The Fever by Porsche Faria

The Fever by Porsche Faria

Outside, the breeze constantly rolled up the land of the Azores Islands in Portugal, weaving between the whitewashed houses. The crashing waves drowned out the sounds of boats in the port, making the earth sound like it was placed inside a shell. The wind whistled through the metal shutters inside the house. I lay on the tile floor near the couch, sweat dripping from my head. 

My brother and cousin ran from the hallway out the door. 

“And how do you say shit in Portuguese?” mybrother asked.

“Mer-da,” laughed my cousin.

“Nina, levanta. Get up,” my grandmother said to me. 

I sat up slowly. The heat rose in my head, making my vision blurry.

“Aqui, baby. Drink. It will help with the fever.”

Sitting up and wobbling a bit, I grabbed the glass and drank quickly, hoping to soothe my dry throat. My throat and stomach caught on fire, and I coughed violently.

“Avó Maria, what is this?” 

“Remédio. Anise Liqueur.” 

I stared at her blankly, and then she said, “medicine.” She helped me onto the couch and waited until I finished all the so-called medicine. I lay there as my grandma walked back to her kitchen. 

I could hear my brother and cousin playing outside and wanted to play too. I leaned up to see if I could see them out the open door but laid back down quickly as the bright light hit my eyes. The couch’s fabric itched my skin, and I crossed my arms, trying to let as little of it touch me as possible. Every part of me was damp. I shivered. 

Black spots appeared in my vision and the white tile came in and out of focus. The tiles slowly got dark and began to glisten. It was the ocean. I was back on the boat, which I was on a few days before. They have planes to get around the Azores, but Avó refuses to take them. She says boats are the fastest and more enjoyable. My father’s face was green when she said this, and he stayed with it leaning off the side of the boat. 

My mother had grown up on the island of Faial. She visited America right after high school and met my dad the week she arrived. He had gotten her to agree to move to America and marry him by promising they’d come to the Azores every summer. Judging by his green face, I don’t think he knew boats were included when he made that promise.

“What grade are you now in, Nina?” my grandmother had asked.

“Fourth.”

“And your brother?”

“Sixth grade.” I looked over at my brother and cousin, who were throwing pieces of hard candy, trying to hit fish while my brother yelled his newly learned curse words.

“Filho-da-puta!”

“He completing his, um, confirmação soon, right? In church?” I nodded quickly, hoping not to give anything away. We weren’t supposed to tell Avó that we never started Catechism. I looked out to the ocean, hoping my lie would fall into it. My grandmother’s deep focus on me returned the heat to my head. I tried to lean my head up to feel the breeze on my face but felt nothing. The dark waves slowed and stopped, and I stared, confused.

“What is wrong with Lizzie?” my father yelled, standing at the door. 

I opened my eyes. I was back in the living room, and the sun had begun to set. I was covered in sweat and realized I was shivering violently.

“She is sick. Ela tem febre,” said Avó Fatima.

“What is she saying?” my father said to my mother, who was walking to my side. The hatred was clear on his face. 

“She said she has a fever, John.” My mother said stroked my head where a heat rash had begun to break out with her cool hand. I whimpered.

“If she knows English, why doesn’t she speak it?” he said.

“If your American husband would learn Portuguese, maybe he and my grandchildren could understand me better.” 

My mother ignored their arguing. Her eyes were fixed on the coffee table.

“Mãe, o que é isso?” she asked, sniffing the empty glass on the coffee table. She set it back stiffly. “I told you! Never give my children alcohol! It isn’t medicine! It’s the worst thing you could give a child with a fever.” 

My mother helped me up off the couch. My grandmother kept her eyes on the ground away from my mother’s.

“It is our medicine. I gave it to you your whole childhood. Nothing in this country is good enough for you anymore. Desatualizado para você. Why do you even come back?” 

My grandmother and mother stared at each other, their eyes filling with tears. They began screaming at each other in Portuguese, forgetting I was between them. 

The fight between Portuguese and American traditions started before I was born. Avó was afraid we’d all lose our heritage, and Mom wanted us, children, to fit in with our peers in the states. I didn’t understand what the fights were about, but I could tell they were getting worse this visit.

Mom used to laugh sometimes when Avó spoke. Now she didn’t even smile. She’d just give Avó the face like she’s in trouble or start yelling in Portuguese. 

My father stood frozen at the door. The island sun reddened his face and arms, and he was too big for the doorway. I never realized how out of place he looked until then. My brother and cousin came running in the door and halted behind my father when they saw my grandmother and mother fighting. Behind them, I could see my grandfather walking up from his garden, confused, wondering if he should do anything or let them be. No one seemed to notice me. 

The two women’s faces were wet, and their voices had become so muddied that even the people who spoke Portuguese couldn’t understand them. Everything raced in my head. I looked up at both of them, my eyes filling with tears. I was starting to have a hard time seeing through them. I heard a slap on the floor and saw both of them look at me before I went into a dark sleep.

I awoke in a small hospital room and didn’t need to ask what had happened. My mother and grandmother came into the room at different times. 

My mother apologized for Avó’s behavior. She talked a lot about right and wrong and what she and my father felt, but I could barely hear what she said. 

Avó sat on my bed without saying a word. She pulled a postcard from her bag and handed it to me. It was a photo of the port.

The rest of the trip was silent. The fever left, but it had blackened my mother’s and Avó’s relationship. 

At the airport, Avó kissed me goodbye and made me promise to come back. I carried the postcard in my hand. 

“Your mãe will calm down, you’ll see. Next visit will be better, my Nina. Eu prometo.”

Even then, I knew it wasn’t true. From now on, my mother would call her our grandmother instead of Avó. The sounds of Portuguese being spoken on the phone would cease, and soon, the only Portuguese words my brother and I could remember would be the curse words our cousin taught him during our last trip. We would come back to the island again and visit, but it wouldn’t be until Avó’s funeral.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Porsche Faria 2025