Darling Rose Gold(78)

I have ripped the bathroom apart, hunting for a relevant treatment, but I can’t find one. Rose Gold has very few bottles of children’s medicine; she is wholly unprepared for a sick baby.

I dash across the hall, back to Adam’s side. His cries have morphed from short bursts to a steady wail. I lift him from the crib. “Please be okay, little one,” I beg, trying to soothe him. He vomits all over my shirt.

“What’s wrong with you?” I cry, trying to rip my shirt off with one arm while holding Adam in the other. He’s going to get dehydrated if he keeps puking like this.

I should call his doctor, to be safe. That way, someone else will know what’s going on. Someone else can help me find a solution to this problem. And if it turns out to be a twelve-hour bug, then fine. There’s nothing wrong with calling to be safe.

I pick up my phone from the nightstand and press the address book icon before realizing I don’t know the name of Adam’s pediatrician. Maybe Rose Gold wrote it down in her physical address book. I ransack the kitchen junk drawer, pull out the address book, and flip through every page. When I get to “Z” and still haven’t found an entry with a “Dr.” title, I want to join Adam in his crying.

“What about Mommy’s desk?” I say to the baby. I carry him back to Rose Gold’s bedroom. I’ve already turned every drawer inside out, seeking clues about her disappearance, but I wasn’t looking for doctor’s information then. Maybe I missed something.

I search the desk’s cubbies again, more frantically this time, not bothering to put everything back where I found it. Nothing in the file folders. Nothing on the side shelves. Nothing in the pencil drawer. She must keep the pediatrician’s contact information on her phone. I yell in frustration.

An hour later, Adam is still crying and throwing up. I’m no closer to having a plan. I’ve reached my breaking point, wanting nothing more than to collapse on the floor and throw a tantrum. I don’t know what to do, I keep thinking. Someone tell me what to do.

I get a flash of inspiration: I’ll give him another bottle. He quieted down for ten or so minutes when I gave him one earlier. Ten minutes is all I need—a little block of time to think straight and choose a course of action. And I don’t want him getting dehydrated. A little milk will be good for him. For what must be the fiftieth time today, I dart from the bedroom to the kitchen.

Adam latches onto the rubber nipple. His screams subside. I nearly crumple to my knees in thanks. I watch Adam’s tear-streaked face while he drinks. I need help. Then I have a thought.

I can—nay, should—take him to the hospital.

A tingle shivers down my spine. I imagine the doctors and nurses crowding around us, hurrying to attend to my sick baby, asking me questions, hanging on my every word.

What else is a worried grandmother to do? I have no way of contacting Adam’s pediatrician. He has been vomiting for five hours. This is, by definition, an emergency.

I let Adam drink the rest of the bottle, then put him on Rose Gold’s bed. Scurrying around the house, I pack the diaper bag with bottles of milk, wipes, and so on. I rush to my closet to put on a clean shirt. I run outside, open the garage door, and start the van so the interior will be warm by the time I bring Adam out.

Turning on my heel, I march back into the house again. When I open the side door, the first thing I notice is the quiet. Inside is as silent as outside.

My heart stops.

I realize I left Adam lying on Rose Gold’s bed. He might have fallen off of it and hurt himself—or worse. I sprint past the kitchen and down the hallway, terrified. What if someone . . . No, I can’t let myself go there. I was only gone for a second.

“Be okay, be okay,” I chant to myself.

I cross the threshold to Rose Gold’s bedroom. Adam’s cries slap me like a glass of ice water. I’m flooded with relief to find the baby flailing around on his mother’s bed. For a moment, I don’t even mind that he’s thrown up in here too. He is here. He is safe.

I vow never to let him out of my sight again.

My relief is short-lived. Is it possible his cries have gotten louder? I know in my gut something is wrong. Adam needs medical attention.

“Okay, bub, let’s go,” I say. I pick up Adam. I put his diaper bag over my shoulder and take one last glimpse at Rose Gold’s destroyed room. This is not how I hoped to leave the house. If she comes back, she’ll know I’ve ransacked her belongings. But by then I will also have restored her son to good health. I’m calling it even.

I buckle Adam into his car seat and remember again where we’re going. I wonder what the doctor will be like—convivial with a perfect bedside manner or more formal and facts focused. I bet the nurses will pat me on the back, whispering I did the right thing. The other people in the waiting room will coo over Adam, say he looks like me, touch his forehead, and offer their own solutions. This is what I love about the medical community: everyone wants to help.

I back the van down the driveway, feeling a small twinge of fear. Some of Rose Gold’s old doctors and nurses probably still work at the hospital. Worse, there’s a chance Tom will be there. Then again he always worked night shifts. Besides, what choice do I have? Even if people there hold grudges against me, they still have to care for my grandson. We all took the same oath: First do no harm.

Maybe Adam has severe food allergies that need to be diagnosed and treated. That would make sense, after all. His mother has a long history of gastrointestinal issues.