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That point is fully debatable but now is not the time for a lecture.
“Did you ever pass out or even fall asleep?”
“No. I didn’t even drink that much.”
“If this was your first experience with alcohol, it wouldn’t take much to make you feel this way.”
Still, I suspect it was far more than she’d have me believe. It’s almost as if she thinks the less she drank, the less trouble she’ll be in. I’m not about to break it to her that, knowing Asher, quantity will have absolutely no bearing on her punishment.
I put a bottle of water and the Advil on her nightstand. “You need to hydrate. Being dehydrated will make it worse. And you should take Advil. Two of them. If you throw them up, it’s okay to take two more.” I put the cold washcloth on her hand so she can feel it. “This will help. Try and keep it on your head. There’s a bucket right next to the bed if you can’t make it to the bathroom. And we should probably get you out of these clothes. You puked on them.”
“I can’t move or I’ll throw up.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll help.”
I untuck her shirt and lift it up. Her arms are like Jell-O when I maneuver them out of it.
“Just lift your head for one second.”
She groans as she does it. I toss the horrid-smelling shirt on the floor. Luckily, her shorts have an elastic waist, and I shimmy them down her legs. Once she’s down to just a bra and underwear, I pull the sheet over her.
“I’ll be right back. I’m going to toss these clothes in the laundry. Can I bring you anything?”
“A gun?”
I put my hands on my hips even though her eyes are closed and she can’t see how angry her comment made me. “Please don’t joke about that.”
“My dad’s pregnant girlfriend had to rescue me from a party. I’ll never be able to show my face again.” As soon as the words leave her mouth, so does another round of vomit—right into the bucket next to the bed.
I pick up the washcloth and put it on her forehead before going downstairs.
In the laundry room, I lean against the washing machine and contemplate calling Asher. He’s her father. He would know what to do in this situation. But it’s almost two in the morning and he’s had such a long week. Besides, there’s nothing he can do from there but stress about it, so I decide it can wait.
I get a few more cold washcloths, a sleeve of saltine crackers, my kindle, and head back up.
~ ~ ~
Darla’s room is just beginning to become light. She rolls over, groans, and opens her eyes to find me sitting in the chair next to her bed. I’m weary after only getting a few minutes of sleep here and there. It seems every time I’d fall asleep, she’d moan or say something about the room spinning, or puke. I was afraid she might vomit in her sleep and aspirate, so I tried my best to stay awake all night. But with the exhaustion of growing a pair of tiny humans, it proved to be a Herculean task.
“Uuuuuuuuugh.” She throws a hand over her eyes to keep out the light. “What are you doing up here?”
“I slept here.” I snort. “Well, I didn’t really sleep much for fear of you choking on your vomit.”
“Oh god.” She rolls over. “Kill me.”
I hand her a bottle of Gatorade I’d brought up in the wee hours of the morning. “You should drink. Even if you don’t want to. It’ll make you feel better.”
She bats it away.
“Darla, it’s either this or I drive you to the hospital and have them give you an IV. You threw up a lot last night. You have to replenish your fluids.” I hold out the half-eaten sleeve of saltines. Half-eaten by me. “You probably won’t feel much like eating today, but you can try a few crackers. If you keep those down, I’ll make you some toast or soup.”
“Can I have some more Advil?”
I take two tablets from the bottle and hold them out. “Just as soon as you tell me what happened.”
“What did it look like?” she asks sarcastically.
“It looked like you lied to me about spending the night at Marti’s and went to a party instead. Darla, what was all that bullshit about not having any friends? Was Christian there? Who took you?”