Page 10 of Sterling Clay

“Did you burn yourself?” Her concern has us both looking at my lap where I’ve spilled soup all over the sheet.

I groan, suddenly desperate to curl into the mattress and disappear beneath the blankets again. Instead, I shake my head in answer.

“Do you think you could take a shower? Or a bath?” Her nose wrinkles, implying I stink. “The warm water might feel good, and while you shower, I can change the sheets.”

“You don’t need to do that. You don’t need to make me soup. You don’t even need to be here.”

Taken aback by my tone, Mavis steps away from the bed again. Her hands which were once fussing over my lap are clasped together again in a way I’ve already learned tells that she’s on edge.

I’ve made her anxious when she’s been nothing but kind to me.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, the apology weak and unworthy of what I’ve said, how I’ve said it. Without a care to her presence, I fling back the covers and toss my unsteady legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll shower.”

With my hands clutching the edge of the mattress, I place my feet on the floor and take a deep breath. Mavis steps forward like she’ll help me, stops as if reconsidering, and then retreats.

I can’t look at her. I’m ashamed of my behavior, of my sick position, and my lack of clothing. She shouldn’t see me like this, and she doesn’t deserve my irritation. She has done nothing wrong.

Without a glance back at her, though, I stand on shaky legs, and stumble toward the bathroom.

+ + +

I’d love to stand in the shower for the rest of my life as the steam clears my nasal passages, and the hot water flows over me like heaven. But I don’t have the strength, and within seconds, the warmth drains any energy I could muster. I quickly dry off, feeling only minutely better, then tug on a pair of black sweatpants that were hanging on the back of my bathroom door and return to my bedroom.

Where I find my bed freshly made, the plate on the nightstand is swiped clean, and the soup still steaming. All minus Mavis.

“Fuck.” I hiss, and scramble on shaky legs down the hallway.

In my living room, Mavis is zipping up a suitcase and telling her son to put a tablet in his backpack.

“I don’t want to leave,” the child sulks, seated on my couch beside his sack, holding said tablet.

“Time to go, little bear,” she says before glancing up at me from her kneeling position. She finishes zipping the case, and stands, settling the luggage on its wheels.

Meeting my eyes, she coolly says, “I replaced the food we ate with new groceries. More soup is in a container cooling on the kitchen counter. You’ll need to put it in the refrigerator in a little while. Your sheets are in the washing machine. They’ll need to be moved to the dryer in an hour.”

She lowers her head. “And I borrowed a T-shirt which was freshly washed and returned to your drawer.” As she ticks off the list of things she’s done for me, I’m ticked off with myself.

Stepping forward, which takes my remaining energy, I reach for her hand.

Mavis steps back. Her son jumps off the couch, placing himself between her and me. A pair of eyes matching his mother’s glare at me.

I hold up both my hands, palms outward, knowing exactly what I’ve done wrong. “I’m sorry.” I swallow hard, tampering down the ache in my chest that she might be afraid of me. “I’m being an a—” My gaze shifts to the kid. “A jerk. I didn’t mean to touch you without your permission. I only wanted your attention.”

Mavis eyes me warily while placing a protective hand on each of her son’s shoulders.

With a deep exhale, I add. “I want you to stay.” I could argue that I don’t know where the request came from but there’s a feeling deep down in the pit of my belly. An ache where I don’t feel quite right about her leaving.

“Don’t go.” The roughness of the words doesn’t match the tenderness I intended, the genuine desire I wish to express. I don’t want her to leave.

“I haven’t been a gracious host, but I have a guest room.” I glance down at her son. His hair is the same midnight color as hers and a bit shaggy and long. His eyes are wide and round, matching his mother’s set. He’s lanky and lean, and small. Is he wearing a shirt with a princess on it? My forehead furrows, the question is one I don’t have the energy to ask.

“You two can take that room if you don’t mind sharing the space.” I glance at my couch, willing to sleep there and give Mavis my bed, but my room would be better for my condition. I’m isolated in there.

“That’s very kind of you, but we don’t want to be in your way. I’m sure you’ll feel better in a few more days.”

“Days?” I scoff but soften the sound with what I hope is a reassuring smile.

Mavis doesn’t smile back. Her hands cover her son’s shoulders, pulling him against her. “You’ve already suffered through two days. I predict you have three more to go, with rest, before you’re on the mend.”