I walk down the hall towards Marshall’s room. Pictures of wildlife, nature and the frequent stuffed bird lined the walls. I’m a taxidermist. Yeah, maybe it isn’t healthy for my 8-year old son to have a mother who stuffs animals for a living, but it’s what I love to do. I don’t kill the animals, obviously. It’s roadkill that hasn’t been completely squashed, or an animal that’s been shot for sport and the hunter didn’t like his catch.
I see it as a way to restore the creature’s past beauty, a sort of way to breathe life back into their appearance. I even made Marshall a stuffed fox cub to sleep with. He’s buried it in the crook of his neck and slept since he was 4.
Once I get past the large stuffed hare on the shelf, I knocked lightly on Marshall’s white door. He wants to be a bachelor when he grows up, which will hopefully be a while from now. He keeps his room organized and simple. There’s no answer.
“Marshall?” I say, easing his door open. I immediately spot his head of sandy brown hair, half-out from underneath the covers. He likes it longer than the average boy. I walk over and pat his arm. “Marshall, get up, you are NOT going to miss that bus again.”
No response. I gently shake him awake. Tuesdays are always the worst for him. “Uuuurgh.” He groans, sticking his neck out so he can see me. “Mama,” he croaks. I can tell there’s something wrong. “I don’t- I mean, I… My throat hurts. A lot.” Yes, he still calls me mama, but only when we’re alone. He cuddles the fox cub.
I put my hand to his forehead. He’s as cool as a cucumber. “No fever,” I say, getting out his clothes. I walk briskly out of the room and down our long hallway. “Be downstairs in 10 minutes.”
At 1:46 that afternoon, I get a phone call.
“Mom?” Marshall says quietly from the other side. He’s calling from the nurse’s office.
“Yes, hon?” I answer. I already know what it’s about.
“My throat hurts.” I coil some thread around my finger from the sewing kit in front of me. I’m patching up an aardvark.
“I can’t come get you unless you have a fever.” I say, unwrapping the brown thread.
“I don’t have a fever but… yeah. Okay, bye mom.” He croaks. I hang up.
The next day, he woke up and says the same thing. “It’s worse,” he gasped. “It’s like all fiery but it’s all cold and raw at the same time.” I looked at his throat. It didn’t seem red, just…dark. I sent him to school anyways, hoping he would feel better.
“Mrs. Mejia-“ the school nurse clucked over the phone at 11:12 that morning.
“Just call me Kirsten. And it’s Miss.”
“Ms. Kirsten. Marshall is complaining of extreme pain in his throat, and I recommend you picking him up early and taking him to see your family doctor.” I agreed and picked up my son from school, wishing I’d let him stay home. He didn’t talk much, mainly just sat and panted on the way to the pediatrician. I patted his back as we walked into the small, grey-tiled room.
“It seems to be a form of strep, though I can’t be sure,” said Dr. Madda after inspecting Marshall. “The throat isn’t irritated- it’s an infection of the skin inside and around it. It has significant swelling and darkening towards the back, though. Keep him home for a few days, and give him half a tablet of Cybenzlaphine twice a day…” he handed me the pill box and instruction card. I thanked him, paid with my credit card, and we went home. I plopped down on the couch.
“Help me!” I heard a faint cry from the living room where I was sitting. The red-eared slider turtle was coming along very well, but it was Marshall calling. I got up and speed-walked up to his room.
