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Babysitter in the Bathtub
You are in the bath, and you hear a call on the landline. Your mom yells through the bathroom door to tell you that Sheryl called and she has a babysitting job .
You have your mom give you the phone while you are in the bath, hand creeping around the door.
You put it on speaker on the toilet lid, and ask when she needs you.
“I actually have a weird request.” “Okay shoot”
“Well, for the school break there is going to be a pageant that my sister wants Olive to be in, Frank is also going, because he hasn’t seen her since he’s been out of the hospital. And Richard refuses to stay home, because of some work thing.” “No, yeah I totally understand, but what is it that you need me to do?”
“Well Olive was sick last week, with a stomach bug, she’s all better now,” she added, “but Dwayne has it, and I just don’t feel comfortable leaving him alone when he’s sick.”
“I’m available anytime.”
“Thank you so much, we’ll be gone from the 8th to the 11th, unless Olive wins top three, in which we may have to stay in California ‘til the 14th for some sort of ceremony, but I doubt he will still be sick by then.”
“Do you need me to stay at your house then, or…”
“No, no, just once or twice a day, to check up on him. Maybe make sure he eats something, and force him to take medicine when he needs it, he probably wouldn’t take it even if his temperature was 110,” she sounds exhausted.
“Hey, don’t worry about it, I’ll be over tomorrow morning, what time are you guys leaving?”
“Too early, I’ll leave you a note with instructions walking you through everything.”
“Sounds good, and make sure to call and tell me how Olive does, and wish her luck for me.” You start finishing up the call to let them pack.
“I will, and thanks for helping on such short notice.”
“No problem, and Sheryl, I hope you have a good time on the trip.”
“Thank you, I’ll call you when we get there, bye.”
“Bye.”
Your arm was dripping on the floor, as you hung up the phone.
Shot Glass of Pink Syrup
Late morning the next day, you knock on the Hoover’s door, after waiting a minute, you let yourself in. Dwayne isn’t in the living room or kitchen, so he must be in his room.
A bottle of liquid Tylenol was set next to a shot glass on the dining table, and a note was left on a yellow legal pad. The note reads: Left at 5a.m. He was feeling fine, so he didn’t take medicine. However, Dwayne was up, miserable all last night. I will write you a check when we get back. I also left $40 on the counter, if you need to order a pizza… Thanks again for doing this!
And at the bottom of the paper was their sister Cindy’s number, just in case you needed to call.
Your feet sunk into the shag carpet with every step down the hall to Dwayne’s room. After the last trip, Frank got his own room, so Dwayne was alone in here. You stood outside the door, left open a jar, seeing him lay on his bed. His sheets were sagging down the edge of the bed, dripping down to the floor.
“Dwayne, you awake?” There was no response, meaning you would need to wake him to take his temperature. It felt strange, entering his room without him knowing. You walked in, shimming in through the crack in the door, so his door didn’t squeak to wake him.
He lay on his side, in grey sweatpants and a white shirt, face half pressed into the pillow, and his mouth open. His feet were tangled in the remnants of the bedding.
You looked around, the Nietzsche banner was down, and his room was warmer than you remember, not just in color, temperature too. You got close to the bed, “Dwayne,” you said again. You reached out to shake him, not knowing where to touch, so your arm stayed out for a long moment.
You set your hand down on his hip, but not letting your fingers grip down to touch his butt. You shook him a little, repeating his name in a louder tone.
“Mom?” His eyes barely opened.
“Ummm no, it’s me. I’m just going to take your temperature.” You looked to his side table, a thermometer was laying next to a half full movie theater cup of water. You picked it up, and his head fell back to the pillow, and with seemingly no depth perception he reached for the instrument.
He placed it under his tongue, mercury rapidly rising.
After an awkward moment of you standing over him, he took the tube from his mouth. The numbers had peaked at a little over 101.
“Woah, okay. You must be burning.” You ran your hand up his arm, and squeezed at his shoulder. He flinched away, skin probably sore. “I’m going to grab you some medicine, how are you feeling?”
He didn’t respond, rather shrugging in place.
You walked back down the hall, and straight to the counter, where a bottle of tylenol sits. You pick it up, reading for the dosage, but they all seem to be for children 12 and under. You decide that filling the shot up would get the job done, and return to his bedside, walking tentatively, as to not spill.
He was more presentable, his hair was laying more smoothly than when you’d left him, and you noticed his dyed black hair was a light brown at the roots now. He was also sitting up.
You handed the shot glass of pink syrup to him. He shivered, and shut his eyes tight. “You really don’t like this stuff do you?” You picked up his water and held it out to him.
He swallowed the medicine swiftly, gagged once, then his hand shot to his stomach, and the other over his mouth. Dwayne groaned, taking his hand off of his mouth to take your drink offering. Every swallow was loud, like he was trying to keep something down, by drinking quickly.
“I was gonna check on you, then go home to eat. Come back tonight,” you said, sitting next to Dwayne on his bed, “but I could go get food for the both of us, and maybe stop and get you some adult medicine if you want.”
His lip was still wobbly. He hummed a pleased sound, that you decided to take as a yes.
“Should I wait until the medicine starts to work or should I leave soon?” You asked him.
“I am getting hungry,” he said bashfully, setting his now empty cup on the nightstand.
“I’ll leave now, then.” You picked up his cup and took it to the kitchen to fill.
It fills slowly under the low water pressure of the facet, giving you time to look at the art and pictures that seem to riddle every corner of the house. Photos of Sheryl and Richard’s wedding overlapped report cards with A’s and B’s in every subject and Dwayne’s name at the top. You never knew his last name until looking at it; you had always assumed that his last name was just the same as the rest of the Hoover’s.
The water had filled and overflowed into the sink. You dump some out before returning it to its rightful place on the nightstand. Dwayne was in the bathroom, so you yelled that you were leaving, and grabbed your keys off the table.
Frozen Taquitos on a Sick Stomach
An hour and a half of running around town brought you back to The Hoover’s house, with a full tank of gas, a five dollar footlong from Subway, and two cans of soup. No medicine.
You walk in their front door, and are met with Dwayne sitting at the table reading a book. He stands to offer you help, and you wave him off.
“I got a sandwich for myself, and I got you some soup,” You set the bag on the table, “I couldn’t get the medicine though, apparently you need to be 21 for that.”
He dug through the bag, and held up the two soups.
“Thank you for trying, I’m going to eat the soup later I think. Right now I could go for some real food though.”
“Are you sure? That might make you sick.” You got your sandwich out of the bag, unwrapping it, and Dwayne handed you a plate.
“I am fine, right now at least,” he said standing by you at the table.
“You’re free to have my other half.” You slid the plate over to him, and opened the bread, exposing the sandwiches middle. The fileted sandwich had jalapenos covering the top layer of anything edible so he had to refuse. “Just because you aren’t sick right now, doesn’t mean that the symptoms are gone, so you might not want to eat anything too harsh. Just incase it fucks with your stomach.”
He was already digging out a box of taquitos from the freezer, covered in ice. “I think I’m fine,” he mumbled as he put them on a plate. He wrapped them in a paper towel and threw the plate into the microwave.
A minute…
He takes the wrapped taquitos off of the hot turntable, and grabs some salsa from the refrigerator. He, along with the plate and jar, go and sit on the couch to eat.
You join him and reach for the remote on the middle of the coffee table. You turn it to Nick, and enjoy the shows about kids going to school, and living without adults.
After a couple episodes pass, Dwayne sits up. He’s pale, and looks like he’s sweating.
“Are you okay, you look like you’re going to be sick?” You lean toward the edge of the couch ready to stand, just like he is.
Dwayne picks his plate up to take to the kitchen, but bending down must not have helped his stomach. He sets it back down, and slowly starts walking out of the room. He only gets half way across the carpet before he says, “I don’t feel good.”
Almost immediately after announcing, he falls down to his knees behind the couch, and he turns his head away. His fists are tight, and he rubs them up and down his legs. He is shaking, but you can’t see his face.
His hands stop making fists, and he moves them up to cover his face.
You don’t move.
After a second however, you ask, “do you need help getting to the bathroom now?”
He nods.
You tiptoe around the coffee table, behind the couch, and meet him still in a ball. He doesn’t lift his head when you approach, rather he tucks it closer to his chest. You place your arms under his armpits.
He’s sweaty and hot, and you assume that his medicine has worn off by now. You walk him to the bathroom down the hall, holding up most of his weight.
You leave him at the door, and ask that he keep the door unlocked, in case he needs you. Then you yell from outside the door, “where does your mom keep the towels?”
“Hall closet,” speaking loudly makes his voice break.
Opening the hall closet, you see a tower going to the ceiling of towels, sheets, blankets, and what might be curtains, (but you didn’t see the metal rings). You pull out a dark towel, straight from the middle of the stack and surprisingly it doesn’t fall.
“Can I hand it to you,” you ask, already prepared to close your eyes tight. A skinny arm shimmies around the corner, and you pass it over.
The water starts and you decide to sit on the floor outside, like camping out overnight for a concert. You need to be there for him, just in case he needs you.
Sitting on the floor back to the wall, you play with the carpet. Then after a few boring moments, you stretch your legs out and reach for your toes as far as you can. You can hear water splashing down, and bottles clunking and sputtering out soap or shampoo, or whatever part of the process he may be at.
Wonder if you can do the splits? You stand and start inching yourself down, until your legs start burning, and you topple back.
Boredom overtakes you and you wander to Dwayne's room and start looking at his bookshelf. Symposium, Thus Spoke, Remembrance of Things…
The hot water hitting Dwayne’s back felt good at first, but soon the heat overcame him. His head felt heavy, dizzy, and faint. He tipped his head down, and held on to the side of the tub, this only worsened the feeling. The room spun and his stomach growled angrily.
“Are you out there?” He could only conjure a whisper while bending down, before he started to burp. “Can you come in and help? Please.” He tried swallowing back this nauseous feeling, but it quickly turned.
He swiped the shower curtain away, and his hands hit the edge of the toilet, catching his falling body. With a crash he opened the toilet…
And a crashing sound pulled you from your snooping. You stumbled around the doorway, and hesitated by the door, until you heard gagging.
You opened the solid wood door, and saw Dwayne’s head in the toilet, one leg in the shower, the other dripping puddles of water onto the linoleum floor. The wet shower curtain clung around his body, which was wracked with gags and/or sobs. He heaved breaths, and choked on the mostly liquid that quickly evacuated from his stomach.
You took his towel off the floor and held it out for him. He soon got a break from his violent vomiting, and wrapped the towel around his body, replacing the shower curtain. You could then help him get his footing and turn off the shower, ignoring the pile of wet clothes in the bottom of the shower from earlier.
Now, hugged into his own body, he shook, near the toilet. His hair dripped shampoo, and he sat in the puddle of water he had created. His lip wobbled and he hummed a whimpering tone to keep his gag reflex at bay.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know how to help you,” you said as the first thing since you entered the room.
He cried at your statement. Bubbles from his hair dripped down into his reddened eyes, burning on contact.
“Where are your washcloths?” You started looking in the cabinets before you could even finish your question.
He pointed to the hall, and you ran out to the hall closet and the tower of towels. Which sounds like a ride at Disneyland, but now was not the time.
You pulled one from the basket, feeling for the softest one in the bin. More retching stopped your testing, and you returned to his side.
You put your hand on his shoulder, waiting patiently for the wave of nausea to subside. Guttural sounds and high scents filled the tiny bathroom, making you feel sick. Now was no time for you to throw up, though so you kept it to yourself.
Minutes of retching, dry heaving, and sobs, left Dwayne exhausted with snot and tears all over his face. You turned around for a second so he could put on boxers off of the counter, and dry off his lower half.
“Can I look now?” You were turned toward the bathroom door, with your hands covering your eyes so you couldn’t accidentally see anything in the mirror.
He pulled at your shirt, since his throat was probably killing him from the horrible gags and sobs.
Turning, you find him slumped down on the toilet, wearing blue checkered boxers, and a towel around his shoulders. His eyes are a painful red. They are puffy, and pathetically swelled. He still has shampoo falling down his half black hair.
“If you sit on the edge of the tub and lean over, can I get the shampoo out of your hair?”
He stood up, and sat at the edge. He leaned forward, and sat back up abruptly. He looked to you with a whine and a waver of a frown. You took the washcloth from earlier, and wet it in the sink, then took it to his snotty face. After that you wet it again, ringing it out on top of his head, excess water running into his towel that rest on his tired shoulders.
A couple more times and the suds were gone. He reached up like a toddler who wanted to be picked up and you knew his mission was a similar one. He put his hands on your shoulders to help himself stand, then kept them there as he finished getting dressed in his most comfortable pajamas.
You walked him to his bed, whence he finished getting dressed. And pulled back his covers for him. The less bending he does the better.
The movie theater cup still stands on the nightstand, empty. A helpful thing that you decide to do is fill it up again and keep Dwayne hydrated. So this time, not wanting to stray too far, you take it to the bathroom to fill. You walk out with the cup, and hear a small noise, and assume that it is Dwayne getting comfortable in bed. The tap runs cold, and the pressure fills the cup slowly.
You shut it off with a squeak, and carry it carefully back to the bedroom, not spilling any more puddles of water.
When you arrived at the side of his bed, Dwayne had rolled away from you. His shoulders shook and he shivered in his [color] shirt.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” You grabbed his trash can from the side of his desk, and thankfully it was lined. “Are you gonna be sick again?”
“I’m sorry,” he whined, and shook his head.
“It’s okay,” you said, not knowing exactly what he was meaning, but knowing what it was about. “What do you need?”
He rolled back over to face you, and his eyes were puffy and his cheeks were red. He started to cry, and you repeated your previous question. “I want… I want my mom,” he choked out.
Your eyes welled up at his request, and you felt it all the way to your stomach. But not a moment later, you composed yourself. “I can call her if you’d like.”
He covered his face with his hand, and you heard a muffled, “No, I just want her.”
“May I sit down,” you gestured to the edge of his bed.
He started crying harder, and you made the split decision to sit down next to him. His childlike sobs were loud, and shook the bed you shared. He whined a little, too.
You rubbed up and down his shoulder, offering comfort in any way you could. Soon, you lay down next to him, and started to play with his still damp hair.
He bit his hand to quiet the sobs that wrack his body. But quickly you pulled his hand away, so he didn’t hurt himself. Although you were too late and a bruise in a crescent moon shape was already visible.
After a little time, his breathing had become more calm, and his body was only slightly shuddering.
“Hey Dwayne, do you want to try to fall asleep? After a fever, everything in the bathroom, and now this, it’s no wonder you felt like crying. Anyone would be exhausted. And that’s nothing to be embarrassed about, btw’s.”
He peeked out from behind his hands, eyes still glassy from the tears, and he lay his head down on the pillow next to the one you leaned back on. You rubbed his back. His eyelids fell closed, and his eyelashes stuck together from wetness.
The sun shone in through the gaps in the blinds and lit up his chest, and created reflections across the tear tracks on his cheeks. His breathing was now deep and even, so you eased yourself off of the bed.
You cleaned up lunch from the living room. Throwing both of the leftover plates away. And then you remembered the clothes in the shower, and all of the water on the bathroom floor that you could help clean while you waited for Dwayne to wake up.
You pushed open the bathroom door, keeping a hand on the handle so you wouldn’t make much noise, then you almost slipped and fell on your ass, so the handle really helped.