Wherein Pearl Finally Goes Viral

I have been sick for, oh, eleven years now.  It’s been tedious, it’s been sweaty, and it’s gone on long enough. 
I haven’t left the house since Wednesday.
O, how I tire of illness.
Viral, the doctor says.  We’ll keep an eye on your lymph nodes – I don’t like the look of them – but just stay home, stay warm, get lots of rest.
Everyone has advice when you’re sick.
“Have you been drinking juice?” 
I switch the phone from one ear to another.  “I don’t really like juice,” I say.  This is not strictly true, but I’m bored.
And I like winding Mary up every now and then.
“Orange juice!  You need to drink orange juice.  And apple juice.  Oooh, and cranberry juice wouldn’t hurt.”
There’s silence.
“Are you writing this down?”
I sit up, arrange the pillows under my head.
“Gotcha,” I say, pretending to write it down.  “OJ, apoe, cranb.”
“Did you just say ‘cranb’?”
“Nobe.”
“Pfft,” she says, smiling.  “Did you pick up the Airborne like I told you?”
“Isn’t that supposed to be preventative?”
“It works no matter what you do.  I’m telling you.”
“Mary, it’s a virus.  Nothing to do about it but drink lots of water –“
“ –or juice.”
“-and get plenty of rest.  Seriously, I just lay around watching Sopranos and sleeping.  You’ve never seen so much sleeping.”
“You’ll probably wake up this spring with twins,” she murmurs.
I close my eyes.  Something about hibernation and bears.  I reflect on the fact that I probably haven’t shaved my legs since Christmas.  I chuckle to myself.  “I don’t have the brain cells to respond to that.”
There is silence.
“What about Nyquil?” she says. 
“Just like you taught me,” I say.  “I drink it until my eyes cross and then crawl under every blanket I own to sleep the sleep of the righteously drugged.”
“That’s my girl,” she says.
“I gotta lay down now,” I say.  “I gotta stop talking.”
“OK,” she says.  “You go back to sleep now, get better.”
I nod, my eyes already closing.  “I will,” I say.