The Sickness

"Hey, Sue! It's Sara. Do you want to come outside?"
Susan Carter thrust open her window to see her best friend's round face smiling back at her. Her curly blond hair framed her face, and her large blue eyes were shining. She was holding her blue scooter in one hand, and an extra pink one in the other.
"Oh, I can't," Susan said glumly. "Peter is sick, and Mama's worried that I might spread his sickness. Sorry, Sara."
"Oh, that's okay," Sara said, but her eyes dimmed a little. "I'll just--"
She didn't know what else to say, instead turning away from the window and walking away.
Susan felt bad. She knew that Sara didn't have anyone else to ride scooters with. Maybe she could talk to Mama.
In the living room, Peter, her little brother, was curled up in Mama's lap. He looked miserable, his brown hair damp with sweat and his face flushed with fever. Mama was stroking his head.
"Hi, Pete. How are you?" Susan asked.
He didn't answer, too busy sucking his thumb. Mama sighed.
"He's vomiting, Susan. I'm worried. I don't know when your father's getting back, but until then you'll have to stay home. I'm very sorry, dear."
"It's all right, Mama. But do you think I could at least talk to Sara through the window?"
"Oh, of course," Mama said. "Sarajane is welcome to stand outside as long as she wants."
"Why don't you just call her Sara, Mama?" Susan sighed, annoyed by her formality.
"Her given name isn't Sara. It's Sarajane. And yours is Susan Ellen Carter."
Susan sighed. It was always the same response.
Suellen had been Papa's creation, combining her first and middle names, and PJ was his name for Peter. But Mama called everyone by their first names, Peter, Susan, Sarajane.
"Ok then," Susan said, trudging back down the hall to her room.
Peter began to cry, and Mama tried her best to comfort him, patting his back and singing to him. But that wasn't enough. A few seconds later Mama was running past her room and Peter was vomiting into the sink.
He must be feeling awful, Susan thought.
The family had no idea where this sickness had come from, but it had struck Peter quite suddenly. Since doctors knew nothing of what it was, the family was advised to stay indoors to prevent it from spreading.
After two days, in which Peter had gotten worse, Papa had left to travel far and wide, looking for a cure.
Susan had clung to him and cried, but he hadn't budge. He held her hands in his and said, "Listen, Suellen. You need to stay here and care for Peter and your mother. You need to make sure they get through this. When they wake up and see you there, when you talk to little Peter and play with him, that will make all the difference. I will be ok. But I would be better if I could count on someone to keep their spirits up. Can you be that person to shine some light on Mama and Peter?"
"I'll try, Papa. But please, hurry back."
That had been a week ago. Peter hadn't gotten any worse, but that wasn't very comforting. He was still suffering.
I hope Peter doesn't die before it's too late, Susan thought, as Mama was filling his bath.
Peter was her little brother, always looking to her for reassurance. If she was ready to pronounce him dead, would he be able to tell?
On the first day of his sickness, she remembered asking Mama about it.
"No," Mama had said. "No one is a mind reader. But he will pick up on your mood. You have to believe that he will make it, Susan. Your belief in him will mean a lot to me and your father. But most importantly, it will mean a lot to Peter."
"He's Peter," she had replied. "Of course he'll be ok. I was just wondering. He's too young to die, anyway."
"You're never too young," Mama had said.
She knew all about death. Her little sister had died three days after her birth. How awful it must  be for Mama, going through something like this again with her own son.
She pulled out her journal and wrote a few parragraphs before putting it away. Writing always helped to clear her mind. She didn't have much to do in the house when she wasn't making Peter's meals, washing clothes and doing homework that Sara passed through the window.
"Susan! Peter needs a broth!" Mama called.
She sighed, rising from her bed and going into the kitchen. Peter couldn't eat anything unless it was liquified or mashed.
He was sitting on the floor now, his back against the trash can as he fiddled with something in his hands. As she passed him, she bent down to have a look. It was a little ball.
"Where'd you find that?" she asked, pouring chicken broth into a pot.
"Daddy," he said, his voice small and raspy.
Tears sprang to her eyes. It was so nice to hear his voice, but he sounded so weak. Instead of throwing the ball like he would with Papa, Peter only held it and rolled it in his palm. She hadn't seen that ball in years though. She thought it had been lost, or that Peter had swallowed it. Mama didn't like him to have small toys, because if he got scared they'd go straight to his mouth. Papa said he was the same way, and he had never choked on anything. Mama would ask how he could possibly know that, and the argument would end there.
Susan smiled at the memories. Peter was so much like Papa, and even looked like him as a baby. Now his hair was light brown like Mama's, while Susan and Papa had dark hair.
A few minutes later, Susan placed a spoonful of chicken broth into Peter's mouth. He made a face before swallowing.
"Hot."
"But it's good, right?"
"Yeah."
"Good. I'm glad you like it."