The worst part is, because I grew up watching my mother go cold turkey so many times, I know exactly what awaits me. A fine film of sweat breaks out on my forehead as I remember the way she would clutch her stomach and scream when she ran out of smack and had no way of replenishing her supply. How she would puke for days, and cry and cry and cry.
I wish I didn’t know what was about to happen.
I go through the motions. Eat a good breakfast, knowing it will probably be my last good meal in a couple days. Jase must notice how quiet I am.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah. I think I’m just getting a flu or something,” I lie.
He looks concerned. “You need to see a doctor?”
I shake my head emphatically. “Nope.” You cannot know what I’ve done. “I’ll just get some rest.”
I dump my bowl in the sink and move stiffly to the bedroom, laying myself under the thick duvet.
It doesn’t take long to hit. First, the headache that feels like a vice squeezing my skull until it explodes. Then, pain spreads to all of my joints. My stomach churns for a couple hours, and then I start puking. I’ve got the sweats. It’s all stuff I know much too well from days spent nursing my mother as she suffered through the same.
The clock does nothing to help my plight. I think three hours must have passed, roll over to the clock, only to see two fucking minutes have crawled by. I am dying. I want to die.
This is the worst pain I’ve ever experienced; the shame of knowing why I’m sick only adds to the writhing pain and panic that runs through my veins. Simultaneous fire and ice, hunger and thirst, empty and full. I am a mess.
I sweat and twist, knotting myself in damp sheets, until Jase is there with a cold compress and a glass of water.
“You think you have the flu?” he asks me, helping me up and holding the water to my lips. I take a sip, the cold water refreshing as it hits my tongue and throat. He’s frowning. He looks concerned.
“Do you need a doctor?” he asks me. “Is the baby—”
The baby seems completely fine. She continues to pummel me, seemingly unaware than mama is sick as a fucking dog and would really appreciate some stillness for a little while. Every well-directed jab of tiny arms and legs kicks my hideous nausea into overdrive, the only thing stopping me from puking more the fact that I have already emptied my stomach. But in a strange way, I’m also welcoming of the movements. My fellow fighter, my mini warrior, my daughter—I still find it incredibly strange to say that, daughter—letting me know she’s still in there, still as feisty as ever. A survivor, just like me.
I take another sip of water and it’s one sip too much. Violent nausea grabs hold of me again, bitter bile rears its way up my throat, and I’m lucky I have a bucket beside me to grab and hurl into. I’ve never been a delicate vomiter—I almost always get tears in my eyes and feel like I’m being suffocated—but this is even worse than the standard morning sickness fare. I look in the bucket, half-expecting to see I’ve finally hurled up my own stomach.
Nope, just the water. I take the glass back from Jase and suck out one small sip, swishing it around my mouth before spitting it back in the bucket. The logical side of me says I’ll be dehydrated very soon if I can’t keep fluids down.
“I don’t need a doctor,” I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “I’ll be fine.”
Jase presses his hand to my forehead, his hand freezing, and he raises his eyebrows.
“Jesus,” he says. “You’re like a furnace.” He takes the bucket from my hands and leaves the room. I let myself flop back on the pillows, frustrated. I’ve never been good at letting other people take care of me when I’m down and out, and this time is no different. But Jase is a natural.
He’s going to be such a good father. He’s showing me he’ll be an excellent husband, but I already knew that. Someone who risks his life on an almost hourly basis to protect me deserves a fucking medal, especially when they also hold my hair back while I vomit and clean up the bucket afterward. I am truly the luckiest girl alive. I went back to L.A. to kill every single motherfucker who did me wrong that afternoon six years ago, and not only did I get to revel in their sweet suffering, but I’ve also managed to score a fiancé and a baby out of the deal. It’s all too good to be true.
Which is why I just have to push through this. Get past my body’s desire for the smack, get past my dependence on the bottle of cherry-flavored liquid that was keeping me from going completely insane.
“You wanna try and eat something?” Jase asks, as he returns with the empty bucket. He places it beside the bed as I kick the blankets off again. HotColdHotColdHotColdHOTHOTHOT.