A hacking cough rattled my ribcage. Chills ran along my superheated skin. Muscles tensing sporadically, I eyed the doorway. A soft creak echoed down the darkened hall. How could her nostrum make things worse?
Swallowing stiffly, I shuffled into the living room. Grandmother rocked calmly in a cushioned chair, the ominous creak amplified. Graying curls clung to her wrinkled skin, glasses propped delicately atop her head. Her slippered feet maintained the chair’s momentum as she slept.
Relief flooded my foggy mind. No need to wake her. I’m sure I’ll be better soon.
A fit of coughs ravaged my throat.
Her eyes flew open.
“That’s it,” she proclaimed in a raspy tone. Using the rocker’s momentum, she jumped to shaky legs. “I don’t care if I have to pour it down your throat. I’m making the concoction.”
My skin curled. The concoction. A mixture so vile the smell alone frightened the flu. And common sense. Mom had spent years as a child hiding her coughs, else grandmother would produce the concoction.
Hobbling around the kitchen, grandmother put a large pot on the lighted burner. No measuring spoons, no recipe. She turned the bottle of vinegar upside down, liquid sizzling to a boil. The small bear of honey offered hope, golden sweetness drizzling into the pot. Then came the onion, chopped into large chunks.
Smoke billowed from the crackling concoction. I gagged at the stench. Tears pricked my eyes, nostrils forever tainted. The stale vinegar masked the sweet honey. Limbs weak, I sat at the counter. Wondering if I could escape this fate.
A rhythmic hum cut through the torture. Stirring with a large ladle, grandmother bounced to an inaudible beat. Her incantation for the witch’s brew. What possessed my beloved grandmother?
“All done.”
I paled.
She reached into the cupboard, grasping a turquoise cup. My heart sputtered, skin tingling. Not my hot chocolate mug. Any cup but that one.
Grandmother ignored my silent plea, pouring the brackish liquid into the hourglass container. Chunks of onion clung to the sides, rivers of vinegar trailing down the handle. More liquid sloshed into the precious mug.
A whimper escaped my lips.
She pushed the mug in front of me, droplets smacking the marble counter. “Be sure to swallow the onion.”
Nausea churned my stomach. Putrid steam cleared my sinuses, the vinegar flooding my brain. Limp onions swam in the brownish liquid. I waited for frog eyes or lizard bones to emerge. Yet no such excuse to refuse presented itself.
I reached out with shaky hands. Tried to imagine the horrid nostrum as hot chocolate with fluffy marshmallows. The sweetest of smells for an evening of crime shows. The taste of pure sugar and thick chocolate to soothe the soul. But every inhale destroyed the mirage.
“It’s not that hard, honey. Just drink it.”
I clamped my mouth shut. Talking back wouldn’t end well. One quick swallow. Shutting my eyes, I grabbed the mug and took a swig.
Tears blurred my vision. Hacking and gagging filled the silence. But the sliver of liquid traced down my throat. Dropped into my churning stomach. My body shuddered, wishing my tastebuds had been burned. But the aftertaste. Raw onion and vinegar clung to my tongue.
“You didn’t swallow the onion.”
Blinking past tears, I stared incredulously at the woman. She gestured at the mug in my hands, watching expectantly.
My lip quivered.
I’d rather have a cold.