“Sasha!”
Sighing, I shut down the document I was reading, and made my way through to where Jackson was dying. I’d like to confirm I had no part in his condition, and he had the flu.
Pushing open the door, I smiled at the sight that met me.
Jackson was lying spread-eagled on the bed, the sheet only just covering his lower half, and Milkshake was purring and doing some paw-to-claw massage thing on his head.
Ever try nursing man flu with a broken leg and broken arm? It’s a blast.
“You called?”
Blowing his nose noisily, he dropped his hand back down onto the bed with the dirty tissue still clutched in it.
Making my way over to him, I picked up the trashcan that was right next to him and ordered, “Drop it.”
His eyes were pink and watering when they turned to me, but he dropped the tissue like I’d requested.
“I don’t feel good.”
He had a fever that made him sweat buckets, but there was really nothing they could do for the flu, so he was toughing it out.
I’d offered to call the doctor to see if they had anything new or secret to help him, but he’d waved it off and told me to “leave him to die.”
Checking the time, I picked up the bottles of Tylenol and ibuprofen, and shook the pills out into my hand.
“I know you do. Can you take these for me and drink some Gatorade while I take your temperature?”
He didn’t even nod. He just opened his mouth for me to drop the pills in, then waited while I opened the bottle and poured some in there, too. I know women mock men for having the man flu, but the poor guy was sick.
Putting a new cover on the thermometer, I stuck it in his ear, ignoring his grunt of pain. This was something I had ordered from Amazon, because who gave a shit if the guy who picked their orders knew they needed to take their temperature? My thermometer was back at my apartment, and there was no way I could even get down the stairs to get a cab back there to pick it up.
Looking at the screen once it beeped, I tried to think of the best thing to do.
What did my dads do when I was sick?
Eureka!
Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I turned the flashlight on. “Open your mouth. I’m going to check your throat, okay?”
I wouldn’t say he opened it so much as he just let it drop open for me to see what was going on. Because I wasn’t a nurse and I didn’t have much experience with anything throat related, I made a mental note of what I saw, then decided taking a photo of it would be better.
Swapping from torch to camera, I hit the button and then started Googling throat problems.
After some deliberation between a helpful and disgusting photo and the one I’d taken of his throat, I gently shook his hand.
“Jackson, I think you might need a doctor.”
“No.” It was said simply and plainly as he tried to turn onto his side.
Stopping him with a hand on his shoulder, I persisted. “Honey, if what I’m looking at is right, you’ve got tonsilitis or strep throat. Maybe even both at the same time.”
“Not possible,” he rasped.
“According to this, it is. And it’s either that or you’ve got herpes in there.”
That had his eyes snapping open so he could glare at me. “I don’t have herpes.”
“I think you need to see a doctor anyway. Your fever’s staying high, and it says here if you have a persistent high fever, you need to see a doctor.”
“But I don’t want to go. I want to die in peace,” he whined, his voice breaking on almost every word.
Chewing on my lip, I picked up the piece of paper I’d been noting his temperature readings on, and made a plan as I walked out of the bedroom.
He couldn’t get upset if I called them to ask them what to do, could he? And I had a photo of his throat which help them.
So, that’s what I did. The photo definitely ended up coming in handy because, within two hours, they were calling a prescription for antibiotics through for Jackson and they’d even be delivered because of my current mobility issues.
Only, when the doorbell rang an hour later, I assumed it was the delivery guy from the pharmacy and threw the door open with a big smile on my face.
Instead of the hello I was about to say, I gasped, “Dad?”
“And what about me?” a deep voice sighed from behind my dad.
“Dad?” I paused. “Both dads?”
“Um, I’ve got a prescription for Jackson Townsend-Rossi?” A new voice asked from behind both men, and all three of us angled ourselves to look at the newcomer, making him gulp and take a step back.