How could he be under the weather? What state is he in? the motherinlaw gasped. Hes still in bed. Its just a slight fever, nothing severe, winter has begun.
It isnt just winter! Its your job that brings all this home from the shop! How many times must I tell youfind a different line of work!
Ellen was drifting in sleep when a sudden clang ripped through the quietsomeone had flung open the front door. She rubbed her eyes, glanced at the clock, and saw it was only eightoclock in the morning.
Oliver, love, is that you? she asked, her voice trembling as she listened for any other sounds in the flat.
No answer came. Only the soft creak of the bathroom door opening, then silence.
Ellen threw on a housecoat, slipped barefoot into the bathroom, and threw open the door. She stopped dead, astonished.
There, by the mirror, stood Oliver, his lips pulled back, tongue jutting out as if admiring a strange sculpture.
Ellen, is it true that a person whose tongue turns white has a cold? he asked.
Are you saying youre sick? Ellen murmured, halfasleep.
Looks that way, he replied, touching his forehead worriedly. I need a thermometer. Where did we put it? Let me lie down. Theyve let me off work already. Well have to call a doctor.
Ellen fetched the glass thermometer. It read 37.2°C (99.0°F). The winter had indeed arrived, and Oliver collapsed onto the rug. The doctor arrived an hour later, handed out a sick note, and left.
Ellen rang her mother:
Mum, could you collect little Sam from nursery? He cant come homeOlivers ill.
Her mother, delighted to see her grandson, agreed eagerly. She lived alone and adored the child.
What about Oliver? Anything serious?
Nothing extraordinary. The doctor gave us rest, a few prescriptions, and thats that.
How are you feeling? her mother asked, concern softening her voice.
Im fine! I still have a second shift at the shop, and Ill ask my motherinlaw to drop by this evening. Oliver will watch the TV. So its a whole week of nightshift life. Thanks, Mum, were settled.
What to do now? She needed a light chicken broth, so a trip to the corner shop and the pharmacy was inevitable. She fetched chicken thighs from the freezer, bought carrots and potatoes.
At the pharmacy she collected everything required, then, at lunch, she nudged her husband awake.
Oliver, get up, have some broth, Ellen shook his shoulder.
Groggy, Oliver perched on the edge of the bed.
Oh, I feel nauseous! Could you bring the soup to me? I cant make it to the kitchen.
Is it that bad? Very well, Ill bring it. Then you can check your temperature again
He sipped the broth, and the thermometer still read 37.2°C. Ellen gave him a tablet. He turned his face to the wall and slipped back into sleep. Thank heavens. In this household a mans full sick pay was guaranteed, but Ellens own wages barely covered the grocery billsher family was already juggling a mortgage and loans, so she could not afford to fall ill herself.
She called her motherinlaw, Agnes:
Agnes, Olivers unwell. If anything, keep an eye on him this evening. The shop is busy later and I wont be able to reach you.
How can he be under the weather? What condition is he in? Agnes exclaimed.
Hes still in bed. Just a low fever, all normal, winters started.
Thats no ordinary winter! Its your job that drags all this home from the till! How many times must I tell youchange your line of work!
Agnes, Im not weak! You yourself said Oliver could collapse at the drop of a hat when he was a child. The frost has set in, so I have nothing to add
To stop the endless chatter, Ellen cut her off. Agnes loved to make a mountain out of a molehill, and she might be at the door within the hour. Let her look, Ellen thought; besides, it was time for her to get ready for her shift.
Sure enough, Agnes arrived with a sack of herbal teas and tinctures for the son, claiming they might help. She fussed over his damp shirt, exclaiming:
Look at him, lying there in that wet shirt, hell only get worse! How did you miss this?
Agnes, he was already sleeping, what could I have done?
Ellen left for work. Hours later a wave of fatigue washed over her. She, too, felt weak, but she could not show it; she had to finish her shift. That evening she measured her own temperatureit was higher than Olivers. She wanted to complain, but he was preoccupied with his own misery.
I feel a chill and a dizzy spin. Mum gave me tea with raspberry and honey; it helped a bit, but by night Im still lousy. What should I take?
You feel the same, dont you? Oliver said, glancing at his own pale tongue reflected in the mirror. Its still white.
Being ill was not an option for Ellen. She could not whine to anyone; if she told her mother, she would get a call every five minutes with unsolicited advice, and the motherinlaw would blame her, while Oliver would stay in his own world.
The decision was made: swallow the pills quietly and keep working. The loans would not disappear.
All week Oliver bemoaned his frailty, swearing the thermometer read a perfect 37°C, yet proclaiming he felt dreadful. The motherinlaw kept dropping off jars of infusions, and Ellen dreaded any encounter with her.
Oliver was oblivious, drifting between television and his phone. When Ellen returned home, she checked his temperature; on the fourth day it finally fell to normal.
The weakness lingered, but they managed. Oliver stayed in bed longer, demanding food delivered, temperature checks, and a drink at a moments notice. Agnes insisted his childhood frailty was now a fullblown cold, the first in five years of marriage, and it was unbearable!
He pushed through the mild malaise, constantly sighing about his condition.
The following week the doctor cleared him. Sam was collected and taken home. Oliver would return to work tomorrow.
Sitting at the kitchen table with a steaming cup of tea, Oliver recounted:
When we were kids, everything seemed easier to bear, but now Ive gone through something you cant imagine!
And whats so special about it? Why couldnt you just tough it out?
Youd have to stand in my shoes! Easy to talk when youre healthy.
I was healthy too! I went through the same, but you just didnt notice.
Oliver gave Ellen a skeptical glance, then a sly grin, as if to expose her secret:
Joking, are you? Very well, lets go to bed.
Ellen sighed, forlorn, Yes, he never really saw it
And so it went, like a dream where the weather whispered through the walls, and the only cure was a spoonful of broth, a handful of patience, and the stubborn belief that tomorrows sunrise would bring a steadier temperature.
