Change Of Season (59 page)

"
Autumn
," the walls hissed. 

Her knees buckling beneath her, she stumbled, collapsing backwards onto her bed with a whimper.  She was blind:  everything was white noise, scrambled pixels drained of life.  Her hands pawed the blankets, the sage falling to the floor as a suffocating weight bore down upon her chest.

"
He’s coming
," the walls whispered, the defeated voice stilling her heart.  "
He’s coming
."

THIRTY-TWO

Oakville; January 12th, 2012

Sick.  Of course she was:  she didn’t have any other problems to cope with or anything.  Oh no, not at all.

Autumn fussed with her blankets, tossing beneath them as she moved abruptly from freezing cold to boiling hot.  At least she understood why she’d fainted during the ritual:  suspected strep throat or possible mononucleosis could definitely incapacitate.  Waking at ten that morning half-sprawled on the bed, she’d immediately noticed how hard it was to swallow saliva, never mind water.  Too weary to walk, she’d phoned Lorraine and begged her to come upstairs.  One hand to the forehead later, she was dialing the on-campus clinic and requesting a dorm room visit. 

A mix of Tylenol and an antiseptic spray for her throat had brought her symptoms to ignorable, and Autumn had passed out for the remainder of the day.  Her phone claimed it was after five, yet no one had checked in on her, aside from her mother.  The doctors had called her as per routine, informing her that it was better to let her daughter sleep through it than disturb her with a long drive home.  A text affirming that really, all she wanted was to sleep, had persuaded her panicked mother to not call out the cavalry.

Why hadn’t Andrew called?  Or Veronica?  She’d missed every class today and they normally worried if she was ten minutes late getting downstairs for breakfast.  A friendly face or two would make the burning in her throat easier to bear.

Kicking off her blankets, she groaned. 
Fine, fever:  cool off
.  She was horribly contagious, the doctor said, and Veronica had an audition soon for the spring Drama production.  It was selfish to want her here.  As for Andrew, Lorraine could be nice, but she wasn’t
that
nice.  She was unequivocally stuck in isolation.  Quarantine time.

A knock on the door startled her, Autumn grabbing for the blankets and covering herself.  The yoga pants and tank top were perfectly suitable for company but damp with sweat and thereby too gross to be seen. 

"Who is it?" she rasped, reaching for the water beside her.

"Lorraine, dear.  One of your instructors brought your work.  Can we come in?"

"Uh, sure." 

Casteel Preparatory Academy: where not even mono stops us from teaching your child
!

The door opened a crack, revealing Professor St. James in his customary chalk-dusted attire with a small plastic bag in his hand.  She managed a weak smile in spite of her condition and Lorraine left them with a little wave.  Her favourite instructor took a seat on the vacant bed, feigning a yawn as he stretched.

"Oh thank God! I thought I’d have to teach that night class.  I can nap here, right?"

Autumn shrugged.  "Hey, there’s a spare bed.  I’m monstrously contagious though, so if you have another hot date on the horizon, I’d advise against it."

She coughed loudly, buckling forward and wheezing.  So talking wasn’t a great idea, apparently.  Knowingly, St. James took the lead and dug into his bag.

"I promised to bring you the next novel we’re looking at, which I suspect you’ll enjoy," he began, pulling out a paperback novel.  "Zombies are your thing, right?"

Autumn nodded enthusiastically. 
What other teacher in this planet would use a zombie book as a study in Contemporary Literature
? 

"I know what you’re thinking, but let me assure you, Mira Grant’s
Feed
is a Hugo award nominee with heavy political and pop culture themes worth analyzing.  Not a fluff book.  Now, let’s see..."  Passing her the book, he dug through the bag once more.  "Two bottles of that Vitamin Water you always have on your desk, some Advil, and oh yes, jelly beans.  Candy always makes me feel better, although it sounds like your throat’s in bad shape.  Did Lorraine bring you food?"

"Soup."  Keeping to short bursts of speech seemed viable.  "Thank you. Above and beyond."

George shrugged.  "Teachers are people, too.  They advised us you’d been excused from classes until Monday, so I thought you could use a few things.  It’s not like being at home, where you can bug a parent to baby you.  Are you headed home?"

She shook her head as she sat the book beside her.  "Long drive sounds awful.  Tomorrow maybe." 

Her throat ached, sandpaper scraping each time she spoke, but there was one question she had to ask.  She sipped water again, longing for the anaesthetized feel of the antiseptic spray that was somewhere around her room... Bathroom, maybe?  She’d have to check.

"I shouldn’t keep you from rest, but I wanted to stop by and wish you well," George said, running a hand through his hair.  "Besides, Lorraine might pick me up by the scruff and drag me away any minute."

"Wait," she croaked.  "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure, but don’t strain yourself.  That throat sounds painful!"

She shrugged.  "I saw that Grant went here.  Student.  You seem happy here.  Did you attend Casteel too?"

Innocent enough question
.  George St. James was the absolute last teacher she’d suspect of anything, but maybe he knew of other teachers who’d been on campus in 1980. 

"Not me, although I do love the job.  The students can keep up with my sarcasm, like you, Miss Brody.  I’ve been teaching here for three years, been in Toronto for five years.  Before that, I was in Chicago, where I was born and raised."  He paused, reflecting on her words.  "Paul went here as a kid?  Hmm, doesn’t surprise me.  He lives for this place.  I think one of the junior teachers went here too back in the late 80s, maybe?"

A knock on the door preceded Lorraine’s return, a stern look on her face. 
Taking dorm mother literally, are we
?  Recognizing his cue, Professor St. James wished her a speedy recovery and left, Lorraine locking the door swiftly behind him.  Turning her book over, she read the synopsis and grinned. 
Definitely a book I’ll love.  Andrew will, too
.  At the thought of him, she checked her phone for messages, baffled by the absence of texts. 

Wait: they told my teachers I was out until Monday.  Gretchen probably told him, and he figures I’m home in bed, sleeping
.  Yawning, she drew the blankets tighter around her, the chills returning on schedule.  Sleep did sound heavenly.  If nothing else, it was a reprieve from her throat pain and the slight wheeze of her chest when she spoke.

I’ll text him tomorrow, let him know I’m okay
, she decided. 
Everything can wait until tomorrow
.

January 13th, 2012

Time passed in fits and starts, Autumn tumbling between the cracks in the hours.  She slept straight through the night after her professor’s visit, waking briefly at ten in the morning to Lorraine insisting she take her medication.  In trying to thank her for the can of chilled Ensure, Autumn had discovered matters had worsened:  she could barely make a sound.  The doctor was again consulted, who diagnosed laryngitis and ordered her to be as silent as possible.

Calling Andrew was out of the question.  Grumpy and lonely, she’d gone back to sleep.  What else was there to do? 

Her mother called, waking her at two.  She’d managed to croak out "laryngitis" before hanging up and texting with her.  She was adamant that her daughter come home for the weekend and it sounded wonderful, except that Autumn was now nauseous, too.  Autumn had promised to text her at six-thirty and decide on coming home Friday or Saturday morning – there was no "let me die in my room" option in Sarah Brody’s vocabulary.   Setting an alarm for six, she’d rolled back over for another nap.  The months of haphazard rest had finally caught up with her, it seemed, and mercifully, Nikki was dead silent and on her best behaviour.

Maybe I’m just too sick to leave false clues around
. 

It was nearing six and Autumn was bored of sleeping.  After washing down with a damp cloth in her bathroom – the shower seemed too risky in light of her waves of vertigo – she pulled her hair back and dressed in a fresh tank top and yoga pants, sipping her gifted Vitamin Water while surfing the internet.  Her email remained empty and this annoyed her greatly.  How long could it possibly take Ben to look up a few faculty records?  Or at least answer and say, "I’m working on it"?

"Mic check," she said sarcastically, wincing at the raspy whisper that masqueraded as a voice.  "Fuck laryngitis."

An image from her childhood:  she was perhaps eight years old, and horribly sick.  Her throat was incredibly sore then, too, she remembered.  Her mother had solved the problem of her being unable to call for help in a way only a music teacher would choose:  a triangle, stolen from her classroom.  One high-pitched
ding!
and her mother or father would dutifully appear, ready to meet her every whim – even watermelon at six in the morning.  She stifled laughter to spare her throat further irritation, thinking of her parents.  They were the best parents anyone could hope for:  loving, intelligent, encouraging at every turn.  Every rule had a purpose that was explained, and sometimes negotiable once she hit her teens.  Home sounded wonderful, even if the drive seemed destined for a reenactment of
The Exorcist
. 

Gingerly she rose, dumping her books onto the spare bed to free up her backpack for a weekend’s packing.  While she had plenty of clothes at home, her favourite pajamas were all at school now and besides, why do laundry when Mom could do it there? 

I’m really practicing for university now
, she thought wryly. 
The weekend home for laundry and free food
.  Food… Her mom could make sticky toffee pudding.  Oh yes, hurling on the side of the road would be worth that treat!

A knock sounded on her door and Autumn moved to answer it. 
D
id Mom just drive straight here for six-thirty
?  She’d hoped to grab a quick shower before being seen in public.  Opening the door, she was greeted by a familiar yet non-familial face:  Professor Kearney.

"Hello, Autumn.  I came to bring you your work and a few things to drink.  How are you?"

"Laryngitis," she said quietly, pointing to her throat.

"Oh, save your voice, then.  I won’t be long."  He stepped inside, shutting the door and looking at her line of empty water bottles on the window sill.  "Looks like I brought refreshments right on time."

Autumn smiled, shoving her things aside to make a space on the spare bed to sit on.  He thanked her, placing a small bag beside him. 
Casteel really takes their education seriously
, she thought, sitting down on her own bed. 
I better go home before someone brings a term paper outline for me
!

"I have an idea:  open up a document on Word.  You can type instead of talking," he suggested.

Of course!  Why didn’t I think of that
?  Opening a fresh window, she quickly tapped out a message before turning the computer towards him.

Thanks for stopping by.  I have to say, the teachers here are really thoughtful
.

"It’s the nature of boarding school: we live together, so it’s more communal," he said.  "Did they tell you how long you’ll be silent?"

Typing: 
Doctor said to keep quiet until Sunday night and see how I felt.  My throat’s super-inflammed, so he figures when the infection eases, I’ll be talking again
.

"Makes sense.  In any case, I brought you the outline for your first essay.  It’s due in two weeks, but you’re on extensions right now.  Just look it over when you’re feeling better.  I also brought you some juice from the dining hall.  Vitamin C cures everything, or so I’m told."

He pulled a plastic bottle from the bag and handed it to her, then retrieved her assignment pages.  Her throat was the Sahara, the juice her oasis as she unscrewed the cap and took several large swallows.  Berry flavour, as best she could tell with her muted senses. 

Back to the computer: 
Yummy.  You had great timing.  Lorraine’s been pretty attentive but it’s Friday, so she’s probably relaxing
.