21
Skullcap
Dad paid me the day before I returned to BYU. He didn’t have the money to
give what he’d promised, but it was enough to cover the half tuition I owed. I
spent my last day in Idaho with Charles. It was a Sunday, but I didn’t go to
church. I’d had an earache for two days, and during the night it had changed
from a dull twinge to a constant sharp stab. I had a fever. My vision was
distorted, sensitive to light. That’s when Charles called. Did I want to come
to his house? I said I couldn’t see well enough to drive. He picked me up
fifteen minutes later.
I cupped my ear and slouched in the passenger seat, then took off my
jacket and put it over my head to block the light. Charles asked what
medicine I’d taken.
“Lobelia,” I said. “And skullcap.”
“I don’t think they’re working,” he said.
“They will. They take a few days.”
He raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
Charles’s house was neat and spacious, with large, bright windows and
shiny floors. It reminded me of Grandma-over-in-town’s house. I sat on a
stool, my head pressed against the cold counter. I heard the creak of a cabinet
opening and the pop of a plastic lid. When I opened my eyes, two red pills
were on the counter in front of me.
“This is what people take for pain,” Charles said.
“Not us.”
“Who is this us?” Charles said. “You’re leaving tomorrow. You’re not one
of them anymore.”
I closed my eyes, hoping he would drop it.
“What do you think will happen if you take the pills?” he said.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what would happen. Mother always said that
medical drugs are a special kind of poison, one that never leaves your body