Mary has recipe to eradicate the cold that I have coming on.
She’s called me, early-morning like, as she is wont to do.
“Good morning, Acme World O’ Widgets.”
“Is that what you’re calling it now?”
“I knew it was you!”
“Heeeey,” she suspicions, eyes audibly narrowing, “why do you sound like that?”
“Like what? Like a toad with a hangover?”
“Nice,” she chortles, “and yes.”
“I think I’m getting a cold.”
You can hear Mary rubbing her little hands together. “OK. Here’s what you do –“
“Man,” I whine, “I am full-grown. I raised a child and –“
“Shhh,” she soothes. “Let me do my work.”
We laugh. Mary is a bit of a caregiver.
I give in. She’s the biker mother I never had. “All right, weirdo. Go.”
“OK. After work, you go get some cranberry juice and some Nyquil. You drink the juice, then you drink at least two doses of the Nyquil – are you writing this down?”
“Overdose on Nyquil. Contact local rehab center. Check.“
“Shhh,” she says, laughing. “You’re ill and don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Go on,” I say.
“You take a hot bath, wrap up in a big blanket, and turn on something truly stupid on TV. Might I recommend something in the prime time line-up?”
“Gotcha,” I say, pretending to take notes. “Hot bath, blanket, stupid.”
“You wait until your eyelids get really heavy or until they cross. Or both. I’ll leave that up to you.”
“Sure,” I say, smiling. “Everyone heals differently.”
“Shhh,” she says. “Don’t fight me. You’re feverish.”
“I’m not fever—“
“ONCE YOUR EYES CROSS PROPERLY,” she interrupts, “you go to bed, you pile the blankets up, and you stay there.”
“That’s quite the treatment plan,” I say.
“Hey,” she says, “I fuss because I care.”