Flu Shot
by Daniel Lowe
He’d taken to getting his flu shot on the same day he put out seed for the birds, usually in November, but this year, December, and it was coincidentally the first measurable snow, an inch or so through which the tips of the grass still showed. These years of living alone, there was always something to do, but this day he lay back on the couch and waited for the occasional fever that accompanied the vaccine. He imagined the birdseed as the dead virus and the birds themselves as white blood cells come to ward off the ravages of winter. The first to approach the feeder was, unsurprisingly, a blood-red cardinal.
As he laid back, the inoculation site gently throbbing, his cell phone rang, and his daughter’s picture appeared.
“Hey, Dad, guess what?” She almost never sounded unexcited.
“What?”
“I got the part!”
“What part?”
“Alright. I mean, it’s off-off Broadway. I mean off. But it’s the lead role!”
“God, that’s great, sweetie. What’s the play?”
“It’s by a New York writer. It’s called Blue Heron.”
“That’s funny.”
“No, it’s not. It’s not a comedy.”
“No, I mean the play has a title about a bird, and I was laying here watching the first birds of winter.”
“You got your flu shot today?”
“Yep.”
He heard her breathe twice into the phone, and in the background were sounds of traffic.
“So you gonna make it up for opening night?”
“When’s that?”
“After the holidays. First weekend in January.”
“Sure, I’ll be there.”
Again, her breathing. She must have been walking. She said “Hey!” to someone passing her on the street.
“So, Dad.”
“Yeah?”
“Guess I made the cut.” Nothing for a moment. And then, “Get it?”
When she was a child, at thirteen, he’d been doing her laundry and discovered in her pocket a note from a girlfriend that confessed several secrets, but one that read, “When I asked you to cut yourself to prove you loved me, I didn’t think you’d really do it.” He’d confronted her when she got home and demanded that she roll up her sleeves, though he knew the cut could be anywhere, and when she finally relented over protests of “You don’t trust me,” he saw the line of a scab on the inside of her arm at the elbow. “The cat did that,” she said. “That is not a cat scratch, Amy. Did you make this cut? Did you make this cut?” But she wouldn’t confess that she had. For several weeks afterward, he’d sneaked into her room at night to look her over while she pretended to be asleep.
“Get it, Dad?” she was saying again. “I. Made. The. Cut.”
He laughed then, unconvincingly. “Good one, Aim.”
"See you in January,” she said, and then pulled the phone away from her ear and he heard her say, “My father— “before she was disconnected.
He laid back down, his face flushed, whether from the conversation or the vaccine, he was uncertain. Several birds had discovered the feeder and were chattering, chasing one another from the seed holes. He closed his eyes, and an image of Amy’s mother returned to him, that one time she had stood naked at her apartment window, the winter light shining through the small space above where her thighs met. He felt his fever rise from desire or disease, summoning his blood for migration.
As he laid back, the inoculation site gently throbbing, his cell phone rang, and his daughter’s picture appeared.
“Hey, Dad, guess what?” She almost never sounded unexcited.
“What?”
“I got the part!”
“What part?”
“Alright. I mean, it’s off-off Broadway. I mean off. But it’s the lead role!”
“God, that’s great, sweetie. What’s the play?”
“It’s by a New York writer. It’s called Blue Heron.”
“That’s funny.”
“No, it’s not. It’s not a comedy.”
“No, I mean the play has a title about a bird, and I was laying here watching the first birds of winter.”
“You got your flu shot today?”
“Yep.”
He heard her breathe twice into the phone, and in the background were sounds of traffic.
“So you gonna make it up for opening night?”
“When’s that?”
“After the holidays. First weekend in January.”
“Sure, I’ll be there.”
Again, her breathing. She must have been walking. She said “Hey!” to someone passing her on the street.
“So, Dad.”
“Yeah?”
“Guess I made the cut.” Nothing for a moment. And then, “Get it?”
When she was a child, at thirteen, he’d been doing her laundry and discovered in her pocket a note from a girlfriend that confessed several secrets, but one that read, “When I asked you to cut yourself to prove you loved me, I didn’t think you’d really do it.” He’d confronted her when she got home and demanded that she roll up her sleeves, though he knew the cut could be anywhere, and when she finally relented over protests of “You don’t trust me,” he saw the line of a scab on the inside of her arm at the elbow. “The cat did that,” she said. “That is not a cat scratch, Amy. Did you make this cut? Did you make this cut?” But she wouldn’t confess that she had. For several weeks afterward, he’d sneaked into her room at night to look her over while she pretended to be asleep.
“Get it, Dad?” she was saying again. “I. Made. The. Cut.”
He laughed then, unconvincingly. “Good one, Aim.”
"See you in January,” she said, and then pulled the phone away from her ear and he heard her say, “My father— “before she was disconnected.
He laid back down, his face flushed, whether from the conversation or the vaccine, he was uncertain. Several birds had discovered the feeder and were chattering, chasing one another from the seed holes. He closed his eyes, and an image of Amy’s mother returned to him, that one time she had stood naked at her apartment window, the winter light shining through the small space above where her thighs met. He felt his fever rise from desire or disease, summoning his blood for migration.
Daniel Lowe’s fiction and poetry and essays have appeared in West Branch, The Nebraska Review, The Montana Review, The Wisconsin Review, The Writing Room, The Bridge, The Paterson Literary Review, Ellipsis, Blue Stem, Midway Journal, The Madison Review, Lithub, and other literary journals. His novel, All That’s Left to Tell, was published by Flatiron Books and Picador in 2017.