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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Skeletons” Down in the Dirt, v188 (the October 2021 Issue) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology Stardust in Hand the Down in the Dirt Sept.-Dec. 2021 issues collection book		get the 422 page Sept.-Dec. 2021 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Eruption

Millicent Eidson

    My right hand creeps up to stop the throbbing in my head.
    “Vicki, STOP—you’ll pull it out.” The female yelling at me sounds familiar. “Doctor, what’s the tube for?”
    “It’s a drain to remove excess fluid around her brain.” The voice is male, reassuring. But whose?
    “We’ll increase the medication dose to control Vicki’s seizures.”
    Both voices are faint, like I’m at the bottom of a well, and there’s an antiseptic sting in my nose.
    “Ms. Wilkins, because she’s a minor, I need authorization from her mother. Did you reach your sister in Maryland?”
    Gentle fingers pull on my eyelids, which crack open to frame his black eyes, wiry handlebar mustache, and full lips. Although I’m groggy, hormones kick in. I’m hard-wired for the opposite gender.
    “Alright, Doctor.” Now I remember that exasperated tone—it’s Aunt Linda. “I’ll call while you’re here.”
    Why am I with her, and where’s Jay? Oh, yeah, my brother’s at Philmont Scout Ranch near Cimarron while I’m stuck in her cramped Albuquerque apartment. On a break from single parenthood, Mom’s with her sleazy D.C. drug dealer. We’re not supposed to know about him—Mom’s panicked Dad will pop up from Florida and reclaim custody. But he doesn’t want teenagers he hasn’t seen in a decade.
    “Joan, where the hell have you been? Vicki’s at the University of New Mexico Hospital.”
    Kinda guessed that when the hot doctor said fluid and brain. My vision is hazy as he presses her phone to his ear. Brown leather cowboy boots and jeans peek out beneath his white paper gown. Wild and western—my favorite type.
    “Ma’am, this is Dr. Robles. Your daughter developed uncontrolled vomiting and hallucinations yesterday. At admission, she had fever, a severe frontal headache, and altered mental status. This morning, she’s had several seizures.”
    No return conversation reaches my ears—I don’t want to hear Mom’s bitch voice. I’m counting the four months ‘til I turn eighteen.
    “On the lumbar puncture, her cerebrospinal fluid is cloudy, which means infection.”
    I got an A in sophomore biology, and lumbar is my lower back. He says my back was punctured—now I understand the knife blade pain there.
    “We’re treating aggressively—six different antibiotics. Diagnostic tests are on order, including from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.”
    Aunt Linda snatches the phone back. “Joan, get your ass out on the next flight. I’m not handling this on my own.”
    Hours of faint fog, with shapes gliding in and out of my peripheral vision—the doctor’s voice penetrates the void. “We have lab results. Did Vicki dive into warm water?”
    I try to tell them about Mateo. We met last week at the pool in Aunt Linda’s apartment complex while she was working. But my lips don’t move.

****

    I’m almost albino—rare flower in a Hispanic and Native American-dominated area. A gangly twenty-something leaps over my head in a cannonball, splashing water in my face. I attract tall, dark, and handsome like bees to pollen—they all want to use their tongues to suck my nectar. But pollen is the plant name for sperm—ironic.
    A dormant volcano is two hours northwest. Mateo says we can have fun and return home before my escape is detected. The pavement is rutted and slippery from last night’s monsoon, and the steep drop-off to the silvery creek freaks me out. I grip the truck’s dash, but that won’t help if we tumble over. His pitbull slobbers my face with his pink tongue. I creep toward the passenger door—don’t want to startle the beast and end up with jaws clamped around my throat.
    After parking, we hike to the hot springs. We caress almost-empty bottles of beer—the golden liquid relaxes me, for whatever is coming up. As we approach a sign, my sandals slip on loose pebbles and I bump Mateo. Both bottles crash to the gravel—what’s more broken glass out here, anyways? We’re alone, and strip off our clothes. The dog beats us into the middle of the three pools and barks for us to join him.
    Mateo tugs me in. The water is just short of burning—volcanic activity deep within the earth. He guides my naked butt between his legs as I lean back against his smooth chest. Petite ghostly feet—my favorite feature—rise up. With late August cool weather, yellow leaves waft a musty odor as they float in the clear water around our bodies. Everything’s dwarfed by red cliffs topped with flaking white stone.
    He waves his tanned arm through the steam. “Uh, those ginormous trees—they’re ponderosa pine, spruce, and fir. The white barked ones are aspen.” That’s all he’s going to talk about?
    My limbs glide around his waist when he spins me to face him, our crotches almost touching. He grabs my head and pulls me under the mini-waterfall gushing down from above. Our tongues probe as we splash, inhale water, and choke. But then he drags me out and tosses my blue jean shorts and red tee. Virtuous vaquero? Rock falls echo as a geezer couple stumbles around the corner, wheezing in the high altitude’s low oxygen.

****

    After a week of hospitalization, I’m in pediatric rehab to help me walk and talk better—if the seizures would stop. Mom’s freckles are brick red, threatening to pop off her skin.
    “The Santa Fe national forest sent me a photo of this warning at the hot springs. The pools are too shallow for diving, which is how most people get this brain-eating amoeba up their noses. What the hell were you up to?”
    Her cell screen displays a white metal sign with bright red lettering, probably the one we passed and didn’t read.

WARNING
    DO NOT ALLOW WATER TO ENTER YOUR NOSE
    NAEGLERIA FOWLERI
    AM AMOEBA COMMON TO THERMAL POOLS
    MAY ENTER CAUSING A
    RARE INFECTION AND DEATH

    Blame it on the dropped Coronas. Amoeba sounds familiar—biology class again. Boy, did I fuck up.

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