[ fever ] bob presses the back of his hand to mel's forehead, brows knitting with quiet concern. ( from @wizzos )
mel knows about the custom of sitting shiva. she understands what she's meant to do - or, really, what she's meant to not do. she's supposed to allow people to take care of her; not fix her own plate nor becca's, not cook, just sit. her aunt and uncle host so she and becca don't have to sit amongst their mother's things, in the house they once shared. they cover their mirrors, arrange their living room for visitors who wish to offer their condolences. her cousins arrive home so quickly, fast enough to make the burial a mere few days after her mother dies.
mel is grateful, but likely doesn't look it. she can't keep any expression on her face, can't feel her body where it sits, can't stay in any conversation for more than a few minutes. she knew her mother's death was coming, but mel can't handle the sudden stillness, the lack of everything that used to fill her days. no more appointments and rounds of chemo and medication schedules. other things should have replaced these, but alona and walter take them gently from mel's hands. they've watched her grow up, watched her while her mother got sicker. they know how she tries to do it all, and seem intent on not letting that happen here.
but mel struggles, even in the grief, to stay still. bob finds her in the kitchen, washing dishes. she shouldn't be, but it's something she can do to remain in her body. to make her feel like things aren't so irreconcilably different now. she can still take care, she can still help out, she's still herself. mel expects to be gently reprimanded, guided back to her seat like the floyds have been doing all week. but bob presses his hand against her forehead and mel actually laughs from how unexpected and kind the gesture is. "i'm alri- i'm not sick. i know i'm not supposed to be doing this." she likely seems a disaster, well and truly out of it. washing dishes at her own mother's shiva, eyes unable to focus, body she can't keep from moving. a habit, how she's survived this long, how she'll keep surviving. "i'm just - let me finish, okay? i just need to - it's better if i -"
her grip slips and she drops the plate, lets it shatter on the floyd's kitchen floor. mel should reach for the broom where she knows it is, but she doesn't, just stares at the broken ceramic laying between them. "sorry."
