Inflammation

Stranded in Parallel [Chapter 14]

I laid in my bed, head on the pillow with the notebook beside it, waiting and watching for a response. After my body was warmed up enough, I could feel my body aching, including my stomach. I fought against the fog of my thoughts and the weakness of my limbs to finally push myself up and get dressed. I guess I was thinking that if I got up and got some food, I could act like I was somewhat fine when Mom got home.

I held onto the hand railing as I shuffled down the stairs, one careful step at a time. Several drags of my feet later, I found myself in front of the fridge and its chilly vapors, trickling into the room like slender ghosts. My eyes fell upon the half-full jug of milk.

It was more instinct than conscious thought that brought my hand to it. My arms ached as I held it up and unscrewed the cap. The jug sloshed as I tipped it forward to my mouth, something Mom would have hissed at me for. Something that Dad would have let out a singular shout over. My first gulp came easily, but it was far from enough. The second overflowed my mouth and went into my nose and all over my face. In my surprise, the whole jug slipped from my hands and fell to the linoleum with a hollow clatter and a splash.

“Shit.”

I nearly dove to the ground, and I would have if my reflexes weren’t held back by my weak body. Milk spilled across the ground, pooling around the base of the fridge and the corners of the cabinets. I yanked the jug up as it gave up what little it had left to spill. My head spun as I swished my head back and forth for the roll of paper towels.

With a fistful in my hands, I swabbed the ground, pushing around the puddle until the paper was soaked. My vision started to blur, and I could feel my knees enter the mess. As I grabbed for more paper towels off the roll, the entire thing fell to the ground and into the puddle.

The refrigerator began to hiss, struggling to compensate for the door being left open. I slammed it with the remainder of my strength, nearly collapsing in the process. With tears fully falling down my face, I leaned back against the cabinet door, leaving the mess barely better contained.

My heart jumped as the door clicked with the keys in the lock. I had been in that position for longer than I had expected. The floor still shimmered with the mess. My mom’s work shoes clacked on the entryway floor, and she announced her arrival at the house.

“Nat, I’m home. Are you… down… here…” She trailed off, spotting me on the ground there. “Oh… what’s all this?”

I hid my face in my arm, shaking my head. “I made a mess…” I said, trying to pass it off like it was a joke, like I was in the process of fixing it. “I’ll… get it…”

“Let’s get you off the floor here, first,” she said, trotting over and yanking me by my arm. “Dear, you’re burning up. Are you feeling sick?”

“I’m fine,” I growled, but my legs barely displayed that.

“You can’t even stand,” Mom sighed, shaking her head and holding me under my arms. “How long have you been feeling sick? Maybe it was something we touched yesterday at the hospital. And I was running late this morning, so I couldn’t check up on you before I left.”

I forced my feet beneath me. “I can stand. Let me go.”

Mom hovered behind me as I hobbled to the base of the stairs. “Can you make it? Head back to bed. Don’t worry about… all this. I’ll clean up this mess. I’ll make you something you can put down easily. I’ll… call in to get tomorrow off so you’re not just here by yourself.”

That last sentence made my hair prickle, as if it were a threat. “I’m fine!” I shouted, hefting myself up the next few stairs. “All this over a spill? You need to go to work. I’m fine.”

I glanced back down the stairs once I had reached the second floor. Mom was still staring up at me. She shook her head finally, hands on her hips, before turning to face the kitchen.

I dashed into my room and flopped down on my bed as my sudden burst of energy was fading. With what little I had left in me, I hid the notebook back under my pillow and laid myself up like I was simply waiting.

Mom eventually came with a bowl of food, her famous flavorless porridge that tasted like a book if it had been blended and boiled for hours. Mom sat on the corner of my bed and patted at my legs under the comforter as I forced several slow spoonfuls down, avoiding looking up at her. She mumbled out various vague apologies about Dad, about having to work so much, about moving, and about how I had to live like this. I handed her back the half-eaten bowl as a sign to get out.

“Well,” She sighed, taking the bowl. “I called, but because I’m still in my probationary period, I can’t call out. I just feel terrible about leaving you here all alone.”

“I’ll be fine,” I mumbled, still looking at the comforter instead of her.

“There’ll be some of this left over, and I can put something proper together too…”

“I’ll be fine,” I repeated, a little louder.

“I know, it’s just… how about I call you on my breaks and lunch?” She said, patting my knee. “Oh, but then you’ll have to come down the stairs to answer the phone…”

“It’s not my first time being sick,” I hissed.

Mom sighed and rolled her head back and forth. “I know it’s not. But… hopefully, with these treatments… it won’t be so bad from here on out.” With another sigh, she shuffled the bowl and silverware and stood up from the bed. “There’s more if you want. Don’t be afraid to shout if you need anything.”

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By the evening, Mom had spent all her energy doting on me and rightfully settled in to relax downstairs. I was usually quite fine with sleeping my way through these bouts of sickness, but the prospect of hearing from Ohanzee again kept me awake. Once I could hear no further footsteps downstairs, I slipped the notebook and pencil out and into my hands.

I’m glad that you would allow me back. Once more, I am sorry.

It seems we are both weak in body. But strong in mind. In will. Perhaps as beings we are similar parallels that have found their way into crossing.

I wish to remind you that Elohi is not magic, as you have spoken of. Not a power that can do anything without logic to guide it. It also has its limits. Despite the efforts of myself and various adept healers, my body is still stricken by the effects of the… white people’s sickness.

But Elohi has brought us together. Perhaps… the power of two worlds can bring about something else. Please, write to me about your illness so that I may understand it better.

All the moments sitting in the doctor’s offices, hearing the white-coated men talk around the issues while saying that everything would be alright, came back to me.

“My body… simply has no defenses against the… world. Anything and everything wants to make me sick. I even got sick at the place where I’m supposed to get better. They put medicine… or something into my body. It doesn’t work. Why would it? They told me and my mom that I would never even get better. So why even bother? Maybe… Elohi has decided to skip me right over.”

I gripped the pencil tightly, awaiting a response. I glanced at my bedroom window at the remains of the daylight fading into night, allowing my hand to loosen. I closed my eyes, trying to imagine what Elohi felt like, if anything at all. I almost began to write out a question with that in mind, but Ohanzee’s response was already being scrawled across the page.

Elohi is not so fickle… No, perhaps Elohi in your world is that fickle seeing as well utilized.

There are methods that allow the Elohi within yourself to orient with the Elohi present in the world around. But I must warn you that it may be slightly unpleasant.

I bit my lip and wrote out a response.“Anything. I trust you.”

The human body may be attuned to the various movements of Elohi through tattoos. Ink embedded into the skin. It uses a needle, and it is permanent. But it does offer some control. I have seen many of the common patterns, and I can write down where on the body to inscribe them. Allow me to write a few on this page here.

My heart dropped. The thought of getting a tattoo, let alone asking for one out of the blue, was impossible. A few simple drawings of concentric circles and curving lines began to take form on the opposite page of the notebook. I wrote again under Ohanzee’s words.

“I can’t. Sorry, it’s impossible…

I would have to be 18… or something… to even get one on my own. An adult would have to give me permission if not. And I can’t ask my mom, or I would have to explain this notebook. Everything. There’s no reasonable way I could ask for a tattoo anyway. Could I just draw those lines on my body, my skin, with pen? Ink for writing?”

It must be deeper than skin, I’m afraid.

I took a deep breath. “What if I carved those lines into my skin with something sharp? A knife?”

That is not safe. I don’t know… if that would work, either. I suppose it would. I understand your desperation, but… no.

I twiddled the pencil between my fingers, squeezing it over and over while my eyes darted back and forth over his response and the strange symbols. “I understand. I won’t do anything to hurt myself. But just in case I figure out something, maybe you can explain more about the tattoos. Like, where they go and stuff.”

Sure.

For several long minutes, Ohanzee began to make little notes alongside the cryptic drawings, adding more of them little by little. I watched his writing proliferate across another page until I could no longer hold my eyes open.