The Citrus Syndrome

3 ; shiver

Shiver

Violet

I pull the blanket closer around my neck. Next to me, Faith is shivering. Sighing, I surrender the flannel sheet to the baby and resign myself to listening to my teeth chatter. My mind is too fogged by pain to ask Bo where we're going.

This started several hours ago, with Faith choking from her bassinet. Alarmed, I'd run over and begun to pat her back, but she continued to gasp for air. I should have just called nine one one right then and there, but I was certain she would stop. And I was right. But when she stopped choking, I began.

Bo came home to find faith and I on the floor in the living room, vomitting up our guts. I couldn't move or stop throwing up long enough to speak. So he picked me up and carried me to bed, got me a bowl for my sick and placed a cold towel on my forehead, like this was any old cold. But I could tell it wasn't.

Eventually, I stopped upchucking. Bo was on the phone, arguing with somebody. I let the sound of his voice lull me to sleep.

I woke up in the back of his car, and now here I am, freezing to death with my daughter on one side, the grim reaper on the other.

"Bo?" My voice comes out croaking and weak, shaking with cold. A bump in the road makes my stomach lurch.

He replies, "Lay down, Sweetie."

I take his advice, shakily lowering myself onto the empty seat beside me. My head throbs like someone is whacking it with a hammer from inside. Cold sweat drenches my shirt. "Bo," I wheeze. "What's happening?"

Bo sighs, thinking a moment before answering. "We're going to get you help, Vi."

"Help for what?"

Pause. "You're sick."

Well, duh. "What am I sick with?" Each word tears my scratchy throat.

Bo doesn't answer, but I get the feeling that he knows. Faith makes a little gurgling noise from her carrier. I hope Bo strapped her in right.

Am I going to die? I'm only twenty two. Far too young to die. Right?

I'm pulled back to a memory of last year. It's blotchy and gray, parts missing since I've tried so hard to block it out.

I am standing on the roof, looking down over the campus. This is high enough, isn't it? My classmates below are like tiny x's in a cross stitch, weaving together to create a colorful picture beneath me. In all black, I could never be a part of their rainbow pattern.

That crushing sadness is back again. I don't belong, I never did and never will. What's stopping me from joining the people I do belong with? The ones who've already killed themselves? They are the ones who are like me. Who understand me.

I swing my leg over the railing, then the other. My stomach is tied up in every kind of knot there is. I can hardly see straight. Van Halen lyrics scroll through my head: Might as well jump! Go ahead, jump.

Bo's voice brings me back to the present. "We're almost there."

"Almost where?" I ask.

Bo doesn't volunteer any further information. Typical Bo. Vague is the best word to describe him. Vague, handsome and easygoing. That's my Bo.

In the eighteen months that Bo and I have been together, I've learned not to expect forthright answers from him. His life is comprised of webs, sticky with lies and broken promises. Bo is someone that you want to trust. He is a spider in the form of a beautiful blonde boy, spinning his webs around me, pulling me in until I can't get out. And I don't mind so much, really. I know that he lies, I know that he keeps secrets, but that's okay.

I'd rather have things kept from me than be made to keep things from someone else. I couldn't lie to Bo if I wanted to. That's why I tell him five times a day that I love him and I'll never stop. He says he loves me too, but it's like I said. He lies.

The moment I found out I was pregnant with Faith, I called him and told him everything. No preface, no waiting. Just, 'Hello? Bo, is that you? I'm pregnant.'

Everything hurts. My head, my stomach, my muscles. Ever organ in my body seems to be fighting to break free. I look at Faith, despairing in the fact that she is feeling the same thing. My neck aches -- when I shift my position, I can hardly withhold a scream.

The baby lets out a bloodcurdling shriek, waving her fist in the air. I want to check if she's alright, but moving isn't an option. She screams again and again, short bursts of noise rather than continuous cries.

"You alright, Vi?" Bo asks from the front seat.

I want to burst into tears and tell him to turn around, take me home. Instead, I whisper, "Hmm," and continue to shiver.