22. An Extremely Tiny Adversary #2
“The rules are simple,” Charlie says. “Everyone, choose a partner. One person can use only their right hand, and the other can use only their left. Keep your other hand in your pocket or behind your back. Then together, you have to remove the diaper that’s currently on your doll, replace it, then dress the doll in a onesie, pants, and socks. Fastest team wins.”
Miles and I team up, of course, and he says he’ll be the left hand.
I eye him. “Are you choosing the left hand because you know mine has the fine motor skills of a preschooler wearing mittens? Or because you want your right hand free for putting on your back when the pain gets too bad?”
“My back is only mildly uncomfortable. But your left hand is a threat to mission success.”
I hold up my left hand. “It can hear you.”
Charlie starts the game, and we immediately hook our arms around each other’s backs and press close enough to work like one person.
Before we became kissing best friends, I probably would’ve pretended not to notice how good he smells, how solid his back feels beneath my hand, or how easy it would be to turn my head and kiss him. Now I notice all of it.
I also notice the way his muscles tighten beneath my palm every few seconds, like he’s bracing against something.
We are pretty good at the game! Even though the task is a little more difficult than I thought it would be. We’ve got the diaper changed, the onesie on, and we are just doing up the snaps when Arthur and Elizabeth hold up their fully dressed doll and call out, “Finished!”
All of us freeze, staring at the grandparents with dropped jaws.
Ledger looks down at his and Zoe’s doll, which currently has a onesie covering its head, and then back to Arthur and Elizabeth. “How?”
Grandma Lancaster smooths the doll’s shirt. “You get a lot of experience being the village grandparents.”
“We’ve had lots of practice,” Grandpa Lancaster says, then eyes Ledger’s and Zoe’s doll. “Apparently some of you need more.”
I am laughing along with everyone else when I notice that Miles isn’t. By the look on his face, it’s because he’s trying very hard to control pain right now. I keep my voice low and ask, “Are you okay?”
“It comes and goes. I just need a moment, and I’ll be fine.”
“We should go. Maybe get you to a doctor.”
He shakes his head. “It’s Jace and Mackenzie’s shower.”
“I promise you that they won’t revoke your uncle privileges if we leave early.”
“I’m fine.” He slips his hand into mine, squeezing just a bit tighter than normal. I look down at our hands, and he says, “I’m mostly fine.”
Before I can push more, Charlie calls out, “Okay, last game, everyone! This one is called ‘Don’t Break Mama’s Water.’”
Every adult in the yard reacts differently. Mackenzie’s youngest sister, May, laughs. Evelyn closes her eyes briefly.
Jace says, “I feel like we are tempting fate here.” He holds his arms out, like he’s trying to protect Mackenzie’s belly. “For the record, I would prefer that mama’s water remain unbroken.”
“I don’t know,” Mackenzie says. “I haven’t seen my toes in weeks. Plus, I really want to meet the little girl using my ribs as a jungle gym. I don’t think I’d object to my water breaking today.”
Charlie has us all get into two lines, each of us facing our partners, and gives each partnership a water balloon. One partner is supposed to toss it to the other. If they catch it without the balloon breaking, both take a big step back, and repeat. The last balloon intact wins.
I toss our balloon to Miles, and he catches it easily. “Excellent nurturing instincts.”
He chuckles. “Water-balloon catching is not nurturing.”
“I bet the balloon thinks it is.”
We each take a step back, and Miles tosses the water balloon. I cradle it in my arms as I catch it. We take a step back, and I toss it again. Down the line, Mackenzie’s brother-in-law, Rowan, gets drenched in water as his balloon hits against him just a bit too hard.
Miles tosses the balloon to me a little off because his hand apparently needed to fly to his back, and I barely catch it. “Miles?”
He drops his hand. “I’m fine.”
Someone else down the line breaks their water balloon. I don’t even turn to see who. “You need a new phrase.”
He shakes his head. “Let’s keep going. We’re still in.”
I lift the balloon, but pause a moment. He doesn’t look so good. “Are you sure?”
“Throw.”
“Miles—”
“Reese.”
I sigh, then toss it. The balloon arcs through the air, and Miles puts out his hands to catch it.
Just before it reaches him, though, he folds.
The balloon hits the grass beside him and bursts.
He doesn’t notice. He just clamps his right hand against his side—this time at the lower right side of his abdomen, not his back, his other arm reaching blindly toward me.
I’m already running to him. “Miles.”
I catch his hand, and he grips it so hard my fingers compress together. His face has gone pale.
“Miles?”
He tries to straighten and can’t. His breath comes through clenched teeth in short, fast bursts.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. I’ve never seen Miles like this. I’ve seen him bruised. Even bleeding. And now I’ve even heard stories about injuries I hadn’t known he’d had. But this is different. I just want to make it stop, and I can’t.
He shakes his head. Someone rushes over with a chair. He doesn’t sit—he just holds onto the back of it like it’s all that’s holding him up, his breathing still way too fast as he tries to manage the pain.
The party disappears around us. People are still there, gathering in a circle around us, trying to figure out what is wrong. But all I see is Miles. “Look at me.”
He does. Barely.
I bend a little so I can look him in the eyes. “You’re breathing too fast.”
“I know.” His voice is strained, as if he can barely get the words out.
“Slow it down.”
His eyes close.
“Miles.”
They open again.
“In through your nose.” I breathe in slowly through my nose, and he tries to follow. His grip on my hand tightens.
“Slow,” I say as I exhale.
“I’m trying.”
“I know. Do it with me.” I breathe in. He follows badly. Out. Again. His forehead is damp.
Evelyn puts a hand on my shoulder and says in a low, calm voice, “Reese. What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
Miles sways, and my stomach drops. He is back to breathing too fast, so I coach him through breathing again, grabbing his arm with my free hand.
“He needs an ambulance,” Jace says.
“No.” Miles’s answer comes too fast.
“You just about passed out,” I say. “In through your nose.”
For the first time in what feels like ten minutes but was probably less than two, the pain seems to ease a bit, because Miles’s breathing isn’t quite as taxed as it was. He collapses into the chair, seeming exhausted, and says, “I was breathing too fast. That’s why I almost passed out.”
“Because you were in enough pain to hyperventilate.”
Then a man’s voice from behind me says, “Kidney stone.”
We all turn. Mackenzie’s dad is studying Miles with the look of a man who has lived this particular horror before.
“What?” I ask.
“That right there is what mine always feel like.”
“You’ve passed multiple?” Jace asks.
“Three.” Mackenzie’s dad looks almost proud of this. “The pain started in the back. Came around the side in waves. Couldn’t sit, couldn’t stand, couldn’t do anything.”
Miles manages, “That sounds familiar.” Color has begun to return to his face.
“Have you been eating beets?”
Miles’s attention flicks up to him. “What?”
“Beets. We bottled beets last year. Ate a jar every day. Got kidney stones.”
Someone else near the food table says, “I heard spinach is bad, too.”
Another voice adds, “And almonds.”
“Well, it depends on what kind of stones you have,” Mackenzie’s mom says.
I turn slowly toward Miles, and he closes his eyes. “Oh, no,” I say. “Miles.” He has been having beet juice or a spinach smoothie daily.
“I know.”
Miles’s mouth twitches. Then his whole body goes rigid before he shoots to his feet. He grabs for my hand again, and someone turns the chair so he can hold onto the back.
This second wave seems so much worse. “Breathe,” I say immediately. “Look at me.” He does not look at me. “Miles.”
His eyes lift.
“That’s it. Slow.”
Somewhere behind me, Blake says, “You’re doing great, buddy.”
Miles glares at him.
“What?” Blake says. “I’m being supportive.”
Miles inhales sharply.
“Slow,” I tell him. “In through your nose. Out slowly through your mouth.”
“Just like you’re in labor,” Jace says. “I’ve heard that’s what the pain is like.”
Ledger nods. “Which feels extremely appropriate, given that his water just broke.”
Miles manages to say, “I will kill you all.”
“See?” Jace says. “He’s doing better.”