A Fever For Home

Bea’s been home sick all week. What was once a small cold had now evolved into a flu and raging fever of 104 degrees. She gazed out the window, desperately imagining herself outside, in the real world. The great oak in her front yard waved regrettably at her.

“You just need more rest,” her mom repeated.

Bea groaned. She had been resting. For seven days she had been resting and throughout this time her mom had been babying her. Her nightstand was full of empty glasses of water and aspirin.

“I’ll call the doctor again if your temperature is not better by the morning.”

As expected, Bea worsened through the night. Her mom took one look at her the next morning before promptly phoning their family doctor.

Bea stayed in her bed. She watched groggily as Dr. Hamlin poked and prodded at her. He checked her heartbeat with his cold metal stethoscope, then took her blood, pushing the needle into the soft skin of her inner left elbow. After finishing his tests, he collected his instruments and told her he’d be back again tomorrow. In the meantime, he gave her a new, off the market, painkiller. To help the flu symptoms, he told her. It was the size of a walnut; she swallowed it whole.

Bea spent the next day in limbo, falling in and out of restless sleep. Her dog, Arthur, whined by her bed sadly all morning, but she didn’t have the energy to pet him. By midday he had left her alone. Bea was restless. Her back ached uncomfortably against her spongy mattress. She only left it twice in the past three days to pee. One more moment lying there, and she thought it might swallow her whole. In a last-ditch effort for comfort, she tugged at her quilt and rolled off the bed and onto the hardwood floor with her pillow. Bea’s stomach dropped with her as she fell. She didn’t know how long she was falling for, but she was sure it was longer than it should have taken. It was as though she eluded the floorboards and dropped down to the middle of the earth. When she finally hit the ground, she felt the contents of her stomach fly up to her throat.

Bea sat up coughing, until her coughs turned to heaving and she forced herself to crawl to the bathroom where she hung her head over the toilet. Only bile and water came up, but she could feel something else stuck just past her uvula. She pushed her fingers down her throat so far that she gagged out a wormlike creature that flung to the inside of the toilet bowl with a wet squelch. Bea panted against the toilet seat as the thick pink parasite writhed around, drowning in the murky toilet water. She cringed, then flushed, watching as it twirled twice around the bowl before being sucked away into the sewers. When she stood up, her head felt suddenly clear.

She was newly rejuvenated. Bea laughed at herself, all of that over some teensy-weensy bug.

She could hear her mother opening the door to Doctor Hamlin downstairs now. She scrunched her eyebrows; didn’t her mother know that she was all better?

Bea skipped downstairs, excited to tell her the good news. She rounded the corner and paused. Two great oaks stood in the entryway. Their leaves tittered as a breeze swept in through the open door. They seemed to whistle her name.

“Mom?”

Their branches reached out towards her with their spindly arms but before they managed to grab her Arthur came running over. He stood in front of her defensively, barking madly at the trees.

“Don’t be silly, Arthur,” She told him, “That’s mom and Dr. Hamlin!”

The Dr. Hamlin tree leaned closer, and Arthur jumped up, ripping off one of his branches and taking off with it out the door.

“Arthur no!” Bea ran past the oaks after him, “That’s not a toy!”

She chased Arthur down the street, but he was much too fast for her, and he disappeared out of sight. Bea walked back to the house in defeat, unsure of how she would break the news to the doctor about his lost limb.

However, the oaks no longer stood in the entry way and Bea searched the house looking for them only to come up empty. She climbed the stairs by two to check her mother’s room. Bea tapped lightly on her bedroom door before nudging it open.

Her mother’s room was not as she remembered. The walls were painted pink and teal, the floor was scattered with books and toys, and the only pieces of furniture were a crib and a rocking chair.

Bea peeked into the crib to see a baby sleeping peacefully. She picked her up and sat in the rocking chair, cradling her carefully to not startle her awake. She rocked the two of them for a few minutes, singing a soft lullaby, until the baby started to stir. The baby opened her eyes and stared up at Bea in wonder. She had the same eyes as her mother. Bea quickly realized that this baby was in fact her mother after all.

Her baby-mom babbled up at her nonsensically and Bea giggled, making funny faces at her. Then her baby-mom started to snivel. Before soon enough, she was full-fledged wailing. Bea tried all she could to make it stop but her baby-mom only screamed louder. Bea rocked them faster. The screaming got so loud to a point that Bea had no choice but to let go of her baby-mom and cover her ears. She squeezed her eyes shut and hummed loudly to muffle the screaming until it finally slowed to a stop.

Bea opened her eyes to Dr. Hamlin standing above her. Her baby-mom had disappeared, and she was lying on her bed in her room. Dr. Hamlin shook his head mournfully. His mouth opened and closed as he spoke to her mother who dejectedly at his side. She couldn’t hear what the doctor was saying but it couldn’t have been good. She knew this because although her mother was no longer a baby, Bea could tell that she was still crying. The doctor placed his hands over Bea’s eyes and swept her eyelids shut. Bea cried then too, unable to reopen them. Her tears seeped out the corners of her eyes and dripped down her ears and into her hair. She knew then that she had died. She didn’t want to be dead. It was at this moment of realization that Bea’s conscience came rushing back. She was having a nightmare.

Bea startled herself awake, she was back lying on the floor next to her bed. Her pajamas were soaked through in sweat and her quilt had been kicked off to her feet. She sluggishly chugged the water on her nightstand to rid her mouth of its fuzzy feeling. For a moment she feared she might still be dreaming, she had never dreamt so vividly before. Bea left her room quietly creeping downstairs where she spied her mother on the couch with her reading glasses and book, sipping at a steaming mug of coffee. All seemed normal so Bea made herself known.

“My Bumble Bea, you’re up! You’ve been sleeping for ages, how are you feeling?”

“I feel better,” Bea replied, “but I’ve had the weirdest dream.”

“Oh, yes, Dr. Hamlin mentioned that the medicine he gave you might make you more susceptible to experiencing fever dreams. But it seemed to have worked wonders, you look much better!”

“I feel better,” she repeated.

“Well, if your appetite's back there’s loaf in the kitchen,” She sang,” your favourite.” Bea’s stomach grumbled; she could smell the banana loaf from there.

Bea was back, there was no doubt about it now. It had all just been some freaky fever dream after all. She sliced herself off a hunking piece of loaf in the kitchen that she ate with her fingers as she watched Arthur who had started barking incessantly under the fence in the backyard.

“Bea! Arthur’s barking at the neighbor’s dog again, can you get him?”

Bea sighed and slipped on her gum boots to walk out back. Arthur had dug a gaping hole under their neighbours adjoining fence. Most of his body was tucked under it into the neighbor’s backyard except for his butt, where his tail wagged excessively back and forth as he rained his doggy insults at the poodle next door.

“Arthur!” She yelled at him.

He didn’t listen. She huffed.

“Hey!” She stomped closer to the fence and reached under trying to grab a hold of his collar. He bit her. She yanked her hand away in surprise. Arthur had never done that before. “Bad Arthur!”

He turned.

She gasped.

That thing was not Arthur.

Bea stared into Dr. Hamlin’s predatory eyes, his face stitched bloodily into Arthur’s skin. He growled at her, low and guttural, before leaning back on his haunches and pouncing.