Chapter 71
Chapter 66: Nick Is Rude
Logan’s POV
Claim
“Itchy,” he replied me shrugging his shoulders, which I was beginning to understand was his default answer when the answer was actually I’m not great but I don’t want to make a big deal of it at the moment so this answer would have to suffice for now.
He was this young and had already learned to minimize putting his feelings in different compartment boxes to deal with later. I wondered where he’d learned that.
“The IV should have helped with that. You were sleeping pretty soundly p>
“My arm feels weird.” He looked at the IV line, studying it with the curiosity he applied to things he’d decided were interesting instead of scary. “Is it medicine going in p>
“Yes. The kind that stops the itching response p>
He considered this. “Why can’t the regular kind of medicine do it p>
“Sometimes the regular kind isn’t enough p>
He looked at Catherine. “Hi,” he said, politely but without warmth.
“Hi, sweetheart.” Catherine’s voice was gentle. “I heard you were having a rough day. I brought
soup p>
Nick looked at the container on the bedside table. It was a nice container, and back at her as he
shook his head.
“I’m not hungry,” Nick said.
“You haven’t eaten since lunch, which is a long time now” I said. “You should have something to
make sure you are not full and not hungry p>
“I’m not hungry.” He said it again, same tone, not rude but definitive. He pulled the hospital blanket
up to his chin with his free hand and looked at the television, which was playing the end of the
same cartoon he’d fallen asleep to.
Catherine opened the container anyway-the soup was good, I could smell it from where I was sitting-and set it on the table beside him with a spoon.
“You don’t have to eat it now. It’ll be here if you want it p>
Nick said nothing.
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I watched the side of his face. He wasn’t looking at the soup, wasn’t acknowledging it, had gone
quiet in that sort of situation when someone was done with the conversation or situation but did
not have the power to physically remove himself from it.
He did that with Catherine sometimes. I’d noticed it before and dismissed it as him adjusting,
because he was missing Sedona and that he was being territorial, that it was natural and would
resolve with time and consistency.
I looked at it differently now.
“Can I change the channel?” Nick asked. Not to Catherine. To me.
“Sure.” I handed him the remote.
He clicked through several channels without particular interest, not landing anywhere, not really
watching. The soup sat untouched beside him, still steaming.
Catherine had settled into her chair and was doing the thing she did well, which was being here but not demanding anything. It was a skill, genuine and practiced. I’d always found it comforting something, today i did not have a name for what i was feeling
“Are you doing okay?” she asked me, putting her phone away as she looked at me.
“I’ve been better p>
“Do you want to talk about it p>
Did I want to talk about it. I looked at Nick, his eyes on the television, who was pretending not to
pay attention to the conversation.
He was listening. He was always listening.
“Not right now,” I said.
She nodded. Reached into the canvas tote and produced the bread roll she’d mentioned, still
wrapped in cloth, and held it out to me. I took it because refusing felt ungrateful and I hadn’t eaten,
and it was still warm and that was enough to remind me that i was running on empty at this point.
“Tell me about the diagnosis,” she said. “About what caused this outbreak. Do you know the
trigger p>
“Not specifically. Mrs. Peterson thinks it might be the new laundry detergent she switched to.” I’d had that conversation in the parking lot of the hospital, while Nick was being checked in.
“Sedona had everything set up a specific way. Fragrance-free everything, specific brands, a list of products he could tolerate. When she left, some of those things ran out and Mrs. Peterson
replaced them with similar things that weren’t p>
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“The same,” Catherine said.
“The same p>
She absorbed this. “That’s a lot to maintain. All those specifications p>
Clair
“She knew his body better than any of us.” I heard the edge in my own voice and didn’t apologize for it. “She’d been paying attention for years p>
Nick’s hand moved to scratch his arm and stopped, which meant he’d remembered the IV and
corrected himself. He still wasn’t looking at us.
“She was very thorough,” Catherine said, and I couldn’t read the tone of it, whether she was admiring it, or something else that i couldn’t put a name to at the moment.
“She was a mother,” I said. “She was doing what a mother does p>
Silence. The television flickered. Nick clicked to another channel.
“I don’t want that soup,” he said, to no one in particular, or to the room. Still not looking at either of
“Nick-“I started.
“I’m not hungry.” He pulled the blanket up again. “Can you take it off the table p>
“You need to eat something p>
“I’m not going to eat that.” His voice remained polite, which somehow made it more pointed rather than less. Six years old, and he was managing his tone. He’d learned that somewhere too. “Can I have the crackers from the nurse? She said she had crackers p>
“I’ll ask her.” Catherine was already standing, container of soup in hand, crossing to the small counter by the door to set it down out of Nick’s immediate eyesight.
Her movements were smooth, unbothered, not reacting to the rejection visibly. That, too, was a
skill.
She went into the hallway to find the nurse. Nick tracked her exit without moving his head, just his
eyes, and then went back to the television.
“Nick,” I said quietly.
“She made the soup herself,” I said. “That was kind of her to do. You should at least thank her p>
“I know.” He said it without batting an eyelid. “I will p>
“You were rude p>
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He looked at me then, a quick direct look that contained something I wasn’t expecting. “I wasn’t
rude. I said I wasn’t hungry p>
The way you said it p>
“I didn’t say it in a bad way. I just don’t want it.” A pause. “I want crackers p>
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