Mother follows close behind him. He tosses into the fire the slender piece of smooth, pale wood he pressed against my tongue. Mother closes the bedroom door to their muffled voices.
Exhaustion overwhelms me, and I sink deeper under the weighted quilts, seeking warmth and stillness for my unsettled body. Father’s deep voice, even at a whisper, echoes through my window. I hear him and the doctor speaking, despite the thick layer of fabric Mother has placed over the glass to shield the room from light and cold. Their hushed voices sound serious, and their words drift over the front porch to my red-hot ears.
Without a doubt, I am ill. Even if I survive the fever, the doctor worries about the strain on my heart. I bury myself deeper in the heavy cocoon of blankets while my warm breath heats the darkened sanctuary. Tinges of despair overcome me. Fear, instead of fever, ushers in a fresh vibration that leaves my body in a tangled heap of shivers.
I demand my body to heal. First I pray, and then I negotiate. If I could somehow put more love in my heart, perhaps it would grow strong again. I promise to do all my chores without complaint for the rest of my life. I will be patient with Iris, even when she makes me want to scream. I will never roll my eyes at Mother for as long as I live.