Annabelle sneezed.
Thatch coughed.
I wheezed, and blew my nose.
It had been the week from hell. The weather had been so frigid that I finally closed the window I keep open year round because Annabelle, after throwing a huge tantrum about the cold, had a sneezing fit. A day later, Thatch started coughing, and I had awakened to a runny nose and awful sinus pressure on the right side of my head.
Are you getting up? Annabelle demanded, as I lay moaning on my bed. We want breakfast.
All right, I whispered, but I’m going back to bed after.
Breakfast was a dud. Because they both had stopped up noses, they refused to eat.
Move over, Annabelle said, as she crawled into bed next to me.
Make room, Thatch yelled as he jumped onto the bed.
To the refrain of sneeze cough wheeze, sneeze cough wheeze, the three of us buried ourselves in the blankets and refused to move the rest of the morning. Around noon, we got restless.
Does anyone feel like getting out of bed? Annabelle asked.
I don’t, I told them. We’re all sick. I prefer to stay in bed. It’s warm as toast here and the apartment is freezing. I just want to lie here.
Is this what people do when they are sick? Thatch asked me.
Yes, I said. We stay warm, sleep a lot, drink lots of fluids, and watch television or read.
We do that every day now that you’re semi-retired, Annabelle said.
That’s very true, I told them, but being sick spares you the embarrassment of being unemployed. When people ask you what you did today, it’s much more satisfying to say I was sick and stayed in bed all day than to say, I did nothing but lie around and watch TV.
After a moment, Thatch observed, No one ever asks me what I did today.
Unlike me, you have no friends, Annabelle said.
That’s not true, I said. Are you being mean because you feel bad?
She gave me one of her snotty why-do-I-bother-with-you teenager looks.
We missed our soaps, Thatch said.
Turn on Judge Judy! Annabelle ordered.
And our week passed. Annabelle and Thatch moaned because there was no imagination to their meals, and I groaned because every move out of bed was an ordeal involving a box of tissues, the paper bag into which I threw the used tissues, and prayers to God to cure all of us while I fought nausea from the smell of the canned cat food.
You used to mix the various flavors so ingeniously! Annabelle complained.
This tastes different, Thatch moaned.
That’s because I didn’t mix the liver in with the chicken and gravy, I told him.
Why not? Thatch demanded.
I staggered back to bed, pulled the blankets over my head, and waited for eight little feet to jump back onto the bed and burrow under the blankets with me.
So our week passed in bed. I napped, fetched toys and treats, changed channels, lived on canned chicken soup while Annabelle and Thatch sneezed, coughed, and played. Thatch explored the caverns created by the folds of the blankets. By the end of the week, the bed was a filled with his toys and Annabelle’s copies of Backstage and several scripts she was reading. There was barely room for the three of us.
One thing I know, babies, I told them, is that we can never again be sick at the same time. It’s too much of an ordeal.
Annabelle looked up from her Backstage. Ordeal? she asked. I think it’s been fun. Would you get me some ice cream for my throat?
And while you’re up, Thatch added, I want my singing bird toy.
And change channels! Annabelle ordered. Turn to the Kitty Channel. There’s a special on Garfield.
©2019, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 