly timid, "I don't want drugs."
"This is medicine like my mother used to give me when I was sick with stomach flu," Carrie told her. "It will stop your stomach cramps and help you go to sleep."
She shook up the bottle of paregoric.
"It doesn't come in a needle?"
"No. You take it in a teaspoon." She took up the clean spoon that she had set down with the small, dark bottle. "Just one teaspoon full for most people. We'll give you one and a half because you're so sick."
She poured out the dose, and Anne, after a moment of clear uncertainty, opened her mouth. Like an expectant baby bird. It was almost funny, but there was something about it that wrung Carrie and made the scraped place twist. Anne took the full dose, and Carrie offered her the water. "You should sip this. You've lost a lot of fluid. Small sips."
Anne nodded, took the glass and sipped it three times, with short pauses. She was very weary, and for a moment Carrie thought she might faint right then, but just as Carrie would have steadied her, she rallied, lifted the glass, and sipped again. She passed the glass back, and Carrie set it on the bedside table.
"Sip that every minute or so if you can. I'm going to make up a hot pack for you."
Anne nodded and settled onto the pillows. The paregoric was already slowing the frantic peristalsis of her intestines. She was becoming sleepy as her digestive tract relaxed.
Carrie didn't think before brushing the damp hair back from the girl's forehead. But Anne didn't object. The room had taken on a sleepy, homey atmosphere, and suddenly Carrie could sense it from Anne's perspective: clean and quiet and dry.
Carrie offered her another sip and Anne lifted her head and took it, then lay back again. She was ready to go to sleep now, her hard stomach cramps easing.
"I'm going to get the hot pack and feed the cat," Carrie said. "Will you be all right?"
Anne nodded.
|
Carrie felt hesitant about seeking out the young martial arts master. She let a day pass. Rain and sleet came, and the air, now with a steel edge to it, reminded her of the cold storage bins.
She could wait no longer, she thought the next day. She decided to visit Anne again that evening. The darkness and chill built in the afternoon. Rain, sometimes mixed with sleet, fell in steady, cold curtains as Carrie pulled up to the storage bins. The pull-down door was closed, but yellow light from the bin's single, strong overhead light bulb made a line of illumination between the weather stripping and the concrete.
She had no umbrella, but she pulled up the collar of her jacket, left the engine running, and ran for the narrow wooden door. Outside, the steady rain set up a regular sweeping noise. She knocked loudly against the wet orange wood of the door. Anne's voice replied with a cautious, almost distressed tone: "Who's there?"
"It's Carrie Drake!" she shouted. She tried the knob, and to her surprise it gave. She pushed it open and peered inside. Anne Thompson was crouched down in a tight huddle of misery, hugging herself. She was leaning against her stacks of cartons, her knees to her chin. Her hair was wet, and her shoes were wet. But the new hooded sweatshirt that she wore was dry, as though she had just pulled it on. Her voice was frightened. "I'm sick."
Carrie slipped inside, closed the door, and pulled off her wet jacket. She threw it over the hanging heavy bag, hurried to Anne's side, and crouched down. "Where are you sick?"
"I don't want to go to the hospital," Anne said. Her eyes were sunken, her skin chalk white.
"Are you throwing up?"
"Once, and the rest was all . . . " She gestured at the ground and hugged herself. "And I have such bad stomach cramps. It won't stop."
Stomach flu, Carrie thought, or possibly some sort of mild bowel infection. But Anne was so underweight that an attack of diarrhea was dangerous for her, and what others might shake off easily could ravage her low defenses.
Carrie felt her forehead and cheeks. She was hot, but that might have been an effect of the dehydration. Though her temperature was feverish, she was not sweating, a sign that she had lost a significant amount of fluid.
"How many times were you sick?" Carrie asked. "Did you eat too much chocolate, dear?"
"I don't know how many times. It just keeps happening. I was running outside, around back, but I can't do it again. I get dizzy on my feet." Then she added. "I didn't eat any of the chocolate except the one, with you, yesterday."
"It's probably not that," she said. But she wondered guiltily if the cinnamon buns and the one candy bar had been too much for Anne's system after months of near starvation. "You can come with me. Let me get some clothing for you."
Anne began to shake. "I can't go to the hospital." Then she added, as a means of legitimizing her protest, "I'm not insured."
"You can come to my place," Carrie said. She quickly rifled the open cardboard cartons. For a moment it had been perfectly clear that she must do this. She wanted to do this. The sight of Anne suffering was enough to spur her into an instant generosity. Then she wondered if she were really prepared to cope with Anne Thompson as a house guest.
But Anne gave a shuddering gasp. "I don't---what if I have to be sick on the way?"
"We'll find a gas station or just make due," Carrie said. She stuffed several articles of clothing into a paper bag. Anne bowed her head to her knees and drew in several breaths. She was quite weak and uncomfortable. And she was embarrassed. And, for some reason, she was afraid.
Carrie pulled on her own jacket, stuffed the bag under her arm, and tried to be brisk. She crouched down and put a steadying arm around Anne.
"Come on. My car is nice and warm. We'll be at my house in 20 minutes."
Anne nodded. Her skin was dry, and Carrie could see that her lips were dry as well: early signs of dehydration. Anne stood shakily, then leaned over and took up the small bag from the grocery store, the chocolate bars. "I have to keep these with me, even if I don't eat them." Anne said.
"All right." She helped Anne through the rain to the car, and Anne trembled the entire way.
For once the traffic on I-40 moved well, in spite of the rain. Anne stayed huddled on the front seat, with her feet drawn up. But whatever had prompted the first several bouts of illness was slowing down, perhaps eased by the warm jets of air from the car's heater. Carrie covered the list of preliminary questions in her mind: the water sources that Anne relied upon, what she had eaten that day, where she had gone.
They reached the apartment without having to stop along the way, but Anne's legs were unsteady. Carrie helped her up the long flight of steps to the back door and let her in.
"Can you get to the back?" she asked. "The bathroom is down the hall."
Anne nodded and hurried away. Carrie put water on the stove to heat and dropped in the thermal pack that she relied upon for muscle soreness. Constable Magpie, alarmed to see such a commotion at his peaceful back door, came to the glass and meowed a single, loud call. She let him in and then hurried to find spare night clothes for her guest. The Constable didn't like the sleet either, but he had numerous sheltered niches where he could curl up and keep dry. He entered without a drop of water on him.
She checked the medicine cabinet in the master bath room, found the paregoric, and retrieved a full glass of water. She set these down on the bedside table.
Anne was quite sick, and after several minutes had passed, Carrie heard the shower head switch on as the girl tried to use hot water to ease her stomach cramps.
"Anne, be careful," she called. "Don't let yourself faint. Let me pass a night gown to you."
Anne was modest, so the door opened only a crack, but her large eyes peeped out around the edge.
"Leave the door unlocked as a safety precaution," Carrie told her. "Don't stay too long under the hot water. There are clean towels folded up in the overhead cabinet in there. I have a hot pack for you, dear."
The eyes registered brief surprise at the word "dear", but Anne nodded, took the nightgown, and closed the door. Carrie, one ear tuned to the sounds of the shower, quickly found the spare flannel sheets and made up the single bed in the guest room.
Wondering at what was going on, Constable Magpie came in to the small guest bedroom to watch. He sat down and began to groom his paw and hook it over his head, washing one ear. He seemed calm, but this was his way of letting her know he was ready for his supper. Carrie quickly tucked in the sheets and spread a fresh quilt over all.
Anne appeared, the borrowed night gown ridiculously short, almost up to her knees. But it was loose on her thin frame. Carrie drew back the covers. "Lie down here, Anne. I've got some paregoric that will help you."
Anne was oddly obedient. She hadn't lost all sense of her fear. She got into bed and let Carrie cover her, but she said, her voice now oddly timid, "I don't want drugs."
"This is medicine like my mother used to give me when I was sick with stomach flu," Carrie told her. "It will stop your stomach cramps and help you go to sleep."
She shook up the bottle of paregoric.
"It doesn't come in a needle?"
"No. You take it in a teaspoon." She took up the clean spoon that she had set down with the small, dark bottle. "Just one teaspoon full for most people. We'll give you one and a half because you're so sick."
She poured out the dose, and Anne, after a moment of clear uncertainty, opened her mouth. Like an expectant baby bird. It was almost funny, but there was something about it that wrung Carrie and made the scraped place twist. Anne took the full dose, and Carrie offered her the water. "You should sip this. You've lost a lot of fluid. Small sips."
Anne nodded, took the glass and sipped it three times, with short pauses. She was very weary, and for a moment Carrie thought she might faint right then, but just as Carrie would have steadied her, she rallied, lifted the glass, and sipped again. She passed the glass back, and Carrie set it on the bedside table.
"Sip that every minute or so if you can. I'm going to make up a hot pack for you."
Anne nodded and settled onto the pillows. The paregoric was already slowing the frantic peristalsis of her intestines. She was becoming sleepy as her digestive tract relaxed.
Carrie didn't think before brushing the damp hair back from the girl's forehead. But Anne didn't object. The room had taken on a sleepy, homey atmosphere, and suddenly Carrie could sense it from Anne's perspective: clean and quiet and dry.
Carrie offered her another sip and Anne lifted her head and took it, then lay back again. She was ready to go to sleep now, her hard stomach cramps easing.
"I'm going to get the hot pack and feed the cat," Carrie said. "Will you be all right?"
Anne nodded.
