Fever knocked me out cold—my mother-in-law refused to take me to the hospital. She boiled a handful of dried chilies and forced the scalding liquid down my throat, telling me it would break the fever and drive out the chill.
She didn’t let go of my chin. The scalding chili water ran from the corner of my mouth down to my neck. Her thumb pressed up, forcing me to swallow what was left.
“Swallow. Spit it out and it won’t work.”
My throat felt like sandpaper inside. I opened my mouth to tell her I needed a hospital. All that came out was a whisper: “Ma…”
My mother-in-law, June, the lady of this house, slammed the bowl down on the nightstand. She wiped her hands and smiled. “You’re burning up. What’s a hospital gonna give you? Fever pills? This is medicine.”
“It’s not medicine…” I tried to say it. What came out was a wheeze.
