The boy and his ribbon

Outside, snow had started to fall, and my mind regressed to when she was sick the first time, and we’d stumbled upon Polcart Farm. That place had saved her life. Perhaps Cherry River would save her this time.

Because as much as I would slay dragons for her, I was not a doctor.

I didn’t have a clue what was wrong, and I couldn’t stop my morbid thoughts from filling me with agony of her dying due to my incompetence.

Pulling her jeans back up, I hastily buttoned them, bundled her up in one of my jumpers, then clutched her tight.

Striding from the room, I carried her through swirling snowflakes and pounded on the Wilson’s door.

* * * * *

Della was admitted to the hospital.

For three days, I paced those antiseptic corridors and slept curled up on a hard, cold couch at the foot of her single cot.

I hated that place.

I despised that place.

But I refused to leave even for a moment.

Della couldn’t leave; therefore, I couldn’t leave.

Turned out, thanks to scientific words I didn’t understand and people I couldn’t tolerate, Della had chicken pox. Normally, a kid contracted the virus and dealt with it no problem, but Della had a worse than normal reaction to Varicella, which according to some doctor I wanted to punch in the face, was the correct term for the red spots, obsessive itchiness, migraines, tiredness, and vomiting that Della endured.

She couldn’t keep anything down, and her body looked more crimson than cream thanks to the invasion of spots and her tendency to scratch until she bled.

It ripped out my guts to see her in so much discomfort and not have any power to help.

This was the first time I’d been in a hospital since my finger had been cut off. Back then, I’d been given candy and a toy. Back then, I’d felt cared for and in good hands—until Mclary threw my gifts and their kindness out the window, of course.

But right now, I doubted everyone. No one had the power to stop Della’s pain, and I hated them. I’d expected miracles, and Della had received subpar attention with lacklustre results.

Despite their un-miracle-working care, she slowly got better. I didn’t give the tired looking doctors and harassed looking nurses any credit.

I gave it all to her.

Della was strong.

She fought hard.

And when she finally stopped vomiting and her symptoms abated to an a

Cassie, Liam, and Patricia all wanted to crowd and cuddle my patient upon her arrival, but I forbade them.

My possessiveness only grew worse now the doctors had relinquished her back into my care. Not that they had technically. They’d put her into the Wilson’s care as I was still a minor.

Before, when I was young and terrified of having someone’s whole existence hinge entirely on me, I would’ve been grateful to the Wilsons for loving Della as much as I did. If they had been the ones I left her with, I would’ve made the right choice.

But that was years ago, and things had changed. Della no longer needed me to survive, but I sure as hell needed her, and even with her sick, I needed her close.

At least the Wilsons knew she was mine and backed off after their initial welcome.

Della was my responsibility, and I ensured her every beck and call was met: applying lotion to her spots, duct taping her hands into my thick baling gloves to stop her from scratching, and feeding her whatever she wanted.

No matter that I was left alone to do whatever Della needed, I still couldn’t get over the desire to growl at anyone who came close or snarl at those who offered help.

I acted like a controlling, dominating bastard but that was what Della’s fragility made me become. I patrolled around her like a wolf would his cub, ready to bite anything that dared damage what was his.

I’d do anything to make her well again; including destroying anyone who got too close.

The Wilsons provided us with healthy soups and drinks—when they braved my temper—and when Della blinked awake one afternoon from yet another nap and her familiar strength started to glow beneath her illness, I found my selfishness at keeping her to myself fading.

I ‘borrowed’ John Wilson’s Land Rover—which was so much easier to drive than a tractor—and headed into town where I used a handful of change found in the middle console to purchase Della’s request for a Filet o’ Fish happy meal.

For so long, we’d never had processed food, and I didn’t particularly like that she’d grown to enjoy it. Ever since she started having lunches and weekend play dates with friends from school, her palate had adapted to not only enjoy fresh produce but also greasy takeaway.

I preferred to keep burgers and fries as birthday treats but Cassie called me old fashioned whenever I’d grumble about Della’s new favourite foods.

John saw me arriving with the cab of his truck reeking of takeout but didn’t say a word as I parked on his driveway and climbed out with the brown paper bag.

We stared at each other.

I tipped my head in gratitude along with the acknowledgment that I’d been a grumpy bastard and taken something I shouldn’t. He nodded back, forgiving me and understanding.

Giving him another nod, I jogged back to Della to give her what she craved.

If junk food was the recipe to getting my favourite person back, then I’d do it.

I’d do anything for her.

Just like I’d stayed here past winter for her.

Just like I’d sacrifice anything of mine so she could have everything.