by Dan Dillard
Chapter 17
“She's dead and I wasn't there ... How will Emily ever forgive me?”
-Ethan Jacobs, Electronic Journal entry #49
..ooOOoo..
Ethan saw the face of that little girl each time he closed his eyes. So fearful was he that she might scold him again that he trembled continuously, unable to relax. Finally he went to the kitchen cabinet and gulped a shot of bourbon to calm his nerves.
It burned his throat, which was still sore from vomiting, but it was the medicine he needed to settle down. He went back to the living room couch to lie down for a while and try to think about anything else.
He didn't sleep any more that night, and when he finally stood up, it was eight am and he felt lousy. A quick glance in the mirror showed a man who looked twenty years older. He had a pounding headache. A thermometer popped in his mouth read 102 degrees. Ethan grimaced at the sight and called in to work.
He was certain he was sick. Flu would explain the fever, the vomiting, and maybe even the dreams. After calling work, he called the doctor and was lucky enough to get right in for an exam. In and out in a flash, he was on his way to pick up his usual list for nursing a viral infection: Tylenol, NyQuil, juice, clear soda, a bunch of junk food, and some whiskey.
He’d be out of work for a couple days while he broke the fever. He could use the time to read.
Emily was sweet on the phone.
“I’ll bring you some dinner when I leave work. Anything in particular?”
“Can’t think of anything. I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep it down, although my stomach is feeling a little better.”
"Well, don't worry, I'll think of something that will be easy on your stomach. Get some rest, and I'll see you later."
He hung up the phone and smiled. He'd forgotten what it was like to have someone care.
