Chapter 12

Two weeks later,I wake up feeling sick.

Not feverish or in pain or anything debilitating—just slightly dizzy and nauseated enough to feel icky.

It's probably something I ate. While I try to be as careful as possible, we don't have the same kind of food protection and sanitation that was common in the old world, so it's not at all unusual for people to get sick from something they ate.

Last month, a woman in her sixties died after getting very sick from eating meat that had started to spoil.

I'm not aware of eating anything risky. In fact, I've eaten exactly the same things that Jimmy has this week. But sometimes germs will hit different people in different ways. I'm not sick enough to stay in bed, so I try to ignore the queasiness.

Jimmy has been working like a fiend on our own garden this week, trying to get the most intensive tasks taken care of before he's called to help out somewhere else. We've got greens and potatoes and carrots and asparagus and scallions and celery and herbs and even some tomato plants in our sunniest spot. He's tried some other vegetables, but in the woods as we are, we've got too much shade for the more sun-hungry options.

Greta has given me some training and the supplies necessary for me to can some of our produce so that we won't have to rely solely on our neighbors for vegetables during the winter. But it's hard and stressful because I'm still not very confident with the process. Yesterday Jimmy brought in big batches of asparagus and tomatoes. Way too much for us to eat before they go bad.

I've got to try to can as much of them as possible today so they don't go to waste.

The sight of the big basket of vegetables on the kitchen floor makes me feel even sicker than before. My stomach roils, and I take a few deep breaths before I scramble a couple of eggs for Jimmy's breakfast. I'll stick to only toast this morning to be safe.

When Jimmy comes in from outside, he smells like the woods and morning air. It's warm enough now that he's given up his flannel shirts and is wearing just an old black T-shirt with his jeans.

He frowns as he washes his hands. "You okay?"

I'm not sure what he saw in me that makes him ask. He's barely even looking at me.

"Yeah. I'm fine. How's the Boss this morning?"

One of our hens is loud and bossy and always trying to supervise the others. We've started calling her the Boss, and yesterday she was quiet and listless, which worried me a lot.

"She's perked up. Gave the others a long lecture about getting too close."

"Oh, that's good. I'll check on her a few times today to make sure she's okay." As I speak, I put Jimmy's eggs and toast on the table in front of him and then sit down with my toast and water.

He frowns at me again. "That all you're eatin'?"

"Yeah. I'm not hungry."

He narrows his eyes like he doesn't approve, but he doesn't continue the topic.

After a few minutes, he's nearly emptied his plate. He asks, "You workin' on all that today?" He nods toward the basket of vegetables.

"Yes. I'm going to try to get as much canned as I can."

"All right. Good. Be a shame to waste it all. Those tomatoes turned out real good this year." He scrapes his fork on the plate, getting the last of his eggs.

The sound grates on me. I make an effort not to cringe. "I'll do my best."

He's peering at me again, and it's getting on my nerves. I get up to grab his empty plate and take it to the sink.

"You in a bad mood today?" he asks to my back.

"No," I say in a crisp, overly controlled voice. "I'm not in a bad mood."

"Seems like you're in a bad mood."

"I'm not." I turn back around with a forced smile.

"Yikes." He's shaking his head as he stands up. "You know I hate that smile. What did I do to piss you off?"

I have to bite back a groan of frustration. He's usually quiet in the mornings, focused on preparing for work and only discussing the particulars of the day. I don't know why he's decided that now's the time for a long, annoying conversation about my mood. "You didn't do anything. I'm sorry if I'm being crabby. I guess I'm kind of tired today."

"Okay." He's frowning again but in his thoughtful, observant way rather than his bad-tempered way. He steps over so he's closer to me. "You don't gotta to do all that canning today. They're not gonna go bad overnight."

"I know. I've got it." I try a smile again, and this time it must not come across so fake and frightening.

Jimmy's mouth softens. "You gettin' sick?"

"No. I'm really fine."

"Okay." He stares down at me, and for a minute I think he's going to kiss me or something.

He doesn't. He gives his head a little shake. "I better get workin' while it's still cool."

"Sounds good. I'll get to work too."

He gives me one more quick glance over his shoulder before he walks out the back door.

* * *

The day doesn't get better. I do eventually start feeling less queasy, but the canning doesn't go well. At all.

It doesn't help that I'm absolutely terrified of messing it up and poisoning both of us with botulism. I end up ruining three batches of tomatoes before I manage to get three jars canned effectively. I do better with the asparagus, but I'm sweating, messy, and dead on my feet when I finally have to admit I'm done for the day.

I feel sick over the amount of tomatoes I wasted until I realize I can make a big pot of vegetable stew for dinner to use them up. That doesn't sound particularly appetizing to me at the moment, but it will be better than throwing them all away.

Jimmy comes in briefly for a sandwich for lunch but doesn't linger, which is just as well because the kitchen is an absolute mess. After I've cleaned and put away all the canning equipment, I fall down onto the couch to catch my breath and revive my energy.

It's not laundry day or baking day or even cleaning the outhouse day, so I don't have another major chore that needs to be done. I mentally estimate how much time it will take me to clean and chop the other vegetables for the stew and decide I have at least a couple of hours to rest. I don't know why I'm so exhausted. Yes, the canning was a major task, but it shouldn't have wiped me out so completely.

With that decided, I summon the strength to heft myself off the couch and go out back to toss the chickens some feed and check on the Boss. She's definitely back to her full, supervisory form today, so that makes me happy.

I wander over to say hello to the pigs as well. They come snorting over enthusiastically for greetings and a little snack.

My animal duties complete, I'm looking forward to a short snooze on the couch, but first I check around the corner to see how Jimmy is doing in the garden.

He's standing on the far side. Actually not really standing. Bending over strangely. Stiffly. He's not working in the dirt. He's holding his back with both hands.

Something is wrong. I know it immediately.

"Jimmy?" I run over, carefully avoiding the new planting as I go. "Are you okay?"

He's trying to straighten up when I reach him. His features are twisted in obvious pain. "I'm okay."

"No, you're not! What on earth happened?"

"Nothing. Just overdid it on my back. I'll be fine." He's still cringing as he attempts to straighten his spine. "Damn it."

Slammed with a wave of utter helplessness, I sway on my feet, torn between reaching out to support him and keeping my distance to not make anything worse. "What do you need?"

"I just need a minute. It'll stretch out soon and I'll be fine."

"If you keep working, it's just going to get worse."

"Don't matter." He eyes the unplanted rows of the garden. "Got to get the rest of this in this week."

"Okay, but you have one more whole day. You don't have to do it today."

"I gotta?—"

"Jimmy!" My voice is sharp. Much sharper than normal.

He blinks in obvious surprise, gaping at me.

"You've got to rest your back or you're not going to be able to even get up. Then where will we be? You won't be able to do anything around here, and you won't be able to help anyone else. Don't be stupid and stubborn about it."

He takes a few raspy breaths, and I can see the conflict on his face as he internally debates his choices.

The problem is he has almost no choices. Both of us know it.

"Damn it," he mutters again, staring at the ground, still bent over at a weird angle.

"I know. It's terrible. But what else can you do? So let's go in and you can maybe lie down for a little while. Do you think that will help?"

"Probably." His mumble is decidedly reluctant, but he doesn't resist when I gently turn him toward the house and help him limp his painful way inside.

I've got to take a washcloth and clean the dirt off his hands, arms, and face because he can't get in the position to do it himself. I kneel down to pull off his shoes and socks, and it takes a huge effort to take off his sweaty clothes without jarring him in a way that hurts like hell.

I'm panting almost as much as he is when I've finally got him down to his boxers. He's still not what anyone would consider clean, and he smells pretty ripe. But there's no way he's capable of further bathing at the moment.

"The bed will be better than the couch, right?" I ask quietly.

"Yeah. But the bed is too… too soft. I need to lie on the floor."

"The floor? Are you sure?" I'm twisting my hands together nervously as he nods.

I don't like this. At all. But this is entirely the wrong time to argue. So I quickly spread out an old blanket on the floor of the bedroom and help him limp over.

I grab his pillow while he's lowering himself with slow, stiff movements, then fit it under his head as he stretches out with a long groan.

He keeps his legs bent up, breathing raggedly, staring up at the ceiling.

"Is this all right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's fine. I'm fine."

He's not fine. There's no way in the world this is fine.

He's falling apart, and now so am I.

"Has something like this happened to your back before?" I ask him after he's managed to even out his breathing.

He moistens his lips. "Yeah."

"And lying on the floor helped it?"

"It's better than a soft bed."

"Okay." I grab a crocheted throw blanket and drape it over him, worried he's going to get too cool in just his underwear. "Do you need anything else?"

"I'm okay. I just need to lie here for a while."

"How long did it take to feel better last time?" I ask, almost shaking in nerves about hearing the answer.

He hesitates for a long time before he admits, "Took a couple of days."

Shit.

That's what I was afraid of.

What the hell are we going to do?

The only way we can manage all the work at this time of year is for both of us to be in top form. If Jimmy is down for the count, it's all going to rest on me.

And I've never been strong or competent or experienced at any of this stuff. Jimmy must be out of his mind with worry over how I'm going to handle it all.

He doesn't even trust me to stay safe on my own. He'll never be able to trust me to handle all his chores on top of mine.

I don't even trust myself.

All that bombards me as I stare down at him. I manage to swallow down my panic enough to murmur, "Okay. We'll do the best we can."

When I glance at him again, his eyes are open and resting on my face. I have no idea what he's thinking.

"I'll probably be okay tomorrow," he finally mumbles.

"Maybe so. Let's just take it as it comes. I'm going to get you some water. You haven't drunk much today, so you need to. Then you just rest, and I can take care of everything for the rest of the day."

He licks his lips again, his eyes never leaving my face. "You sure?"

"Yes. I'm sure. I know how to do all the chores for the animals. I'll put up your gardening stuff, and we can figure out what to do about that tomorrow."

"I needed to clean the chicken coop this evenin'."

"I can do that. I know how."

"You're not feelin' good today."

"I feel fine now," I say through my teeth. He must believe I'm absolutely useless if I can't even handle the basics in a crisis. "I can do it."

"Okay." He takes a raspy breath as he shifts his hips slightly, obviously trying to ease the pressure on his back. "Thanks. Sorry 'bout this."

"You don't have anything to be sorry about."

I leave the bedroom after that. I go outside to retrieve his gardening tools and stow them in the shed. Then I figure I better clean out the coop now while I have some remaining adrenaline from the emergency.

Jimmy can usually get the chore done in thirty or forty minutes, but it takes me an hour and a half. When I'm done, I have no time for a break because I need to start chopping vegetables for dinner.

I work on the stew and let it simmer for a long time to break down the tomatoes and soften the other vegetables. Jimmy is still lying on the floor with his knees up. His eyes are closed, but he's not asleep. I ask him if he needs anything, and he says he's fine.

He's not fine, but there's nothing I can do to change that.

I finally sit on the couch and rest for a little while, getting up occasionally to stir the stew.

When it's done, I ask Jimmy if he wants to eat on the floor in there or if he's able to get up.

He needs to pee, so he manages to get up with my help.

I tell him I can bring him something to pee in, but he insists that walking might help stretch out his muscles. I walk with him out of the house and across the walkway to the outhouse. He has to rest a few minutes after he goes until he's able to walk back.

This time he sits in his seat at the table. He readjusts several times until he evidently finds a tolerable position. He's silent and broody as he eats his stew and cheese toast.

I'm still not very hungry, so I only have a very small bowl and a piece of toast.

He notices the small amount I eat. I know he does, although he doesn't say anything about it. When we're done, I ask if he wants to try the bed, but he insists the floor will be better for now.

I'm not going to argue. I hold his pillow in position as he lowers himself down. His body visibly relaxes when the pressure is finally off his lower back.

"Okay," I say, jittery and uncertain about this whole situation. "I'm going to clean up, take care of the animals, and get things ready for the night. Is there anything special I need to do tonight?"

"Nah. Just the normal. Thanks."

I wash dishes and clean up the kitchen. Then I go outside to take care of Jimmy's normal evening chores. It takes me twice as long as it takes him, so it's fully dark by the time I get back inside and lock up.

I clean myself and change into my nightgown. "You're okay on the floor like that for the whole night?"

"Yeah. Think it will be better."

It doesn't sound like a good idea to me, but I've never had my back go out like that, so what do I know? I don't argue. Just give him an extra blanket so he won't be cold and bring his toothbrush over with a cup so he can at least brush before bed.

When everything is done, I turn off the lantern next to our bed and climb under the covers. I scoot all the way over to my side even though Jimmy isn't in bed with me.

We lie in silence in the dark. I occasionally hear him breathing. Moving around.

This whole situation sucks.

I can only pray it will be better tomorrow.

* * *

The next morning, I wake up while it's still dark, feeling kind of sick to my stomach.

It's probably nerves. I'm almost immediately anxious about how Jimmy did during the night and how he's feeling this morning. I was so tired I slept all the way through without waking up even once.

I've only managed to swing my legs over the side of the bed before realizing that Jimmy is slowly sitting up too.

"How is it today?" I ask, slightly breathless.

He waits until he's sitting upright before he responds. "Better, I think."

"Oh good." The words blow out with a rush of relief. I scramble over to crouch beside him. "Do you need help getting up?"

"I think I can do it."

He does, although it's a painfully slow process. He's obviously not his normal self, but he does manage to stand up and straighten his back without cringing or groaning, which is definite improvement.

"I just need to stretch out some," he mutters as I flutter beside him, trying to decide how he needs me to help him.

"Okay. That's good."

While he does some stretching, I quickly complete my morning ablutions and pull on clean underwear, jeans, and a T-shirt.

I'm hopeful when I come back from the outhouse, and I'm almost to the bedroom when I hear a sharp, pained exclamation from Jimmy.

His back must have grabbed again as he was trying to pull on his jeans.

"Damn it!" He gasps out the word, dropping his jeans back on the floor. He stands motionless for several seconds, his skin and lips looking dead white.

Terrified he's about to fall over, I guide him over to sit on the side of the bed.

He's breathing raggedly and planting both hands on either side of his hips, as if he's trying to keep some of his weight off his back.

"Damn it," he mutters again. "I was gonna get back in the garden again today."

"That's not happening right now." I speak in a matter-of-fact rather than bossy way since I don't want to rile up his stubborn streak. "You can see how you feel later on."

I don't say it, but I can't see any possible way he's going to be working in the garden today at all. Or even tomorrow. He needs to give his back time to get better.

"Damn it all to hell." The words are soft and pained—like they've been pushed out of him by force.

"I'm sorry. But I don't know what else we can do."

"Gotta get it done this week," he mutters, shifting his weight restlessly between his legs and his butt.

He's irrationally fixated on that garden. Leaving the last rows another week or so aren't likely to do major damage to our harvest. Even if they're not planted at all, it will mean nothing more than fewer greens later this summer.

Not the end of the world.

He's not in any fit state for a rational discussion right now, however, so I don't even try.

"Do you think you can make it to the outhouse?" I ask him quietly. "I can bring something in here for you to?—"

"No. I can do it."

I don't like the bite in his voice, but I make myself not react. Instead, I help him up, letting him lean on me a little as he limps out, goes to the bathroom, and then slowly comes back in.

I convince him to try out the bed, insisting it will be easier for him to get in and out of than the floor. Then I leave him stretched out on the sheet in a T-shirt and his boxers, panting and glaring up at the ceiling.

I go outside to feed and tend the animals first. Then fix a quick breakfast sandwich for Jimmy—something he can eat on the bed. I eat my toast as I clean up.

Today is Friday. Baking day. And I need to make four extra loaves since I promised Greta I'd bring her some when we go to dinner tomorrow.

Hopefully Jimmy will be okay to walk by then. He'll never let me go by myself. And if we don't show up, his parents will send someone out here to check on us.

So my plan for today was to focus on bread. But I keep thinking about those last rows of the garden that need planting.

There's really not that many left. Jimmy said they would just take him an hour or so to complete. That sounds doable.

Surely I can do it.

I've never done much gardening, but I learned the basics that first month at the Carlsons', and I've helped Jimmy with weeding and picking ripe tomatoes and greens.

There's no reason I can't finish the planting for him. It's still early morning. I'm not feeling particularly energetic or invigorated, but my back is fine. It's cool out right now. I can take a couple of hours to finish the garden before I start my baking.

Why shouldn't I?

Then Jimmy won't have to keep brooding about it or possibly make his back worse by returning to work too soon.

Having made a decision, I check on Jimmy one more time to make sure he doesn't need anything.

He's still on the bed, uncovered and doing a lot of snarling.

I leave him to it and head outside.