What We Bury by Alanna Peterson

Author:Alanna Peterson [Peterson, Alanna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rootcity Press
Published: 2022-07-22T07:00:00+00:00

26

Naveed

Sunday, May 29

THE DOOR SHOOK. Someone was knocking on it. “Naveed? Are you in there?”

He didn’t bother rising from the cocoon of his bed. His throat was all shredded up and he felt profoundly depleted. He was a hollow shell with all the meat scraped out, only the brittle exterior remaining.

Stupidly, he hadn’t locked the door behind him when he’d come in sometime before dawn. The only thing he’d cared about then was making it to the toilet without puking on the floor.

Gretchen peeked her head in. Her smile faltered when she saw him. “Oh, my—are you all right?”

“I can’t work today,” he rasped. “I’ve got the stomach flu or something, I don’t want you to catch it.”

“Oh, dear. I’m sorry to hear that—I wish you were feeling well so that you could enjoy this more.”

She held up a magazine. An actual paper one. It took him way longer than it should have to realize that his face was on the front page. “It came out this morning. A lovely article. We’re so honored to have you here with us, Naveed. Would you like me to leave it with you?”

“Nah, that’s okay, I’ll read it on my phone later. Need to go back to sleep for a little bit.”

“All right. I’ll have Frida stop by with some broth.” She began closing the door, then paused. “Oh, and Naveed, I wanted to let you know… if you ever would like to reconsider working the market when you’re feeling better, we’d love to have you help out with that again. Sales really dropped off this last week without you there.”

“I’ll think about it. Thanks.” He turned his back, and she closed the door.

He lay there shivering for a while as the cold air she’d let in floated through the room. Koffka woke up and whined, so Naveed crawled to the door, still under the blankets, and opened it so Koffka could do his business. The dog moved stiffly, groggily. Naveed supposed he should feel bad about that, but he was filled with numb.

Frida came by at some point. She bustled around in nurse mode, taking his temperature and pulse, cleaning up the mixing bowl he’d been vomiting into for the past few hours, making him drink a can of coconut water while she heated broth on the hot plate. She ladled a mug for him and turned off the burner.

“Drink up. Need to get rehydrated,” she said as she handed it to him.

He sipped. Tasted like mud.

“You know, Naveed, there was a time in my life when I became very ill.” Frida’s eyes were focused on the dirt she was wiping off the floor. “I was still Fritz then. We were still living in East Berlin. I’d been feeling like a stranger in my own body for a very long time, but I was terrified of losing Gretchen and Aviva if I told them the truth. Then my father died. He was a difficult man, very cold, very strict—but it wasn’t until after his death that my brother and I discovered he was a Holocaust survivor.

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