Because (Seven Year Itch #4)(5)
“I don’t feel good,” she mumbles.
As soon as I stand up to retrieve medication I hear her hurl. She’s projectile vomiting all over my bed linens and there’s nothing I can do but watch it happening.
I rush into the bathroom to grab a towel and the thermometer I keep in the open toothbrush holder slot. When I return she’s still throwing up. I slide on the mattress behind her and pull back her hair. There’s no point trying to contain the mess. She needs to finish first and then I’ll worry about the aftermath. “It’s okay. Just get it out, honey.”
It takes her a few minutes to stop heaving. That’s when I start wiping her face. She basically falls against my chest, so fragile and exhausted. “Open your mouth so I can take your temperature.” I’m trying the oral way first, but if she can’t manage I’ll go downstairs and fetch the ear thermometer. I don’t know why I prefer the old fashioned kind over the other.
We’re able to keep it under her tongue long enough for me to get a reading of one hundred and four.
Immediately I begin to panic. This is serious.
I start stripping off her soiled clothes so I can cool her body. Her light weight is easy to pick up and carry into the bathroom. “It’s going to be okay,” I say when she starts to whine. “I’m going to make you better. I promise.”
“My tummy hurts again,” she manages to get out before another bought of puke ejects from her mouth.
I’m halfway to the bathroom when I see it happening, so I begin to run. Once I have her in the empty tub I grab the wastebasket and hold it in front of her, while turning on the spigot to a temperature cool enough to lower her fever without shocking her. She’s helpless, and I’m desperate to alleviate as much of this as I’m able to.
I begin taking off her clothes, careful to keep her from sudden extreme movements. I’m full of worry, because I’ve never seen my daughter this sick before. Just hours ago she was fine, and now she can barely move. This can’t be a regular virus. Something is seriously wrong with her. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach, like I have some kind of motherly intuition.
When I get her stripped down to her panties I noticed a rash on her stomach. This puts me in full blown panic mode.
Covered in what she has thrown up, I begin to strip out of my pajamas, while keeping both eyes focused on my daughter. She’s resting her head against the cold porcelain wall of the old claw foot tub. I can’t believe how fast she’s declining.
It’s imperative that I get her to a hospital as soon as possible. My cell phone is in my bedroom and I’m too concerned about leaving her to go grab it. While on my knees, I reach over and check her body with the back of my hand, feeling around to see if the water surrounding her is helping at all.
She’s still burning up.
I want to cry, but I have to hold myself together. Brandon isn’t home and I can’t scare her more than she probably already is. I pull the plug to allow the filled water to draw out and make a dash for the bedroom. I quickly dial the number to her doctor’s office and leave a message with the answering service for the doctor to get back to me. I don’t know when or if she’ll call, but I need to cover all bases.
When I’m back in the bathroom I fetch a towel and lift her limp body out of the tub. She’s barely able to stand and crying out. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s scared or in pain. “Calm down, sweetie. I’m going to take you to the hospital and get you better. It’s going to be okay. Tell me what hurts. What’s wrong, Ab?”
“I don’t know,” she screams. “Help me, Mommy. I’m cold.” Her body is shaking, her teeth chattering.
With no regard for the mess I’m leaving behind, I pick her up and carry her into her room, quickly dressing her enough to take her to the hospital. Even though I know she’s cold, I can’t bring myself to cover her up. I have to keep her as cool as possible, so once I start the car I roll down the windows. She is going to hate it, but its only a short ride. I’d read about high fevers causing seizures and even comas. I can’t risk that. Easton Memorial Hospital is only a few miles from where we live on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. I’m thankful for that, because my heart can’t deal with something terrible happening to my daughter.
Chapter 3
While driving like a bat out of Hell, I wait for the ringing to stop at the sound of his voice. This is the sixth time I’ve dialed his number. The first five have been ignored, sending me right into is voicemail that I know he never checks. If he thinks I’m going to hang up and give it a rest he has another thing coming. Our daughter is too sick, not to mention the fact that he should be home with us instead of out with the guys at God only knows what bar or strip club this late.
I begged him to stay. I pleaded.
He probably thinks this was just me trying to ruin his good time. He has no idea there is a real emergency going on with his only child. Brandon may be a shit husband with minimal priorities when it comes to our marriage, but Aberdeen means the world to him. He loves her more than life itself. As mad as I am with him, I know I can’t stop trying to reach him.
On top of my concerns for my child’s health, my mind is fixated on my earlier fight with Brandon, and it being the reason he won’t pick up my call. If he hates me it isn’t without reason. He was right. Sometimes I nag him too much. I can’t help it. I want him to be better, and I don’t know how else to make it happen.