Vomit

I woke to the sound of running water and the smell of vomit. The sheets beside me were warm, but empty, and I propped myself up on one arm.

“Sweeite? Are you okay?” I could see Callie’s pink panties peering out from the bathroom door. I craned my neck to see if I could see the rest of her, but I could only make it to her small waist before I toppled over onto the bed. It was too much trouble, having a girl as beautiful as mine.

“Ugh,” moaned Callie. She slurped some water, sloshed it between her teeth, and spat it out into the sink. I detected a hint of disgust in that expectoration. “I’m fine, honey. It was probably just something I ate.” I doubted it. She had been sick three mornings this past week, and I had a feeling I was the cause.

I would be leaving from Peru the next Sunday, and she was worried sick. Literally. She was always moping around the house and eating, eating, eating. I felt bad for the poor girl, but work was work. Plus, I really felt like I needed to be there—now more than ever—to tell the whole story. The Associated Press was rife with politically-correct, politically-minded journalists, and I had yet to read a story that didn’t make me vomit: They all stank of pro-war bias.

“I’m going to start packing today, sweetie. Would you mind helping me?” On cue, I heard Callie vomit again, missing the toilet by a few seconds. “I’ll take that as a no,” I muttered. Rolling over, I buried my face in my pillow, breathing in through the gaps in the soft foam.

“Did you hear the news this morning?” Although I couldn’t see her, I could visualize the questioning glance that Callie cast at the back of my head. I turned over and was correct. Her lips were lightly closed, her hands were little fists on her hips and her left eyebrow was visibly arched. She also had a bit of dinner on the corner of her mouth.

“You missed a spot,” I said.

Blushing, she turned back to the mirror and washed the remaining drops of vomit off of her tan skin.

I wondered what crud the television was broadcasting this early in the morning—probably some high-definition video of Americans getting dismembered by guerillas again. Breakfast snapshots like those that almost replace coffee, except instead of filling you with caffeine, they fill you with freedom. And bullshit.

“What did the news say this time? More death?”

Callie stopped washing her face and stared eerily through her reflection in the bathroom mirror. “No. Well, yeah, kinda’. An American pilot was shot down. He crashed in Missouri.”

“Wow. That’s quite a long, un-manned flight from South America, isn’t it?” I wondered who would believe a story like that. Well, I knew one person who would. She turned and looked at me.

“He was shot over the Chesapeake Bay.” There was a sudden sadness in her voice that I understood immediately.

“Navy?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it—?”

“They don’t know. The plane exploded when it crashed, burning the pilot and the plane. The military isn’t saying anything.” Callie began to sob uncontrollably. She sat down on the bed, and I wrapped my arms around her, rocking her softly back and forth.

“I’m sure it wasn’t your dad,” I whispered in her ear. “They would have contacted you already.” I didn’t believe it, but Callie seemed to, and she stopped shaking so violently in my arms. She turned to face me, hugged me and thanked me for being so understanding.

Then she vomited on my favorite pillow.

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