Chapter 6
Maggie
The kitchen smells like comfort should. Chicken, onions, a hint of thyme, all wrapped in the yeasty warmth of rising dough. My stomach gives a small, unconvincing growl that has more to do with habit than hunger.
I dust more flour on the counter and turn the dough out of the bowl. It lands with a soft thump. My fingers sink into it, warm and elastic, clinging to my skin as I knead. Fold, press, turn. The motion is automatic. My hands know what to do. My mind is somewhere else.
On the recliner in the next room.
On the way Dad’s chest heaved when I helped him back into it after he used the bathroom.
On how hot his skin felt when I checked his forehead with the back of my hand.
I glance toward the doorway for the tenth time in as many minutes. The living room is out of sight from here, but I can feel it, the way you feel a storm gathering outside. I hold still, listening.
The faint hiss of oxygen. The murmur of the TV I left low. No cough.
Yet.
I roll the dough into a log and cut it into even pieces. My shoulders ache, tight from a night of half-sleep on the lumpy couch. I should have gone back to bed after Dad finally settled this morning, but the color in his face had been wrong. Too flushed. His breaths too fast, too shallow.
Fever. Again.
I shape the pieces into small rolls, tucking their edges underneath until they’re smooth and round.
They sit on the baking tray like pale little promises.
If he feels up to it, he might eat one tonight.
Bread always works better than anything else.
Stew would have been too much, too heavy.
Just the thought of beef and gravy makes my own stomach clench.
The pot on the stove gives a gentle burble. I cross to it, wipe my hands on the seat of my jeans, and lift the lid. Steam rushes up, damp and fragrant. I lean away and stir, watching carrots and celery float through the golden broth.
A folded sheet of paper waits on the counter beside the salt cellar. It sits where I left it earlier, where I keep putting it back when it migrates under grocery lists and mail.
I should not pick it up again.
I pick it up.
Dr. Chambers’s handwriting runs in neat lines across the page. Doctor’s orders. Keep your dad warm and hydrated. Finish the antibiotics. Watch his breathing. Call me if it gets worse.
And then, lower down, my part.
Now you eat something, take a vitamin and go to bed. That’s also doctor’s orders.
I trace one word with my thumb. You.
He could have left that part out. He should have. It would have been easier if he had.
Instead, I hear his voice in my head, low and steady, the way it sounded in the clinic when he told me to rest. The way it sounded in the grocery store when he said my name and stepped closer, his eyes intent and warm.
The way it sounded a few hours ago, right before his mouth took mine in the parking lot.
Heat creeps up my neck. My fingers tighten on the paper, crinkling the edges.
I should not be thinking about that. Not with Dad in the next room, his lungs fighting every breath. I fold the note carefully along the same lines as before and set it back on the counter.
“Not about you,” I mutter under my breath, stirring the soup again. “Tonight is not about you.”
The spoon scrapes softly against the bottom of the pot.
I tap it on the rim and set it aside, then lean against the counter and press the heels of my hands into my eyes until little stars burst behind them.
My heart hasn’t really settled since Caleb’s lips brushed mine.
Since his hands anchored me at the car and the world went quiet and sharp at once.
I drag in a slow breath and let it out through my nose. The air tastes like broth and yeast and worry.
You’re being ridiculous, Maggie. You have no business wanting anything. Not now.
I push off the counter and check the rolls. They have puffed and domed, a fine dusting of flour still clinging to their tops. I nudge one lightly with a fingertip. It springs back, slow and lazy. Ready for the oven.
A rasp of sound cuts through the house.
I freeze.
The second cough is harsher, dragging, the kind that seems to scrape everything on its way up. The third has liquid in it. Wet and wrong.
“Dad?”
The word tears out of me. I am already moving, skidding a little on the linoleum as I round the corner into the living room.
He is hunched forward in the recliner, one hand fisted in the blanket, the other pressed to his chest. The oxygen tubing has slipped askew, dangling from one ear. Each cough bends him almost double. The sound claws at my insides.
“Dad.” My voice comes out too thin, too high. I drop to my knees beside the recliner, fumbling with the tubing, trying to hook it back over his ear, to guide the prongs beneath his nose. “Breathe, please, just… try to breathe.”
He drags in air in a rough, rattling pull that turns into another fit. His shoulders shake. Spit glistens at the corner of his mouth.
My hand flies to his back. I rub useless circles between his shoulder blades, feeling every bone, every ridge of spine. His shirt is damp with sweat.
“It’s okay, you’re okay,” I whisper, the words thin and frantic. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like we practiced, remember? Come on, Dad, please.”
His eyes squeeze shut. His face has the wrong color again, too red and too pale at once. A noise leaves my throat that might be a laugh or a sob. I cannot tell.
The room narrows, edges blurring. The hiss of oxygen, the coughs, the television droning nonsense in the background, my own panting breath… all of it piles on top of each other until it is just sound, too much sound.
“Dad, look at me.” I touch his cheek. His skin burns under my fingertips. “Please.”
He pries his eyes open. For a heartbeat, they focus on me, hazel gone dull around the edges. Then another cough rips through him, tearing the contact away.
My stomach rolls. My knees feel like water. I press my free hand hard against my own ribs as if I can hold myself together that way. The urge to curl in on myself fights with the need to help him.
You are dropping the ball. You should be doing more. You should know what to do.
I swallow against the rising bile and grab the glass of water from the side table. My hand shakes so badly the surface shivers.
“Small sip, okay?” I lift it toward his lips. “Just moisten your mouth, not a big swallow.”
For a moment he can’t manage it. His breath comes in panting gasps, too fast, too shallow. His chest rises and falls like it is running a race his body cannot finish.
“Please,” I whisper, the word scraping my throat.
He takes the tiniest sip. Half of it runs down his chin. I set the glass aside, my fingers numb, and swipe at the droplets with the edge of the blanket.
The coughing tapers off into ragged breaths. Not better, not really, but not as loud. He sinks back into the recliner, eyes half-closed, chest heaving. Each inhale whistles. Each exhale sounds like liquid moving where it should not be.
I sit back on my heels. Frozen, I can’t move. My ears ring. The living room wavers around the edges, as if I am underwater.
You promised Mom you’d look after him. You promised.
My hands find each other in my lap and clamp down hard. My fingers dig into my own skin. The bite of it clears a sliver of space in my head.
Caleb’s note flashes through my mind.
Keep watching his breathing and call me if it gets worse.
This is worse.
“Okay,” I whisper, more to myself than to Dad. “Okay. Right. Call him.”
I push to my feet. The room tilts. I grab the back of the recliner to steady myself. My legs feel like they belong to someone else.
“Be right back,” I tell Dad, even though he is barely responding. His fingers twitch against the blanket. That is all.
The kitchen feels too bright as I stumble in. The smell of soup is suddenly cloying, thick and wrong. My stomach flips again.
My phone lies where I left it, screen down beside the folded note. I snatch it up, fumbling it in my slippery grip. My thumb misses the unlock pattern once, twice. On the third try, the screen finally gives.
His name sits there, near the top of my recent calls. Dr. Chambers. I never changed it to Caleb. It feels safer that way. Less like undoing something I have no right to undo.
My finger hovers for a fraction of a second.
Then I tap.
The dial tone barely has time to buzz twice before the line clicks.
“Mags?”
Just that. My name, wrapped in low concern. The sound hits me so hard, my knees almost give out. I brace my hip against the counter and grip the edge with my free hand.
“I…” The word shreds. I clear my throat. “Caleb, I’m sorry, I know you’re probably busy, but his breathing is worse and he’s coughing, and he feels so hot and I don’t know what to do, I thought the antibiotics would help but he just had this fit and I…”
I hear myself babbling. I cannot seem to stop. The words tumble over each other, thin and too fast. My chest is tight.
“Hey.” His voice gentles, smoothing over the panic in mine. “Slow down for me, all right?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Okay.”
“Good girl.” There is quiet approval in the words, calm and solid. “Is he conscious?”
“Yes. He is. Just… tired. He keeps closing his eyes.”
“Can he answer simple questions?”
“I think so.” I swallow. My throat feels like sandpaper. “He was just talking. Before. Then the coughing started again.”
“How long did the fit last?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper. Time had gone strange, stretched thin and brittle. “A minute? Maybe more. It felt longer.”
“Is he coughing now?”
I listen. From here, the house is too quiet. I hate it.
“No. Not right now. He’s breathing fast though. And it sounds wet. He’s burning up, Caleb.”
On the other end of the line, the noise of the game surges through the speaker. A crowd roars, followed by a sharp blast from the marching band.
Then the sound begins to recede.
Footsteps replace it. A car door opens. Closes.
“All right,” he says. The words are clipped, focused. “You did the right thing calling me. I’m coming over now.”
He's coming.
He's leaving the game because I called.
Relief punches through me so hard my eyes sting. I press my knuckles against my mouth to keep any sound from leaking out.
“Okay,” I manage. “Okay.”
“I need you to go back to him,” Caleb continues. “Make sure the oxygen is in place. Prop him as upright as you can. If he starts coughing again, keep him leaning forward a little. Do not give him more water unless he asks. Can you do that?”
“Yes.” My voice shakes, but the answer is firm. “Yes, I can.”
“Good.” The jingle comes again, closer this time, like keys in his hand. “I’m on my way, Mags. Hang in there, babygirl.”
The pet name slides into me like warmth in cold fingers. I cling to it shamelessly.
“Drive safe,” I whisper.
“I will.” A short beat. “Unlock the door for me and sit with your dad. Do you want me to stay on the line with you?”
“No. No, I’m all right.”
“Okay, I’ll be there in less than ten minutes. Hang in there, babygirl.”
“Okay.” I disconnect the call, stare at the phone for a heartbeat, then lower it slowly and set it beside his note. My hands still tremble, but the worst of the buzzing in my head has quieted. There is something to do now besides standing in the middle of the kitchen and trying not to fall apart.
Back in the living room, the air feels heavier, thicker. Dad’s chest rises and falls in quick, shallow pulls. The oxygen tubing has slipped again. I fix it carefully, my fingers steadier than before.
“I called the doctor,” I tell him, smoothing the blanket over his lap. “He’s coming. Caleb is coming.”
Dad’s eyelids flutter. A ghost of a smile moves his mouth. I don't know if he hears the words or just the sound of my voice.
I pull the old dining chair closer and sit, my knees touching the recliner. One of his hands lies open on the armrest, knuckles knobby and pale. I slide my fingers into his, curling them gently around his.
His skin is hot, too hot.
Outside, the March wind rattles against the windowpane. From the kitchen, the soft simmer of soup carries faintly down the hall. My mind skitters between the two rooms, between past and present, between everything I am afraid of and the one thing that steadies it.
Headlights will appear at the end of the drive soon. He promised.
Until then, I hold on to Dad’s hand and count his breaths, one by one, as if sheer stubborn attention can keep them going.