Chapter 11
11
THAT MONDAY I WOKE TO THE SOUND of something far worse than an alarm clock. It was the sound of puking.
I bolted from bed and across the hallway to Hayley’s bathroom, my bare feet slapping against the wood floors. Wearing a Zelda T-shirt and pajama pants with dogs of various breeds, Hayley retched, her slight body bent over the toilet. I gathered her hair back. “It’s okay.”
She moaned, crumpling to her knees and heaving again.
With my stomach twisting in solidarity, I frantically searched the countertop for a hair tie. Instead, I found an explosion of beauty products. Eyeshadow and lip gloss in varying colors scattered one side of the sink. An open compact of powder, blush, eyeliner, mascara. The other side packed with gels, foaming mousses, and a flat iron.
There. An elastic with a knot of Hayley’s red hair entangled on it.
Holding her tresses with one hand, I stretched, reaching with my other for the band and grasping it with my fingertips. Gently, I fastened her limp locks into a low ponytail. “Do you feel cold?”
Another moan and round of vomiting.
Discarded towels—that Hayley hadn’t laundered this past weekend like she was supposed to—covered the floor. I stepped over them and opened the linen cabinet next to her sink. Only one clean washcloth remained. After running it under cool water, I wrung it out and draped it along the back of her neck. Her shoulders spiked, and she shivered, sinking to her butt on top of another heap of used towels. The pallid color to her face did not bode well. I placed the back of my palm to her forehead. Warm . I leaned over, placing my lips to her forehead. Hot. I knew it.
In the kitchen I grabbed the ear thermometer from the medicine cabinet and a cup of water. Back in the bathroom, I took her temperature, eliciting my own groan at the results: 101.5.
“Here.” I rested the cup in her hands, wondering if she could even hold it.
She swished and spit into the toilet.
“Have you had any diarrhea?”
She shook her head, looking more pathetic than the dogs in those ASPCA commercials.
“I’m guessing you picked up a virus.”
Another moan. She handed me the cup and lumbered to her feet, me hovering at her side. She made an attempt at brushing her teeth and took a tentative sip of water. Holding her elbow, I ushered her to her room. At the threshold, Hayley’s talent for creating her own wall-to-wall carpeting continued. Except instead of towels, a mixture of clothes greeted us. Plaid skirts, T-shirts, jeans, pajamas, socks. We trudged through them to her bed, where I tucked her in, only covering her with a sheet since she was running a fever. If I gave her Tylenol, would she be able to hold it down? I glanced at the clock on the bedside table. 6:05 a.m . The pediatricians’ office didn’t open until eight.
I set her water on the nightstand and returned to my bedroom, grabbing my phone.
Mayté answered after several rings. “Everything okay?” Dishes clattering and small appliances roaring permeated her background, the morning prep well underway for when we opened in two hours.
“Hayley’s sick.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Unease blended within her tone. “But you’re both banned from the café.”
Despite the situation I smiled at her directness. It was one of the characteristics I adored about her. “I agree. The last thing we need is the staff or customers getting sick. I’ve got my laptop, so I’ll process payroll from up here.” And hopefully I’d have time to review the previous month’s financial statements. My meeting with the New Orleans Redevelopment Authority was Friday, and I wanted to ensure I was prepared to have my best shot at one of their grants. Making an offer on Claire’s dream café location felt so close. My own stomach churned, and it had nothing to do with Hayley’s current condition. “If you need anything, let me know.”
“We’ll be fine. Especially with Penny on the schedule. I’ll make my abuela’s chicken noodle soup for tonight’s dinner and leave it at your door. It’ll fix Hayley up and keep you healthy too.”
“That’d be perfect. Thank you.”
Unlike me, Mayté loved to cook and was talented at it. Shortly after Claire’s death, she’d been horrified to discover Hayley and I had been living off takeout, frozen foods, and peanut butter sandwiches. We’d struck a deal for her to prepare us meals utilizing the café’s kitchen. Mayté had free rein over what she made us for dinner, and I compensated her for it. For the two days a week Mayté was off, we survived on our own. Or had leftovers since Mayté tended to make bigger portions before her time off from the café.
At 7:55 a.m. I dialed the doctors’ office. For the record, I was a pediatrician’s nightmare. I’d quickly gained that status the first year of custody over Hayley. Mild fevers, colds, tummy aches that could have been appendicitis, allergies that could possibly be a cold that could possibly lead to pneumonia. I called for everything. Overkill? Most likely. But Hayley’s well-being rested solely on me. There was no way I’d let her or Claire down. And as far as being a nuisance to the doctors’ office, I’d also periodically dropped off treats as a thank-you for putting up with me. After a multitude of rings, a generic message came on, stating they weren’t open yet, and to head to the ER if it was a true emergency. I disconnected and called right back.
At 8:05 a.m. they finally answered.
“Hi.” In that one word I heard the edginess in my voice. “My thirteen-year-old’s throwing up and running a fever. I’d like to bring her in.”
“There’s a stomach bug going around.” The receptionist spoke with bored indifference. “That’s probably what she’s got. It just takes waiting out. Does she have any other symptoms?”
Was she about to give me the brush-off? I needed answers beyond a guess at her illness based merely on two symptoms. I needed to know exactly what I was dealing with so I could come up with a game plan. “Um, she’s very weak.” Technically I had helped her back to bed. “And she has a fever. Did I mention that?”
“What’s her temperature?”
“102.” I winced. Yes, I’d rounded up. But it was a perfectly acceptable thing to do. Even the Louisiana Department of Revenue rounded the dollar amounts on the café’s sales tax forms. Plus, Hayley’s normal temperature ran low.
The tapping of a keyboard came across the line. “Can you bring her at one o’clock?”
My shoulders sagged, my grip on the phone loosening. “Yes. Thank you.”
The stomach bug had turned out to be the flu. Despite an answer to her illness and instructions of fluids, fever meds, and rest, my anxiety had only festered. Everything I’d given Hayley Monday and Tuesday had come right back up. Water, Gatorade, bananas, crackers, Mayté’s soup. To keep her from living at the toilet, I’d positioned my gumbo pot next to her in bed. At least it’d gotten some use. One saving grace was her fever subsiding. But that relief had fallen way to the fear she was dehydrated.
Julia, who was in North Carolina visiting her boys at college, suggested contacting the pediatrician and asking them to call in a prescription for antinausea meds. The worry monster clawing at the lining of my stomach somewhat eased its scratching at that suggestion. But not enough. I’d convinced myself a phone conversation wouldn’t suffice. By late Tuesday afternoon I’d packed Hayley and the gumbo pot into the car and toted her to the pediatrician. They’d reassured me she wasn’t dehydrated and had prescribed antinausea medication.
We now waited in the drive-through line at Walgreens. This evening we were supposed to be having a brainstorming session on the next library function with a hot and not-so-single librarian. I’d count that postponement of extra time with Micah as a tiny silver lining. As time to get my still lingering Mardi Gras fever under control.
Speaking of lingering illnesses, I peered Hayley’s way. With her eyes closed, she rested her head against the passenger-side door. Her pale auburn lashes contrasted to the dark circles beneath them. Her slumped posture radiated she had all the strength of soggy French bread. This was by far the sickest she’d ever been. And despite that, for the past thirty-four hours of persistent vomiting and hardly any sleep, she hadn’t complained. Not once.
She was so much like Claire. I pulled in a deep breath and couldn’t help but smile at the thought.
Hayley straightened with a grimace. I shifted the gumbo pot on her lap, and she leaned over it, dry heaving for a long minute. Strands of her hair had escaped her ponytail, and I tucked them behind her ear. “Thanks,” she whispered weakly, then returned her head to rest against the door.
Despite Hayley’s onset of teen moodiness, she was a good kid. A good kid who’d been dealt a lousy hand in life. Steady pressure built in my chest, pain jabbing at my heart. She was a good kid who had never given me real trouble of any kind. A good kid with one set of rotten grandparents and another set who’d long ago gone to be with the Lord. A good kid who hadn’t disobeyed a single rule I’d put in place. A good kid who never asked for anything.
Well ... that wasn’t exactly true.
I gazed at her, my throat swelling with emotion, and squeezed out the words I knew I’d come to regret. “You can get a dog.”
It seemed the miracle drug for beating the flu was the promise of a pet. By the next morning, Hayley had springboarded back to health. Thursday and Friday we’d resumed our regular routine. Saturday, though, we had not.
I exited the parking lot of the animal rescue center, positive we had just adopted a naked mole rat. The volunteer at the shelter had assured me it was a hairless Chihuahua mix. Their best guess labeled the critter as part pug. I still wasn’t convinced it was of any canine classification.
Hayley sat in the passenger seat, snuggling the creature, cooing to it.
I shook my head. I’d planned to navigate her toward a really, really, really old dog. Like two paws in the grave. Or one of those mature, trendy dogs with three legs everyone had nowadays. We could’ve named it Lieutenant Dan. But her heart had latched onto a puppy. A puppy! I’d had zero dog experience as a child, which meant a puppy was worse. Topping it off, this animal was ugly. Hideous. A face only a mother could love. And apparently not even that, because its mother had rejected it.
Hayley cuddled the pale rat against her neck. “I’m naming her Precious.”
I cringed and came to a stop for a red light. “From The Hobbit ?”
“No! Because she’s so precious. Look at her.” She tenderly extended the quaking dog toward me. Eyes the size of Ping-Pong balls. Ears like a gremlin. Skin the palest of pinks. Several scraggly strands of white hair poked through its wrinkled hide.
I fought a shudder. At least Precious was small. She wouldn’t take up much room or require a lot of food. And any accidents she had would be small too.
“Well?” Hayley’s ginger brows rose expectantly.
The light turned green, and I accelerated through the intersection. “For the next library event we could do a Lord of the Rings theme. She could be a prop.”
Hayley shot me a look, nuzzling the dog to her chest. “Don’t listen to her, Precious. You’re beautiful. Yes, you are.”
I rolled my eyes. At least Hayley was talking to me ... well, mostly to the dog. Regardless, I’d take that as a win. And after yesterday, I needed one. My meeting with the New Orleans Redevelopment Authority hadn’t gone well. The Vieux Carré Café didn’t meet the zone location requirements of their target areas for their Small Business Grant Assistance Program. It was time for plan B. I’d now focus on a federal SBA loan. As a woman-owned company, hopefully it could give me some extra points with securing one. And hopefully without using Mawmaw’s mansion as collateral. I rubbed the Crease. Darn that clause in her will.
“Why won’t she eat?” Hayley sat on the kitchen floor, her brows pinched. Precious, with a slight tremor I was beginning to think was permanent, sniffed Hayley’s socked feet.
I occupied a barstool at the island, trying to hide my scowl as I surveyed the receipt from our trip to PetSmart. It was long enough to be the tail to a kite. “Like every living creature, she’ll eat when she’s hungry.”
After adopting Precious, we’d stopped at PetSmart. I’d strode through their doors with the intention of purchasing six items: a crate, leash, collar, food, and food-and-water dishes. We’d ended up with a ridiculous number of things for a dog barely weighing two pounds. One of those items? A toothbrush. For a dog!
“But she hasn’t eaten all day. She’s got to be hungry.” For the millionth time, Hayley positioned Precious before her bowl. A tiny pink bowl more fitting for a hamster. Precious stared at the dry puppy kibble, her long, skinny rat tail shaking between her hind legs.
The thinnest thread of sympathy stitched into my heart. “She’s probably stressed. Today’s been a big change for her.”
“Oh.” Hayley leaned back, pondering. “She could be like you. You don’t eat when you’re stressed.”
I blinked. When had she noticed that tendency of mine?
Precious’s head lifted, and she released a string of whimpers. Hayley scooped her up, and she quieted. Great. We had a puppy who was arm spoiled. Just like Hayley had been as a baby.
That night brought zero sleep. One of the rules I’d implemented with getting a dog was when we slept, the animal would reside in a kennel in the laundry room. Precious had railed against that decree, her whimpering cries leveling up to full-out, earsplitting wails. It was as though the dog pound scene from Lady and the Tramp had been playing on repeat. How could such a small creature make so much noise?
Hayley had shuffled into my room around two in the morning, begging me to let her free the dog. That she’d keep a close eye on it in her bed. Exhausted and a little queasy, I’d relented.
Several hours later that mild queasiness had morphed into deep nausea. I now lay in bed, hoping it would pass. Hoping for a little more rest. It was Sunday. The only day the café was closed. The only day I could sleep in. The sun’s rays crept through my blinds, welcoming the day and taunting me. My stomach twisted and lurched. I threw the covers back and sprang from the bed. My foot landed in something soft and warm. No. I gritted my teeth. No way. I glanced down and sure enough, dog poop squished up between my toes. Yesterday’s thread of sympathy for that rat snipped in two. Holding down the contents of my stomach and a curse, I hobbled on my heel to the bathroom and hurled.