desertion

129

LYDIA

The sound of soft crying jolts me out of sleep. I blink into the darkness, trying to figure out if I'm dreaming, but then I hear it again-Christopher's voice, small and shaky. I'm out of bed before my mind can fully catch up, feet hitting the cold floor as I rush toward his room.

"Chris?" I whisper, pushing the door open. The little nightlight in the corner casts a faint glow over his bed, and I see him curled up, his face damp with tears.

"I don't feel good," he chokes out, his voice trembling.

I hurry to his bedside, kneeling down to feel his forehead. His skin is warm, too warm. "Jesus," I murmur under my breath, trying to keep the worry out of my voice. "Okay, buddy, I'm going to get you some medicine. Just stay here, okay?"

He nods weakly, and I kiss his temple before bolting to the kitchen. My hands are shaking as I fumble through the cabinet, grabbing the bottle of kids' Tylenol and pouring a dose into the little measuring cup. I check the label twice, making sure I didn't overfill it, then rush back to his room.

I stop in the doorway, and my stomach drops.

The smell hits me first, sharp and sour. Chris is sitting up in bed, his face pale, and there's a puddle of vomit on the floor beside him. My heart sinks, but I force myself to push down the rising panic.

"It's okay, Chris," I say quickly, setting the medicine down on his nightstand. "Let's get you to the living room."

He sniffles, his eyes watery, but he nods. I help him off the bed, relieved that he didn't get sick on his clothes. I lead him to the couch, grabbing the trash can from the kitchen and placing it beside him.

"Here," I say, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. "Try to rest, okay?"

Chris gives me a small, tired smile before his eyes flutter shut. Within minutes, he's asleep, his little body exhausted.

I take a deep breath, glancing back toward his room. The vomit. The sheets. The smell.

"Great," I mutter to myself, heading to the laundry room to grab a pair of gloves, a sponge, and the mop.

The clock reads 3:45 AM by the time I've stripped his bed, started a load of laundry, and cleaned the floor. My arms ache from scrubbing, and my eyelids feel heavy, but there's no time to rest.

Chris has been throwing up every thirty minutes. He can't keep anything down, not even water. Every time I think he's settled, he's leaning over the trash can again, his little face scrunched in discomfort.

I sit beside him, rubbing his back gently as he leans over the trash can once more. "It's okay, buddy," I whisper, though my voice cracks. "You're doing great."

But inside, I feel like I'm falling apart.

By 5:00 AM, I'm on the verge of tears. My head is pounding, my stomach feels queasy, and my whole body is screaming for sleep. I stumble into the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face in a desperate attempt to wake myself up.

I glance at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is a tangled mess, my eyes bloodshot, and my skin pale. I barely recognize myself.

"You can do this," I whisper, gripping the edge of the sink. "You have to."

At 8:00 AM, the doorbell rings. I drag myself to the door, pushing stray hair out of my face as I open it.

Miles and Nathaniel stand on the porch, both looking well-rested and put together. Nathaniel's face twists into an annoying smirk. "Wow, you look rough."

I glare at him. "Thanks for that. What are you guys doing here?"

Miles steps forward, looking more sympathetic. "We were going to the arcade and thought maybe you and Chris wanted to come with us."

I shake my head, leaning against the doorframe. "Chris has a stomach bug or something. He's been sick all night."

Miles frowns. "Where's your dad?"

"Still at the hospital," I reply, my voice tight.

Nathaniel scoffs. "Why isn't he here helping you?"

"Because I haven't told him," I snap, crossing my arms.

Miles' eyes widen. "Lydia, you shouldn't be handling this on your own."

"I'm fine," I say firmly. "But you two need to go before you catch whatever this is."

Miles looks like he wants to argue, his face a mix of concern and frustration. Even Nathaniel, despite his earlier comment, looks worried.

"I'm fine," I repeat, giving them a weak smile. "Love you guys, but I've got this."

Before they can say anything else, I close the door.

Dad comes home late that night, his face drawn and worried. I'm sitting at the kitchen counter, barely holding myself up, when he walks in.

"Why didn't you call me?" he asks, his voice sharp with frustration.

I look up at him, exhaustion clouding my thoughts. "You're already stressed enough with Buck. I didn't want to bother you."

"Lydia, you were in no shape to take care of Chris on your own," he says, his tone rising.

"I've done it before!" I snap, the words spilling out before I can stop them. "I've taken care of myself when I was sick. I didn't have a choice when I lived with Mom or with Grandma and Grandpa!"

Dad's face falls, but I'm too angry to stop.

"I'm sorry I didn't call," I continue, my voice shaking. "But I've been handling things on my own my whole life. I didn't think this was any different."

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply. "Lydia, you shouldn't have to handle everything on your own. You're not alone anymore. I'm here."

"You weren't here last night," I shoot back, instantly regretting it when I see the hurt flash across his face.

"I was at the hospital," he says quietly. "With Buck. But if you'd called, I would've come home."

I rub my temples, feeling the weight of the argument settle over me. "I'm sorry," I whisper, my voice barely audible.

Dad steps closer, placing a hand on my shoulder. "You need to give yourself a break, Lydia. You can't do everything. Let us help you."

I nod, tears stinging my eyes. "I know," I murmur, taking a deep breath. "I'll try."

And for the first time all day, I let myself lean into the comfort of his words.