Chapter 15 #2
The blue door of Molly's farmhouse is sun-faded and familiar, the same color as her grandmother's kitchen shutters. I've got a box of fruit in my arms, peaches and plums from the farmers market, and a text from my mother on my phone saying She knows you're coming. Fruit only. Don't push.
I knock. Wait.
When the door opens, I know immediately that she's sick.
Molly's face is flushed, the wrong kind of pink. Sweat beads at her temples. She's got Clem against her chest, wrapped in a blanket that looks damp.
"Hey," she says, stepping back to let me in. "Your mother said you'd be by."
"Mol." I set the fruit on the entry table without looking at it. "You look like hell."
"Thanks, cowboy. Real charming." But she doesn't argue. She makes her way to the couch like walking hurts and sinks into the cushions, Clem still tucked against her.
I crouch in front of them. Up close, it's worse. Molly's eyes are glassy, and her breathing's shallow. And Clem—
Clem's cheeks are red. Too red.
"How long has she felt this warm?" I press my hand to Clem's forehead. She's burning.
"I don't—I thought it was just me. The fever started last night and my left breast was sore, but I figured it was a nursing thing. I didn't realize Clem was—" Molly's voice cracks. "Taz, she's only five weeks old."
Fear punches through my chest. Newborn fevers are serious. Dangerous.
"We need to get her checked out. Both of you." I keep my voice steady because Molly's already terrified. "Can I take you to Ventura? There's a good pediatric ER there."
"Yes." A mother scared for her baby. "Please."
I scoop up Clem carefully, keeping her head supported. She whimpers and the sound cracks me open. My daughter. Sick. I should have been here.
The car seat's by the door. I secure her the way the hospital showed me, triple-checking the belt path, the chest clip, the angle. Molly leans against the wall, shaking.
"Come on." I guide her to the passenger seat, click her belt, press my palm to her forehead. Just as hot. "I'm calling ahead so they're ready when we get there."
I dial as I round to the driver's side. Give them both names, both symptoms, our ETA.
Then I pull out of the driveway and head for the highway, driving exactly the speed limit, my knuckles white on the wheel.
At the hospital in Ventura, the doctor pulls a chair beside Molly's bed. Clem's bassinet is close enough that I can see her tiny fist above the blanket.
"We want to keep you overnight," the doctor tells Molly. "The mastitis needs treatment, and we'd like to see how you respond before sending you home."
"What about my daughter?" Molly asks, struggling to sit up.
"Her team is checking her separately," he says. "We don't assume the two fevers have the same cause. With a baby this young, they want tests and monitoring. They'll explain the results as they come in."
Molly turns toward me. "Did you hear that?"
"I did," I tell her. "She's being looked after too."
"I thought it was just me being hot," she says, miserable.
"You brought her in," the doctor says. "Let us take it from here. Can I explain your treatment now?"
Molly nods. I stay quiet while the doctor talks to her. When she asks a question twice, he answers it twice. No sigh. No glance at a watch. How grateful that makes me teaches me a shameful lesson.
After he leaves, I move my chair where Molly can see me without turning.
"What do you need?" I ask.
"My phone," she says. "I need to tell Nina not to come in the morning."
"I can send it while you dictate," I offer.
"Don't make it sound worse than it is," she warns. "She'll worry."
I unlock the screen at her direction and wait.
"We're at the hospital. They're keeping us overnight. I'll call when I know more. Thank you for checking on us." She stops. "Put that you brought us. So she knows I'm not alone."
I add it. Show her the message before I send it.
"Fruit only," she says suddenly.
"What?" I ask.
"I told your mother you could bring fruit," she says. "Your instructions were extremely specific."
"I'll leave a complaint form with the peaches," I tell her.
Her laugh barely makes a sound, but it's there. "Don't make me laugh. Everything hurts."
"Water?" I ask.
"Please," she whispers.
I help her reach the cup. She drinks, then looks at Clem.
"She hates being put down after a bottle," Molly says. "Usually. Sometimes she'll settle if you keep a hand near her. Don't put it on her face, just where she can feel you're there."
"Show me when she wakes," I say.
"There's so much you don't know," she says, and it isn't cruel. It's just tired.
I set the cup back. "Then teach me."
"I've had to learn it all when I was too tired to remember my own address," she tells me. "She made this noise the first week and I thought she was choking, and it was just a sneeze. She sneezed, Taz, and I stood in the kitchen crying."
"I'm sorry you had to carry that without me," I say.
"Don't make that face," she says, and reaches over to poke the crease between my eyebrows. "I'm not saying it to punish you. I need you to understand why I'm so tired. It's not only the feeding. It's having to decide everything, every hour, and being scared of choosing wrong."
"Then let me handle what's in front of us tonight," I tell her. "I'll listen when the nurses come. I'll write down what they say. You can sleep."
"And if you don't understand?" she asks.
"I'll ask," I say. "Looking stupid is well within my skill set."
Her mouth moves at one corner. "You used to be less accomplished at it."
"I had a disastrous year," I tell her.
She studies me, then closes her eyes. "Stay where I can see you when I wake up."
"Right here," I promise.
At three in the morning, a nurse pauses beside my chair.
"You can move that back a little if you need more room," she whispers.
"I'm all right here," I tell her.
She checks the monitors. I straighten, waiting.
"Nothing new to worry about," she says. "Try to rest. We'll come get you if we need you."
"She asked me to stay where she can see me," I say.
The nurse's expression softens. "Then stay. You can close your eyes."
Molly sleeps with her face turned toward me. Clem makes a small sound, shifts, settles. I rest one hand on the edge of Molly's blanket and the other beside the bassinet. For a while I watch them breathe. Then my own exhaustion catches me.
And that's how the morning nurse finds me.