Hows heill? Whats his condition? gasped the motherinlaw. Hes lying in bed. Its just a slight temperature, nothing serious, winters started.
Its not just winter! Its your job that brings all that junk home from the till! How many times must I tell youchange your line of work!
Blythe Hart was halfasleep when a loud bang shattered the quietsomeone had slammed the front door. She rubbed her eyes, glanced at the clockonly eight oclock in the morning.
Oliver, love, is that you? she asked, her voice trembling as she listened for any other sounds in the flat.
No answer. She heard only the soft click of the bathroom door closing behind her.
She threw on a housecoat, slipped barefoot into the hallway and raced toward the bathroom. The door swung open and she stopped dead in her tracks.
There, by the mirror, stood Oliver Hart, his mouth twisted into a smug grin, his tongue lolling out as if daring her to stare.
Blythe, is it true that a person with a cold gets a white tongue? he asked, eyes sparkling with mischief.
Youve caught a cold? she replied, drowsy.
Looks that way, he said, pressing a hand to his forehead. I need a thermometer. Wheres it? Let me lie down. Theyve let me off work early. Well have to call a doctor.
Blythe fetched the mercury thermometer. It read 37.2°C. The winter had arrived; Oliver collapsed onto the bed. A doctor arrived an hour later, handed out a fitnote, and left.
Blythe dialed her mothers number.
Mum, could you pick up little Sammy from nursery? He cant come homeOlivers got a cold.
Martha, who lived alone and adored her grandson, was delighted. She loved the chance to have him with her.
Is Oliver all right? Anything serious? she asked.
Nothing major. The doctor gave a fitnote, prescribed some rest, and well be fine.
How are you holding up? her mother fretted.
Im okay! Ive got a second shift at the supermarket, and Ill ask Winifred to swing by this evening. Thats the plan for the whole week. Thanks, mum, weve got it sorted.
She turned to the kitchen, thinking aloud. Shed need a light chicken broth, so a quick dash to the shop was in order, plus a trip to the chemist. From the freezer she retrieved chicken thighs, then bought carrots and potatoes.
At the chemist she collected everything required, then returned to rouse her husband at lunch.
Oliver, get up and have some soup, Blythe shook him gently by the shoulder.
Halfasleep, Oliver sat up on the bed.
I feel nauseous! Can you bring the soup to me? I cant make it to the kitchen.
Is it that bad? Fine, Ill bring it. Then you can check your temperature again
He finished the broth, she took his temperaturestill 37.2°C. She handed him a couple of tablets. Oliver turned his face to the wall and fell back asleep. Thank heavens.
She knew she couldnt afford to fall ill herself; the employer paid full sick pay, but Blythes own finances were tight. The family was juggling a mortgage and a car loan; a day off would mean missing a payment. She called Winifred.
Winifred Hart, Olivers ill. Could you keep an eye on him this evening? Its always busy at the shop and I cant get through to him.
How can he be ill? Whats his state? Winifred retorted, shocked.
Hes lying in bed. Temperatures low, nothing serious, winters started.
Thats not just winter! Its your job, bringing home all that junk from the till! How many times must I tell youchange your line of work!
Winifred, Im not weak! You yourself said Oliver could drop to the floor as a child. The colds come, so Ive got nothing to do
Blythe cut the tirade short. Winifred loved to make a mountain out of a molehill, and she would be at the door within the hour, boxes of herbal teas spilling onto the floor. Blythe sighedshed have to face her motherinlaw anyway, and she still had to get ready for her shift.
Sure enough, Winifred arrived, bags of assorted tinctures in hand, declaring they might help. She fussed over Olivers damp shirt, exclaiming:
Look at you, lying there in a soaked shirt! Youll catch a worse chill. How could you let this happen?
Winifred, he was already asleep, what could I have done? Blythe snapped back.
She left for work, but a few hours later the weakness crept over her too. She felt faint, but she could not show it; she had to finish her shift. That evening her temperature spiked higher than Olivers. She wanted to complain to him, but he was lost in his own thoughts.
Im shivering and feel dizzy. Mum gave me tea with raspberry leaf and honey; it helped a bit, but by nightfall Im still lousy. What should I take?
Youre not the only one feeling awful Oliver muttered, glancing at his own pale tongue in the mirror. Its still white.
She could not afford to be sick. Complaining to her mother would mean endless calls every five minutes with unsolicited advice; telling Winifred would only earn accusations; and Oliver would stay wrapped in his own misery.
The decision was madekeep quiet, take the tablets, and push through. Loans didnt disappear because she was ill.
All week Oliver wallowed in his weakness, swearing that the thermometer read exactly 37°C, yet proclaiming he felt terrible. Winifreds visits became regular, her herbal concoctions piling up. Blythe dreaded seeing her in the hallway; her mood darkened each time the door opened.
Oliver, oblivious, dozed on the couch, the television flickering, his phone buzzing. When Blythe returned home each night, she checked his temperature; by the fourth day it finally normalized.
Weakness lingered, but they managed. Oliver lingered in bed longer, demanding food delivered, temperature checks, and water every hour. Winifred warned that hed been frail as a child, but this was the first real cold in their fiveyear marriage, and she called it unbearable.
He soldiered on, complaining constantly. The following week the doctor cleared him; Sammy was collected from nursery, and Oliver was due back at work the next day.
Sitting at the kitchen table with an evening cup of tea, Oliver confessed:
As a kid I could shake off anything, but this you have no idea how badly Ive felt!
Whats so extraordinary about it? Blythe asked, weary.
If youd been in my shoes, youd understand. Easy to talk when youre healthy.
I was! Ive been through it too, but you just didnt notice.
Oliver looked at her skeptically, then smirked, as if hed caught her off guard:
Joking, are you? Fine, lets get to bed.
Blythe let out a sigh, the weight of the week settling over her.
So be it
Just like the old joke: a woman whos given birth can only halfunderstand the feverish chill of a man at 37°C.