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When I wake, Imogen isn’t in our bed. I feel a pang of sadness but quickly shake it off. Sometimes, she can’t sleep, so she’ll get up and go out to start on chores early. And since I don’t want her to have to do it all alone, I scramble out of bed to help her. If she isn’t finished already.
Except Imogen isn’t outside doing chores. I don’t see her the entire time I’m opening the coop and tossing feed to the chickens, while I’m chasing the ducks into their pool so they can eat their morning ration of peas, while I’m petting Ralph between his ears just the way he likes as he munches on the feed I put out for him, while I’m begging Dilly and Dally not to eat my straw hat when a gust of wind blows it away while I toss out some food for them.
My brows are scrunched and worry is starting to creep in as I step back into the house, toeing off my chore boots. Then, I stand stock still and listen.
Throughout the whole house, there is no sound. No floorboards creak, the tub in our bathroom isn’t running. I can’t hear any water percolating for the warm drinks Imogen has come to prefer in the mornings. There’s no sound of her humming to herself as she get dressed, nor the wooden skid of the doors of our wardrobe pulling open.
I frown deeper, taking a few steps toward the kitchen when I hear something: a sneeze.
She can’t hide from me forever.
I move silently through the house, trying to tell myself that what I think I’m going to uncover once I find my wife—and I’m fairly certain I know where she is—will not be what I want to uncover. I have a sinking suspicion in my stomach that I know exactly what’s going on.
I peek into the study and the sun room as I walk past, but Imogen isn’t in either of those places. Instead, a moment later, I discover her hunkered down beneath the blankets in our bed, nose red and eyes looking bleary. When she sees me poke my head in, she whines pitifully and pulls the covers up higher so only her eyes are peering out.
She mumbles something into the blanket I can’t understand, and I shake my head.
Moving the blanket down only a little she says in a rough voice, “Don’t get too close!”
“Why? What’s going to happen?” I ask softly, taking two steps closer anyway.
“I’ll get you sick.” She leans backward into her pillow with a groan, covering her face with her arm as if doing that will make it so I can no longer see her. “I woke up coughing and sneezing, and I haven’t been able to stop all morning. I’m cold, and my body aches. I can’t believe you didn’t catch on before I snuck out of bed to hide from you.”
“It would have been much easier to catch on if you had actually been in bed beside me where you belong.”
Imogen doesn’t answer that, simply draws the blankets up higher, turning over on her side as I come to the edge of the bed and take a seat. I reach out to brush some of her hair from her face, taking in the bright pink of her cheeks and the way she looks a little puffy, congested. I can tell she doesn’t feel well, which means it must be awful because Imogen can hide being sick with the best of them.
“Have you tried any of the herbal remedies, sweetheart?” I ask. “Can I get you something?”
“A miracle cure.”
I chuckle. “I wish I could. Did you try anything?”
“No. Nothing we have will work.” She shoots me a look. “I did think of that earlier.”
“Alright. How about a cup of tea?”
“Didn’t have the energy.”
“I’ll make you some.” I bend to press a kiss to her forehead, but she covers her face before I get there, saying into the blanket, “You’re going to catch it, Garrick!”
I simply hum in response, move the blanket out of the way enough to find her hairline, and press a kiss there before getting up and going to the kitchen to make tea.
Little time passes before the water is singing in the kettle, and I pour it over the leafy concoction intended to help immunity. Then, I carefully carry it back up the stairs to my wife.
She’s exactly where I left her, but her eyes are closed, and she’s snoring gently.
I set the tea down quietly on her bedside table and move around to my side, climbing in and beneath the covers. Moving closer to her side of the mattress, I pull her body against mine, marveling at how she can shiver yet feel like a furnace at the same time.
“I’m going to breathe on you,” she mumbles, apparently having awakened when I climbed into bed.
“I’m not worried about getting sick, sweetheart. I can handle it. Just let me hold you.”
“Who will take care of the animals?” she asks, turning over and diving in closer to me. She tucks her arms between our chests for warmth and balls up so I can hold onto more of her, her head coming to rest on my shoulder.
“I will.”
“Not if you’re sick.”
“If you’re too ill to take care of the chores, I’ll do them, Im. Stop worrying and get some rest. Or sit up a bit and drink the tea I made you.”
She whines a bit in her throat, something she only does when she’s not feeling well. She’d never be caught dead whining when her head isn’t filled with stuffy congestion. “Bossy,” she complains against me.
“You like it,” I say, kissing her forehead, which feels like an inferno, and then her cheek, which is also too hot but not nearly as warm to the touch. I’ve got to keep her wrapped up until her fever breaks.
“Like you,” she answers back, which makes me smile.
“Good. Now, go back to sleep. Either sleep is going to kill this fever of yours or I’m going to pump you full of tea until that does it.”
The room around me is quiet for some time, and I watch the sun stream in around the curtain, imagine the animals in the yard frolicking in the early-autumn breeze while the birds sing merrily.
Then, out of nowhere, Imogen mumbles, “Aye, aye, Lieutenant, sir.”
This time, I laugh aloud and press another kiss to my wife’s cheek as I pull her even closer and let my eyes drift shut, content to lay with her in my arms until her fever passes.