The Sickness or the Cure [FICTION]

“This new medication will get you feeling better in no time. I already sent the prescription to your pharmacy.” The doctor holds out his hand.

I take it tentatively, “I hope you’re right.”

“I am. I always am.” He twitters lightly as if he wants to shake my confidence in him.

My trepidation deepens by the time I reach the pharmacy, but the pharmacist doesn’t offer any words of caution as he hands me my prescription. The documentation stapled to it lists only a few possible side effects such as a headache and dizziness, so I shouldn’t operate heavy machinery. I generally feel like I shouldn’t operate heavy machinery anyway, so this doesn’t alter my life in any way. I shrug and take one of the pills, making sure to wash it down with a huge glass of water. I firmly believe following the directions prevents one from getting the side effects.

I breath a sigh of relief when bedtime comes without any of the possible side effects manifesting themselves. So I rest my head on my pillow with a happy sigh, knowing this new medicine is doing what it is supposed to do and nothing more. 

I wake up in the middle of the night from the most disgusting dream. I was hopping around my neighborhood, eating flies. The neighbors appreciated me ridding the neighborhood of the winged creatures so much that they started tipping me in small change, mostly pennies. The pennies stuck to my skin which had become green and sticky. I shudder and roll out of bed, hitting the floor with an unfamiliar slapping sound.

I open my mouth and only a quizzical ribbit escapes.

‘Not possible.’ I think. ‘This wasn’t listed as a possible side effect.’

I take a step forward, sighing internally to find that my steps are hops and my tiny room looks gigantic. I have never been so glad that I don’t close my door at night as I hop into the living room. I hop onto the coffee table and swipe at my phone with sticky fingers. The phone doesn’t respond to my cold, amphibious skin. 

I try whining aloud but it comes out as drawn out croaks. ‘How am I supposed to get help?’ I whine in my head.

When I calm down enough to think, I let my eyes wander around the room. Some part of me wonders how I still see the same as I did before. Are frogs one of the animals that see in color? I should have paid more attention to my biology teacher who was obsessed with frogs to the point that she refused to let us dissect frogs or even talk about the idea of dissecting frogs. My eyes finally rest on the doggie flap in the door that I never bothered to do anything about it. It isn’t like animals ever try to break into my house. My mother assured me that  the smell of burnt food made them feel threatened.

I hopped over to the flap and placed my “hand” on it tentatively. It didn’t move until I pulled my hand back. I scooted my body forward and wedged it in the opening before disengaging my phalanges from the flap. The flap gives me a solid pat on the bottom as I climb over the lip of the opening, knocking me face first onto on the mat. I say a little thank you to my mother for insisting any good home have one. Otherwise, my face would have skidded across rough concrete.  I may not be in this condition for long, but I am sure whatever damage I accrue will remain with me if I find a treatment to return me to normal.

“But where does one find a cure for being a frog?” I ribbit unhappily.

A green haze appears on the horizon. I shrug froggy shoulders and hop toward it. With each hop, the haze moves further away from me. I follow it. I’m a frog, after all. Unless a juicy fly happens across my path, I have nothing better to do than follow a mysterious green fog through the city.

It leads me to the outskirts of town, where the houses have ample room between them to keep the neighbors from overhearing each other’s arguments. A well-placed fence or carefully planted row of trees can assure a homeowner won’t even have to look at their neighbors if they don’t want to. Maybe it is my new froggy form that makes me find this environment more appealing than my tiny house with only enough space between it and the next to shimmy through.

The haze stops moving as I near one of the sequestered houses hidden behind tall trees and overgrown shrubs. It settles over the peak of a slate roof that towers over even the tallest trees. I hop toward it, noticing that no weeds sprout up between the neatly placed stones of the walkway though they choke out the other vegetation in the flowerbeds that line it. As I finally reach the concrete stoop, I realize how tired my legs have become. I give one last good jump to reach the doorbell, barely managing to tap it with my nose before flopping back to the concrete. 

The doorbell chimes cheerily. A jaunty tune echoes beyond the sturdy door. I would dance if my legs weren’t so weary, so I remain splayed out on the concrete like a car just ran me down. As the chimes end, a gravelly voice calls out something I can’t understand. I assume the owner of the house plans to answer the door and I don’t have the energy for another wild leap, so I wait. 

Finally, the door creaks open. A little old man peers around the door, looking out suspiciously. As he steps out onto the front stoop, I realize his left leg is longer than his right, giving him an interesting gait. He peers up and down the street, giving extra attention to the unkempt bushes across the street. As he raises his hand to slam the door shut, I ribbit pitifully and he finally notices me down at his feet.

“Well, hello there, little hopper, did you ring my bell?” He leans down as if he expects me to answer, so I nod  my head emphatically. “Isn’t that odd. It almost seems like you know what I am saying.”

I croak out an attempt at, “I do.”

He leans in closer, peering into my eyes. “You don’t have the right color eyes for a frog, do you?”

I blink them at him. He takes this in stride, muttering. “Very peculiar. You have such human eyes for a frog.”

I nod my head in agreement, and something comes together in his mind. “This is the unmentionable side effect of a new prescription, isn’t it?”

I nod my head, and he smiles reassuringly at me. “Good thing I cast that spell to draw in all you poor creatures created by the misuse of ancient herbal remedies. Come on in.”

He offers me a hand and I wearily climb into it. He cradles me gently as he closes the door behind us and carries me down a narrow hallway. He sets me down on a countertop next to a small cauldron set over a bunsen burner.

“You’re the third case that has found me this year. Not everyone is so lucky. Not everyone finds the fog alluring, apparently. I keep tabs, you know. If you compare missing persons to pharmacy records, you see how many people who take certain prescriptions come up missing.” He turns on the bunsen burner and centers the cauldron above it. “Stand back a little. We don’t want you to end up in the burn unit when I get you back to your true self.”

He whistles a little tune and continues his diatribe. “Pharmacists these days are no better than medieval witches, mixing up their snake oil brew in a cauldron of hope and suspicion.” He mumbles to himself turning in a lazy circle as he scratches his chin and surveys a cabinet behind him with a million carefully labeled tiny drawers built it.

“I just need a pinch of this and a pinch of that and some of this and a little of this…” He measures out a little bit of various dried plants into the palm of his left hand and sprinkles them over a liquid already simmering in the cauldron.

He gently pats my head with his finger. “This part takes a little while, but be patient, okay? I’ll be back soon.”

He disappears out the door. Left alone, I try to make sense of the labels on the cabinets, but he must have his own names for things because every label appears to be written in gibberish. I content myself with meditative contemplation of the flickering flame. It lulls me half to sleep before the door opens again. I jump, feeling the warmth of the cauldron emanating toward me as I draw too close. I awkwardly hop backward.

“That should be almost ready,” the man says, setting a glass of ice down beside me.

He leans over the cauldron, fanning the steam of the liquid toward his face and inhaling deeply. Satisfied with the aroma, he takes a ladle down from the wall and stirs the liquid a few times. Then he ladles some of the liquid over the ice in the glass. It fizzes and a puff or golden mist rises up over the glass. He picks me up and waves my face through the mist. Then he sets me down on the floor and drapes a long linen cloth over me.

“You’re going to want that in a few minutes. If you can reach the glass before I get back, drink the contents. No matter how bad you think they taste.” He disappears out the door once more.

As the latch clicks into place, I cough a little. The lingering tendrils of golden mist make me feel like my throat is coated with lemon zest and garlic salt. My face tingles and the world looks slightly smaller. Another cough and I look down and my eyes stray to my phalanges which look more like fingers. Maybe wishful thinking has taken control of my mind, but I watch the green fade away.

Soon I stand on two legs without bowed knees. I am tall enough to reach the glass on the counter. As I cough again, the flavor filling my mouth makes me wish I weren’t certain that he counseled me to drink the contents of the glass for a reason. I chug it quickly, resisting the urge to spit it out and rinse my mouth. As I choke down the last sickening swig, a light rap sounds on the door.

“If you are no longer a frog, you can drape the cloth over yourself. Then maybe we can get you some clothes and see about making sure this doesn’t happen to anyone else.”

I set down the glass, holding one hand over my mouth to keep the liquid down as I slowly bend to grab the sheet. I drape it over myself like a loose toga and risk speaking.

“I’m clothed.” I call out.

The old man enters the room, his lips parted in a wide smile, “Young lady, so nice to see you are yourself again.”

“Mostly,” I say, leaning heavily against the counter. “Thank you for your help. So you do this often?”

“More often than I should really, but I can’t leave the innocent locked up in the wrong body, can I?”

I am not really sure how to respond to this. 

He doesn’t seem to mind. He goes off on another rant about modern medicine and their appropriation of mystical knowledge they don’t bother to understand. He culminates by leading me to a coat closet full of brown overalls in various sizes.

“They aren’t stylish or pretty, but since I never know who has hopped to my door until they drink the cure, this is an easy solution. So few people wear clothing in my size.”

“You’re very generous. What do I owe you?” I ask awkwardly, realizing he probably expects payment.

He laughs. “I am going to give you a regime that will keep you from turning back into a tiny frog. I just need to you follow it. These sorts of meetings are awkward for everybody.”

He turns his back while I slide the jumpsuit under the sheet and shimmy it up over my shoulders. Soon I am at least decent enough to step out the door, but my feet, which still hurt from hopping all morning complain about the hardwood underneath my soles.

“I think these should fit.” He says as he turns around, holding a pair of cheap flip flops in his hand.

“Thank you.” I say sheepishly, reaching for the shoes.

I put them on and we stand in awkward silence for a moment. He breaks the silence, “I would offer you a ride home, but I like my patients to be one visit and done. You understand?” He smiles, hands me a padded envelope, and turns to go back into his laboratory.

I don’t respond. There really is nothing more to say to him, so I take the hint and the envelope and exit via the front door. This time I walk through under my own power..

Once I reach the street, I realize I didn’t pay attention to the path that led me here. I am not sure how to get home. I am quickly apprised of why my new and temporary friend looked so intently at the unkempt bushes behind the street.

“Another young girl, tsk.” A shrill voice whispers.

“I suppose this one will need a ride home, too.” Another voice responds, this one blessedly less shrill.

I step toward the voices, and the first one rises. “You don’t know how to whisper.”

“Hello.” I call out, deciding embrace opportunity. “I really could use a ride. I could give you money for gas once I get to my house.”

The first voice answers. “No. I never give rides to strangers.”

“She looks harmless enough,” a tiny little woman somehow makes her way through the unkempt bushes. “My sister wouldn’t even give me a ride if I needed it. I can give you a ride, dear, though I prefer gossip to gas money.”

“Nothing much to tell,” I smile at her. “I ate something that disagreed with me and your neighbor helped me feel better.”

“I bet he did,” the shrill voice echoes from the other side of the bush as footsteps stomp disapprovingly toward the house that presumably hides behind them.

“Just ignore Margaret. She thinks everyone is having too much fun.” The little old lady takes my elbow gently in a tiny hand and leads me toward the narrow opening in the bushes. “The car is over here. No laughing or I won’t let you ride in my baby.”

As I round the corner, I have to bite my lip hard. Apparently, she expects the laughs but still loves her ridiculous little clown car. The sixties model Volkswagen Beetle must have once been  bright yellow, but the little bit of original paint that I can still see has faded to a soft yellow. There isn’t much to see since gorgeous blooms have blossomed out of paint all over the car. 

She turns to give me an assessing glance, satisfied that the pained look on my face isn’t laughter. “Get in, dear.”

She tries to quiz me about her neighbor as she slowly navigates the quiet streets. I try not to reveal that I think her neighbor might be some kind of warlock, but coming up with plausible explanations is tiring work. For instance, I explain that the medicine I took make me ruin my own clothes and her neighbor, whose name turns out to be Fredrick, was kind enough to loan me some overalls he had lying around. She doesn’t seem to buy this or any of my other excuses, but she turns to smile happily at me as she stops outside my house. 

“Thank you for humoring an old woman, dear. As you probably guessed, my sister and I don’t get much amusement out of each other’s company and Fredrick is just such an odd little man.”

I nod my head in agreement. “Thank you for the ride. I will be right back out with some gas money.”

“No, dear. That’s alright.” She smiles at me, but something about the way she does it makes me think she wants me to hurry out of her car.

I realize how many recently un-frogged people she must have driven home when something disturbing works its way out of my bowels and engulfs me in a greenish cloud that smells of swamp gas mixed with lemon, garlic, and salt. I gag and step away from the cloud, disappointed that it clings to me and follows me toward my front door. Through burning eyes, I see the old woman giggling as she toots her horn and pulls away from the curb.

The cloud continues to follow me as I circle around my house, afraid to go inside until it dissipates, which takes about a half hour. So I ask which is better, the sickness or the cure?

~~I had to have a green side effect in honor of my best friend cousin whose birthday is coming up in six days. Hope the rest of my readers enjoy this slightly longer offering.~~