Shayna Krishnasamy - The Sickroom

Openers

Copyright Shayna Krishnasamy 2010

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 9780981335223

Cover Photography: Jot

Contents

One morning, about a week and a half into my lying-in (as Aunt Vera called it, though I didnt understand why it made her hunch her shoulders and giggle), I woke up with a burning fever. Sweaty and furious, I kicked off the covers and wiped at my face and neck, my fingers coming away greasy and wet. At first I thought it was nighttime as the sun had still been up when Id collapsed into sleep at eight the night before, exhausted from nothing more than an evening of sitting in bed playing Monopoly with the boys. (They couldnt enter the attic, so theyd set the board up at the bottom of the stairs. Thered been a lot of calling out of which square Id landed on, and throwing of dice up and down the stairs, and I was pretty sure Collin had been stealing from the bank.) Only as I gazed through the window at the sky growing increasingly blue did I realize, with pitiful dismay, that it was early morning and Id slept nearly twelve hours without feeling the least bit rested.

I curled on my side, one arm stuck awkwardly beneath me, my legs flung one over the other, and stared miserably at the worn rug. The room would only get hotter as the sun rose and my fever would spike and Collin would annoy me and swallowing a gulp of water without crying out in pain would be the big achievement of the day. As much as Id loved my sickness the week before, as much as Id clung to it, I had to begrudgingly admit the truth: I was bored out of my mind and there was no end in sight.

Reluctantly I set my feet on the ground. I had to pee and I was hungry for the first time in days. Id hardly eaten dinner the night before and Aunt Vera had wrapped it up for me (for later, dear, shed said, patting me on the cheek sympathetically, as though to miss out on her pot roast was the worst thing that had ever happened to me). A fly buzzed around my head as I tried to gather my strength to make the ambitious trek downstairs. I swatted at it in annoyance, swinging my arm violently through the air, but it kept at it. It landed on my arm and I gave it a generous slap, but missed. Then it crawled up my back. It really had it out for me, this fly. It wouldnt let me be, and I was in no mood!

Tripping to my feet in my pajama bottoms and undershirt, I fought at the air like a tiger, whipping at the fly with the first and last of my strength until I was left panting, and still it flew, still it buzzed. I jumped. I swung. I would squash that fly if it took everything I had!

Only when I finally nailed it right between my palms (an exalted yes! escaping my lips in a lunging rush), only then did I notice the furry blonde head bobbing in and out of view behind the table and hear the faint slap-stroke of paintbrush on canvas.

Macon.

Swallowing (and wincing), my palms still clasped together, I stood in the middle of my side of the room, wondering vaguely if I ought to smuggle back to my bed or keep on as though I hadnt seen her, filling quickly with that gnawing, uncomfortable feeling of having thought you were alone when you werent. I looked down at my clothes. Was I decent? Had I said anything out loud that could be used against me? And what was she doing here anyway, while I was sleeping? Wasnt that a little creepy?

I was sure she hadnt noticed methat would be just like Macon. I was positive I could just sneak down the stairs (though my ability to do this had long since depleted), until all of a sudden she stood up. She hadnt looked my way this whole time. Shed been crouching in front of her canvas, painting away. Now she wiped her fingers on her shirt over and over (at least twenty times she wiped, as though shed forgotten she was doing it), and said, Should I get my mother?

I looked down at the fly smeared on my palms. It had grossly expanded in death and one of its legs was twitching. It was pretty disgusting. If Handle had been here I would have showed it to him and he would have been thrilled to pieces. But Handle wasnt here.

I took a defiant stance. What? I asked contemptuously. (I sounded a bit like Collin when he was speaking to Handle. Like, what right did Handle have speaking in his presence? Like he should know his place and stay in it.)

Macon looked at me and blinked. She didnt seem to have heard the tone. She was still wiping her hands but more lightly now, winding to a stop.

Do you need help getting down the stairs? she asked.

Excuse me? I scoffed. What do you think I am? I dont need help getting down the stairs! Geez! Then I laughed what was meant to be a haughty chuckle but came out more like a nervous twitter. I was already so tired, just from standing, that I thought my legs might give out again. (Maybe this time I would land on Macon.)

Oh, okay, Macon said and turned back to her painting.

(Oh, okay, would become the classic Macon response, one I would come to tease her about. She said it whenever she couldnt figure out what the other person meant, or what to do, or what to say. One time in the middle of an argument, after I called her a particularly vicious name, her face flooded red and she screeched, Oh okay! at me, and we both burst out laughing. But that was all ahead of us.)

I swayed on my feet, trying to convince myself that I ought to go back to bed. Downstairs I could hear the house waking upHandle rattling through the drawers looking for his cereal spoon, Uncle Charlie running his shower. Maybe I fell asleep a little.

Next thing I knew Macon was standing right in front of me, hand on my wrist. I stared down at the top of her head. She was a lot shorter than me, more so than Id realized. She was small for her age and Id just started the first of many growth spurts I would have to suffer through (earning me such nicknames as string bean and totem pole and CN Tower. Kids I knew were pretty unimaginative). There were red paint splatters in her hair, even all the way at the back, almost buried in her bun. I wondered how theyd gotten there. Was she throwing paint in the air? Doing handstands on the canvas? I felt my eyelids drooping closed again.

Then I felt Macon prying my hands open and wiping gently at my palms with a rag. She was getting the fly off. Id forgotten it was there.

She led me to my bed and put the cover over me. I found that I was shivering. She stared at me for a few minutes with her intense blue eyes. Only in this strange state between waking and sleep would I have allowed such a thing.

Jacob, she said, you look so tired.

I nodded. I was so tired. So, so tired.

She shook her head sadly, as though it broke her heart. She said, Maybe Ill paint you: Jacob So Tired.

I really liked that idea. It almost woke me back up.

She turned her attention to the rag and the fly, bringing the dirty fabric right up to her face. The fly was all smushed in with the dirt and the million colours of paint. Later, when I woke up again, I would find those same colours all over my palms.

A fly in the paint, I mumbled, as I turned over and drifted back to sleep.

About a week later, when once again I awoke feverish and hungry, I drifted over to the stairs. Leaning against a table leg by the door was a painting of a boy sleeping in a disheveled bed, his arm flung over his head. There were French doors hanging open to reveal a view of the sea, and in the corner, on the table, a can of paint had overturned, spilling its bright blue contents over the dull brown floor. If you looked closely you could see the fly.

In tiny letters at the bottom, Macon had written The Sickroom.