Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Casey
A piercing scream ripped me out of deep sleep, a sound of pure, visceral terror I'd never heard before.
I practically rolled off the bed, stumbling into Tommy's room. The moment I shoved the door open, the dim glow of the nightlight revealed a sight that froze my blood solid.
Tommy was curled up in his blankets, his normally pale face covered in angry red welts.
The rash was everywhere, creeping from his cheeks to his neck, from his neck down his arms and chest. He cried with his eyes squeezed shut, his voice already hoarse, his little hands clawing desperately at his skin.
His nails left red tracks, some spots already broken and bleeding.
I lunged forward and grabbed his hands. His palms were drenched in sweat.
"Tommy! Mommy's here!" My voice shook so badly I barely recognized it.
He cried that it itched, thrashing in my arms. His temperature was terrifying.
He'd had mild reactions before, a few spots we'd treat with cream, but this was different.
Completely different. Panic swallowed me whole.
My trembling hand reached for my phone. Without thinking, my finger scrolled down and stopped on Paul's name. I hit dial.
He answered on the first ring, voice thick with sleep—until he heard my sob. Then he was instantly awake. "Casey? What's wrong?"
"Paul... Tommy, Tommy's having a reaction, he's covered in hives, he's crying... he's breathing so fast... I don't know what to do..." I sobbed incoherently, tears streaming down my face, unable to catch my breath.
"Don't panic, Casey. Breathe." His voice turned rock-solid steady. "Listen to me. Get a cold compress on him. Don't let him scratch. I'm coming. Three minutes. Wait for me."
The line went dead. I stood frozen for a second, then bolted to the bathroom, grabbed a wet towel, and pressed it against Tommy's neck and arms. The cool sensation quieted him slightly—his sobs became hiccupping gasps.
I held him on the edge of the bed, whispering over and over that it was okay, Mommy's here, you're okay. My eyes locked on the doorway, ears straining for sounds in the hallway.
Less than three minutes later, tires screeched outside, followed by frantic footsteps.
When the door burst open, Paul stood there in nothing but a thin gray sweatshirt and dark pants, his hair a mess, wearing slippers—clearly straight from bed.
Sleep creases marked his face, but his eyes blazed with urgency, every trace of drowsiness gone.
He rushed in without a word, took Tommy from my arms, examined the rash, and his face darkened.
"We're going to the hospital. Now." He yanked a blanket off the bed, wrapped Tommy in it, and pulled me against his side as we headed out. My legs felt like water, my steps unsteady.
Paul drove fast but smooth. The wipers couldn't keep up with the rain hammering the windshield, streetlights bleeding across the wet pavement.
Tommy lay in my lap, no longer crying but still whimpering, his hands trying to scratch.
I held them down. Paul kept one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to grip mine. "He'll be okay, Casey. I promise."
When we reached the hospital, Mark was on shift. He looked startled to see Paul carrying Tommy, but immediately focused on my son.
He checked Tommy's eyes, throat, and the rash pattern. His expression turned grim. "Severe acute urticaria. Possible mild laryngeal edema. He needs antihistamine injections immediately." His professional assessment brought brief relief—until his next words plunged us back into dread.
"Problem is, with this seasonal allergy outbreak, we're out of the specific medication he needs." Mark scrolled rapidly through computer records. "I've contacted the main hospital, but there's a storm warning in the mountains tonight. The supply truck won't arrive for at least two hours."
"Two hours?" My voice cracked. I looked at Tommy writhing on the hospital bed, my heart shattering. "He can't wait two hours! Mark, there has to be something!"
Mark looked helpless, rechecking records repeatedly. Then Paul, who'd been staring out the window, suddenly turned. "Mark, remember that salve Elder Kahuna from the community hospital mentioned?" His voice was ice-calm.
Mark blinked. "You mean that traditional remedy—breadfruit leaves and some kind of seaweed compound? It works wonders on reactions like this, but we don't stock it. Only the elder has it."
Paul glanced outside. The long-brewing storm had finally erupted—torrential rain driven by howling wind slammed the windows, water streaming down the glass, streetlights blurred by the downpour.
"The elder lives at the foot of the mountain in the native settlement.
Motorcycle's faster than a car. You have one I can borrow? "
Mark hesitated, then nodded. "There's one behind the ER—nurses use it for house calls. Keys are in the duty room." He turned to get them. Paul followed and took the keys.
"I've been volunteering in the community. The elder knows me. I'll get it." He clenched the keys in his fist and headed for the exit.
"Paul! It's too dangerous out there. Mudslides could happen any second!" I grabbed his sleeve.
He turned back, eyes determined. Then he reached up and gently touched my cheek. "Casey, trust me. For Tommy. And for... you." He pushed through the ER doors and vanished into the black deluge.
I ran to the doorway. He was already on the motorcycle. Within seconds, the rain soaked him through—his gray sweatshirt plastered to his back, darkening, his hair dripping.
I watched him disappear into the storm. In that moment, my emotions were impossibly tangled.
Six years ago, if this happened, what would Paul have done?
He'd have made international calls, summoned the best private doctors, and thrown money at any pharmacy door.
But now, now he charged headlong into the rain without hesitation.
I returned to the ER. Tommy lay on the bed.
Mark had applied a topical cream that helped slightly, but his brow stayed furrowed, his face flushed, murmuring for Mommy.
I gripped his hand, sat by the bed, eyes fixed on the wall clock.
Every minute dragged. Outside, thunder rumbled, rain intensifying, the sound closing in from all sides.
Tommy drifted into fitful sleep beside me, his small hand clutching my finger, occasionally shuddering.
An hour passed. Heavy footsteps echoed from down the hall. I jerked my head up to see a drenched figure staggering toward us.
Paul looked like he'd been pulled from the ocean floor.
His hair was glued to his forehead, water streaming off him endlessly, his sweatshirt transformed from light gray to charcoal.
His knee was badly scraped, blood diluted pink by rainwater trickling down to his shin.
He'd lost a slipper—his bare foot left prints of mud and crushed leaves on the cold tile.
He looked like he'd crawled out of a mudslide, but clutched in his hands was a small wooden jar wrapped in layers of plastic wrap, pressed clean against his chest.
"Got it." His voice was ragged, his lips nearly blue, teeth chattering, but his eyes were bright.
I grabbed a towel from the nurses' station and handed it to him. He roughly wiped his face and immediately pushed into the room. "Mark, I have the medicine."
Mark took the jar, opened it, sniffed, and nodded, quickly applying it to Tommy.
The pale green salve smelled strongly of herbs and grass.
It felt cool on the skin, releasing a bitter-clean scent as it spread.
Within ten minutes, the angry red swelling began miraculously receding—fading from deep red to pink to faint traces. His breathing gradually steadied.
Paul stood by the bed, watching Tommy anxiously.
His lips were still purple, his face pale, but he didn't care.
Tommy's little hand emerged from the blanket and unconsciously wrapped around Paul's finger dangling by the bedside.
Paul didn't move. He just stood there, letting Tommy hold on, looking down at him with infinite tenderness.
"Don't be scared, Dad—I'm here. It won't hurt much longer." His voice carried the relief of someone who'd survived disaster. Tommy seemed to sense that protection, nuzzling the pillow, slowly sinking into peaceful sleep, his hand still gripping Paul's finger tight.
The word "Dad" hadn't fully formed before it twisted awkwardly into "I'm.
" He probably thought I hadn't heard. But I had.
Standing there watching, my feelings were indescribable.
This was the instinct of blood calling to blood—a connection no disguise or lie could sever.
Tommy didn't know him, didn't know who he was, but Tommy's hand found him anyway, held his finger, quieted at his voice.
Four a.m. Tommy finally slept soundly, breathing steady, the rash almost gone—only faint pink traces remained. Mark checked him and said he was stable. If there was no relapse by morning, we could go home.
Back in the waiting area, Paul stood against the wall, not sitting. A small puddle had formed at his feet. His bare foot pressed against the freezing tile.
"Paul, take a hot shower. Don't get sick. The hospital bathrooms have hot water." I looked at him, my eyes stinging. He shook his head. "I'm fine. I'll stay a bit longer. Until I'm sure he's stable."
Watching him stand there shivering in soaked clothes, my tears came like a broken dam. All the fear and guilt I'd suppressed all night and something else I'd forced down for six years erupted in that moment. "Paul, I'm sorry. If it weren't for me..."
He stepped forward and pulled me tightly into his arms. He was soaking wet, ice-cold, but his chest was warm.
His chin rested on top of my head. "Don't apologize, Casey.
Taking care of you both—it's what I owe you.
And it's the only thing I want to do for the rest of my life.
You don't have to forgive me. You can keep hating me.
Just don't take away my chance to protect you. "
My face pressed against his drenched shoulder. The last wall around my heart finally crumbled. I closed my eyes and let the tears fall.
I remembered what Lina said on the beach that day.
"Ella, if you still love him and you've seen him change, then love him boldly.
Don't let old wounds become obstacles to your happiness.
" At the time, I thought she was being glib.
But now, in this rainy night, in Paul's soaking embrace, I knew she was right.
"Paul," I said his name softly but firmly. "Go shower. I'll wait outside."
His body went rigid, like he hadn't heard right, or couldn't believe his ears. After several seconds, he exhaled a long, relieved breath—like something he'd been waiting for forever had finally arrived.
"Okay."
He released me and walked toward the bathroom.
After a few steps, he looked back, making sure I was still there, then continued.
His silhouette was wretched—clothes plastered to him, hair wild, one foot bare.
But watching that retreating figure, for the first time, I felt this was someone I could lean on.
The rain kept pounding outside, hammering the windows, wind whistling through door cracks.
But in this small waiting area, some long-lost warmth was quietly returning.
I watched light spill from the bathroom doorway, listened to the sound of running water, and smiled from the heart.
Maybe tomorrow in Hawaii really would bring clear, bright skies.