Cleo Onyx's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Cleo Onyx knelt on the bathroom floor for the fourth time that morning. She was twelve weeks pregnant with Pope's baby, and she wanted to reach the end of this pregnancy alive. Right now that felt far away. The healer had a name for it: hyperemesis gravidarum. Her mother had suffered the same sickness carrying Cleo. Knowing the name did not stop the vomiting. Nothing stopped the vomiting. She pressed her cheek to the cold tile and shook. Her lips had cracked. She had not kept water down since dawn. Alone, she could not stand long enough to reach the kitchen. She could not fill a glass without dropping it. Pope found her there. He was a teenage boy with dark skin and quick hands, and those hands trembled as he crouched beside her. He had come every day since the test, but caring for someone this sick was hard, and he knew it showed. "Cleo. Hey." He tried to lift her. She gagged, and he froze, unsure. "Tell me what to do." "Water," she whispered. "Small sips. But I can't hold the cup." He brought water. She took one sip and lost it. He wiped her mouth with a cloth and looked scared. He was scared. He kept dropping the washcloth. He forgot to time her sips. Twice he asked her a question she was too weak to answer. His love was real, but love was not medicine, and he was one frightened boy against a sickness that never rested. By noon she had gone gray. Her hands felt cold. When she tried to speak, the words slid apart. Pope pressed his palm to her forehead and felt how far she had slipped. He made the choice he had been afraid to make. He could not do this alone, and neither could she. "I'm getting the healer," he said. "I'm not leaving you like this." He carried her to the couch by the big front windows, the small one sewn from mismatched squares of cloth. He wedged pillows around her so she would not roll off. He set the water and the cloth within her reach. Then he ran. He came back with the healer from the clinic two towns over. She took one look at Cleo's gray face and dry lips and set down her bag. "She's dangerously dehydrated," the healer said. "This is too much for either of you to manage at home." She worked fast, feeding Cleo slow spoons of a salted broth, watching each one settle. The worst of the retching eased. Color crept back into Cleo's face. The healer sat back. "She'll keep this down. But the sickness won't pass on its own. She needs daily care and fluids I bring. She can't be left alone again." Pope held Cleo's hand. She was breathing slow and even now. The immediate danger had broken. But the healer's words hung in the room. Cleo could not get through this pregnancy on her own, and Pope could not carry it by himself.