Chapter Twenty-Four
Mind y
"What do you want for dinner, baby?" I ask Sharon. "Chicken nuggets? Meatballs with pasta?"
Sharon shakes her head. "I'm not hungry, Mommy," she mumbles, looking down at her feet.
I furrow my brow. My daughter loves her food and never refuses dinner.
"How about your favorite, baby?" I gently stroke her hair. "Fish fingers with mashed potato?"
"I'm not hungry," she repeats. "My tummy hurts." She clutches at her stomach.
I feel a flare of frustration. I should have known better than to let her eat almost an entire box of chocolate after lunch. Despite her protests, I manage to coax her into eating a few bites of toast and sipping some water, but I can tell she doesn’t want it.
The rest of the evening passes in a haze of worry and guilt. I keep a close eye on her, hoping her stomachache will magically disappear, but her discomfort lingers. As bedtime approaches, I decide that a good night’s sleep might be just what she needs. I run a warm bath, but even as I lift her into the tub, she still looks pale and weak.
"Alright, Miss Grumpy Tummy," I say, keeping my voice light. "Time for your royal bath!"
Sharon gives me a tiny smile. "Can Mr. Quackers come too?" she asks, pointing at her favorite rubber duck.
"Sure, sweetheart. It wouldn’t be a bath without Mr. Quackers, right?" I grab Mr. Quackers from the shelf and plop him into the tub, adding exaggerated quacking noises that draw giggles from Sharon.
As I’m washing her hair, Sharon looks up at me. "Mommy, if I eat all my veggies tomorrow, will my tummy stop being mad at me?"
I chuckle. "Well, veggies are definitely better for you than all that chocolate you ate earlier. Maybe your tummy’s just throwing a little tantrum because of that."
"No more tantrums," Sharon mutters, poking at her belly.
I smile but I can’t quite shake my worry. "How about this, baby? If you eat your veggies every day for the rest of the week, we can go to the ice cream shop this weekend. Deal?"
Sharon’s eyes light up. "Deal!" she exclaims, then winces a little. "But maybe not too much. I don’t want my tummy to hurt again."
As her bedtime approaches and her small bedroom is awash in the gentle glow of the nightlight, Sharon nestles deeper into her pillow. Her eyes are droopy and her tiny arms wrap around my neck. I feel the softness of her stuffed rabbit pressing against my skin.
"I love you, Mommy," she whispers before drifting off to sleep.
I linger for a moment longer, listening to the peaceful rhythm of her breathing before quietly leaving her room and gently clicking the door shut behind me.
I make my way to the living room and collapse onto the couch. The day’s events replay in my mind – Alexis’s visit, Sharon’s shyness, and that box of chocolate my sister brought as a gift. I cringe at remembering how eagerly Sharon devoured most it. I’d been too relieved that she was interacting with Alexis to stop her.
My eyes drift to my laptop on the coffee table, reminding me of the mountain of work I still need to tackle. It’s the second week since that disastrous presentation and the embarrassing incident with Albert, and surprisingly, I still had no calls or emails telling me that I’m fired. But I know it’s coming. It’s not a question of if but rather a when. I already handed in a few job applications and refreshed my LinkedIn profile. I just hope I can find something before Christine finds my replacement.
***
"Mommy, mommy!" The shrill cry of my daughter pierces through the quiet of the night, jerking me out of sleep. My eyes snap open and I look at the clock on the wall: it’s 2:34 AM.
Shit.
I fell asleep on the couch. And Sharon’s awake.
I push myself up and rush to Sharon’s bedside. She’s curled up in a ball, her face contorted in pain as tears stream down her cheeks.
"Mommy," she whimpers, "my tummy hurts so bad."
I sit down on the edge of her bed and switch on the heart-shaped lamp on the wall. Its soft glow illuminates the room, casting shadows across my little girl’s pale face. I place my hand on her forehead, feeling beads of sweat forming on her skin.
"Oh, baby," I say softly, trying to soothe her. "It’s okay, I’m here."
But Sharon’s pain only seems to intensify. Her breaths are becoming rapid and shallow, and she grows even paler.
I frantically try everything I can possibly think of - warm water, a gentle massage, her favorite bedtime story - but nothing brings her any relief. And with each passing moment, I feel more powerless and helpless to ease her pain. As Sharon’s cries turn to agonized screams, I realize I can’t handle this on my own.
I call 911.
"Hello? Please, I need an ambulance right away," I plead, my voice trembling slightly. "My daughter is in a lot of pain. Her belly started hurting in the evening and it’s just getting worse and worse." My words come out in a rush.
"I understand, ma’am, nothing to worry about." The operator’s voice is calm and professional. "What’s your location?"
I give her my address. "Please, hurry up. She’s only six, she’s crying, and I don't know what to do."
"Help is on the way, ma’am," the operator assures me. "In the meantime, can you tell me exactly what could have led to this?"
I take a shaky breath, trying to focus on the operator’s questions. "She has a sharp pain in her stomach. She skipped dinner… and ate a lot of chocolate after lunch, which was probably a mistake." I’m finding it hard to put two coherent sentences together. I try again. "She’s been feeling unwell since and now it’s become unbearable."
"Okay, try to remain calm, please." The operator’s steady voice is a calming presence in the face of my panic. She probably talks to crying mothers all the time "Help will be there soon. Is your daughter conscious and breathing normally?"
I glance at Sharon, curled up on the bed. Her face is pale and streaked with tears. "Yes, she’s conscious, but she’s in a lot of pain. Please hurry."
As I hang up the phone and return to Sharon’s room to hold her trembling body, my mind whirls with a series of fears. What if it’s something serious? What if it’s not just the chocolate she ate? As usual, my mind conjures up worst-case scenarios: appendicitis, food poisoning, a rare disease I’ve never even heard of. The fear is almost paralyzing.
Your panicking isn’t going to help, Mindy!
It will only make matters worse!
Suddenly, unbidden thoughts of Maron surface. Would he be here if he knew? Would he pace the floor, his eyes wild with worry for his daughter? Or would he be as absent in this crisis just the way he’s been for the past seven years?
Oh my God, Mindy, stop it!
The wail of approaching sirens jolts me back to the present. I look down at Sharon - her face is still pale and pinched with pain. "Help is here, baby," I whisper, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Mommy’s got you. Everything’s going to be okay."
The distant wail of sirens grows louder. Flashing lights burst through the gaps in our curtains, painting the walls in a frantic dance of red and blue. The screech of brakes echoes through the quiet of the night, followed by the slamming of car doors and the urgent sound of footsteps on the stairs.
A sharp knock on the door startles me.
"Paramedics!" a voice calls out. I rush to open the door, cradling Sharon in my arms. "Good evening, ma’am," the two uniformed paramedics move in immediately as I open the door. "My name is Tom, and this is my colleague, Barbara." He looks at my baby girl. "And this is our little patient, right?"
I nod. "Sharon." I gently lower her on the couch. She clings to me tightly, as if her life depended on it.
"Hey, Sharon," Tom says, then looks at me. "Can you tell us what happened?"
I quickly explain everything, making sure to mention every important detail. The chocolate, how she skipped dinner, and how she woke up in the middle of the night, crying.
"Was there any vomiting or fever?" The woman asks, checking Sharon’s vitals.
"No, just the pain," I shake my head, fighting tears.
"Alright, let’s get this young lady to the hospital," the man says. "We can’t be sure what it is until we properly examine her."
Hospital?
Oh, God.
Sensing my distress the woman’s hand lands gently on my shoulder. "It's alright, ma’am," she reassures me. "Children are resilient; they bounce back quickly. We’ll do everything we can to help her."
A quiet ‘thank you’ and a nod is all I can manage.
"Mr. Hoppy," Sharon whispers and I run like a madwoman to fetch her the old, beat-up bunny from her room.
"Don’t worry, your daughter will get the best care," the woman reassures me again.
As they prepare to lift Sharon onto the stretcher, I grab my sports jacket, catching a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror - a pale, disheveled mother stares back, eyes wide with panic.
"Ready for transport," the guy announces, locking the stretcher into place. A moment later, we’re on the move. Out the door, down the stairs, into the back of the ambulance.
"Buckle up, ma’am," The woman says, and I robotically follow her instructions.
The siren starts up again, loud and insistent, and we’re speeding off into the night. The back of the ambulance turns into a blur of activity, hands checking vitals, adjusting IVs, all while the vehicle sways and bumps beneath us.
As we tear through the dark streets, I can’t take my eyes off Sharon’s fragile form. I’m squeezed into a corner in the back of the ambulance, clutching my daughter’s small hand as if it were the last tether holding me to hope. The flashing red and blue lights cast an eerie glow over her pale face, washing it in shadows and colors that make her look hauntingly otherworldly. In that unsettling light, a thought creeps into my mind: one I wish I could push away but it lodges itself deep inside me.
It’s obscure in its meaning, yet somehow, I’m certain it holds a truth I can’t ignore.
Things will never be the same after tonight.
I have no idea what that means.
All I know is that it’s true.
And in my heart, I know there’s no turning back.