Chapter 15
Evie
My hands shook as I tapped on the name in my contact list.
“Evie?” The low voice washed over me, but it didn’t settle my fears. “Is everything okay?”
“No,” I said, my voice reedy. “Vincent has a fever. He’s burning up and won’t stop crying.”
The phone clicked, and seconds later, he was lightly tapping at the back door, like he’d sprinted from the tent without hesitation.
Vincent wailed as I unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Immediately, Jasper took him from my arms and cradled him, making soothing shushing sounds. He was barefoot and wearing shorts and an old T-shirt. His hair was stuck to one side of his head like he’d been sleeping when I called.
Right away, having him here, I felt a bit better.
“Little guy,” Jasper crooned. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling good.”
“What do we do?” I asked, my thoughts spiraling. “Should we take him to the ER?”
“No. Let’s assess him first. See if we can figure out what’s going on.”
My heart thundered in my ears. “What about Dr. Chao?”
“It’s one a.m. The office is closed,” he said, frowning. “But maybe she uses an after-hours answering service.”
“He’s in pain,” I cried. “We’ve got to do something.”
He rubbed circles on Vincent’s back, swaying from side to side. “Take a breath. I’m a paramedic, remember? Let me get my bag from my car.”
Carefully, he transferred our little guy back into my arms. Then he darted out the front door, still barefoot, and returned with his medical kit in a matter of seconds.
First he scanned Vincent’s forehead with his fancy thermometer. “One hundred point one”
My heart sank. My poor baby.
“His temperature would have to be above 100.7 to be considered a fever,” Jasper explained. “So this is a good thing. Let me check his lungs.”
It was comforting, knowing that Vincent’s dad had a decent amount of medical knowledge and was here to help. It was tempting to ask him if he’d consider going to medical school just so he could handle this kind of situation again in the future, but I’d probably sound out of my mind if I did.
He took out a stethoscope and instructed me to turn Vincent around so his back was to my chest. Then he listened to his breathing, the most serious expression I’d ever seen from him on his face.
“Chest is clear.”
He took out another tool with a light on the end and looked in Vincent’s ears. This made him scream even louder and thrash in my arms.
“Ooh, this ear is very angry.” He took him from me again and shuffled to the couch. “Shh. It’s okay, bud.” With careful movements, he laid Vincent on his back on the couch, then pressed lightly on his tummy and moved his legs and arms. “Nice and soft. Good job, bud,” he cooed.
“He definitely has an ear infection. Probably from a virus. He’ll be okay for the night. We can take him in first thing in the morning. Get him some antibiotics.”
My stomach rolled. A virus? “Who exposed him to germs?” I growled.
Jasper gave me a sympathetic smile. “Germs are everywhere. It’s okay. Let’s call the twenty-four-hour medical line and ask about the appropriate dosage of children’s Tylenol.”
We had to leave a message with the answering service and wait for a return call, but within minutes, Sheri, one of the nurse practitioners, called and spoke to Jasper, instructing him on the correct dosage of medicine and suggested we bring Vincent in tomorrow.
Jasper was so calm and cool. And I was… the opposite. A sweating, hysterical mess.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my whole body tense. “Seeing him in pain. It makes it impossible to think straight.”
“Of course it does,” he soothed. “It’s biological. You’re his mom. The connection between you is primal. It’s okay to be shaken up. But we can manage this.”
After we gave Vincent the Tylenol, he changed the little guy and walked around the room, once again rubbing circles on his back.
In a matter of minutes, Vincent’s cries turned into sniffles. God, this man was far more capable than I gave him credit for.
As I sank into the couch, I was hit by a wave of shame. Feeling helpless like this brought back so many painful memories from my childhood and even my early adult years. Of the moments I failed or couldn’t fix things for myself or others.
Of the times my father berated me.
Calling me a loser. Telling me how much I embarrassed him.
For the most part, I kept these memories locked away in the back of my mind, but once in a while, they popped up and played on a loop in my head.
“Are you okay?” Jasper asked as he continued swaying Vincent, even though he’d quieted and gone to sleep. “You’re crying.”
Shit. Really? How messed up was it that I’d been so caught up in yelling at myself that I hadn’t even realized tears were streaming down my damn face?
“I’m so sorry.” I waved him off. “It’s stupid.”
“Nothing is stupid,” he murmured, eyes locked on me. “You can tell me. Let me put him down. I’ll be right back.”
He returned a few minutes later and sat next to me on the couch, setting the baby monitor on the table in front of us.
“You’re pale and sweating,” he said, bringing the back of his hand to my forehead. “Are you feeling sick too?”
“No. No.” I shook my head, ducking to hide the tears in my eyes. “I’m just happy Vincent is okay. And…” I heaved out a breath. “I’m happy you’re here.”
“You can talk to me,” he said, angling closer and meeting my eye. “We’re friends.”
Friends.
I both loved and hated the term.
When Vincent was born, I prayed that someday Jasper and I could be friends. That we could respect and care for one another as coparents.
Now, though, the word felt hollow.
Both too much and not enough at the same time.
“Sometimes, when I’m tired or overwhelmed, old memories surface,” I explained.
“What kind of memories?”
“Small things. Snapshots,” I said. “They play in my head like a movie. Times when I screwed up. Fell short. Memories of the things my dad used to say to me.”
He scooted closer. “What do you mean?”
I shook my head. There was no way I’d dive into that with him. The last thing I needed was Jasper thinking I was a complete basket case.
He cupped my shoulders, his large hands warm and soothing. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, I obeyed. The compassion bleeding for him only made it harder to hold back tears.
“Vincent is okay. But you’re clearly not. You faded away for a minute, and when you came back, you were shaking and crying. Please let me in.”
I took in his warm eyes, his easy smile. He wouldn’t understand. And I didn’t want to sound like that girl.
The broken girl
The self-conscious girl.
I’d worked hard to leave her behind. To grow into a version of myself that could manage all the challenges life threw at me. Yet here I was, breaking down when my baby had a fever.
“It’s okay.” He pulled me into his arms, folding me against his warm, broad chest. “Just try to breathe.”
“My family,” I said, the words escaping me without my permission. “Growing up…”
“It’s okay. I’m not judging. I want to help.”
“My dad. He’s not a kind person. He’d pick one of us girls, mostly me, to use as his scapegoat.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why he did it, but he would berate me for being chubby.
He’d police what I ate for dinner, rail against me when I did anything wrong.
Or when I didn’t get an A on every test. He’d yell at me after basketball games.
It didn’t matter what I’d done right. He’d always remind me of the ways I should have done better. ”
The warmth of his arms made me feel safe in a way I didn’t think I ever had.
So the words continued to pour out of me. “It didn’t matter. None of us were safe. After he came home from work, we’d sit at the dinner table and wait to see who he’d target that day. Sometimes it was my mom. But she’d usually throw one of us under the bus to divert his attention.”
My body trembled as I spoke, but Jasper just held me tighter, keeping me grounded. “If his steak was overcooked, she’d pivot and tell him I’d forgotten my violin at school or that I’d gotten a math problem wrong. Then he’d turn on me.”
He let out a long breath. “That sounds horrible.”
“It was normal to us. I didn’t realize it wasn’t until I was an adult. Most of the time I’m fine, but sometimes, when I fall short, the memories and shame come back. Thoughts I banished decades ago resurface, and suddenly I feel inadequate and unlovable.”
As he squeezed me tighter, I realized his T-shirt was damp with my tears. “None of that was your fault,” he said firmly. “You were perfect. You are perfect. Kids make mistakes and screw up. Parents should not weaponize childhood against their own children.”
The tears wouldn’t stop, so I closed my eyes and rested my head on his chest.
“That’s abuse.” His words were low but firm.
I bristled, shaking my head.
“Evie,” he said, tipping my chin up with two fingers. “That is abuse. And what you’re experiencing? This is PTSD.”
My chest tightened painfully. No. Not possible. These emotions were overly dramatic. Silly, even. I hadn’t been to war. My dad had never hit me.
He stroked my hair, and rather than pull away, I gave him more of my weight. The gesture was intimate and protective and deeply comforting.
“No. Negative thoughts just took over and ran amok,” I explained.
“Sometimes I get pulled into this vortex in my mind. Memories crash and overlap, taking over my thoughts, and then my body joins in, like I’m eight again and being screamed at on the way home from my father’s boss’s pool party in the Hamptons because, according to him, I looked like a whale in my purple swimsuit.
I was fat and it embarrassed him, and he was so sure that would hurt his career. ”
Jasper’s body went rigid. “What the fuck? How could he do that?”