Chapter 14
Mina
Iwake to Leon’s small body burning against mine.
For a moment, I don’t know where I am. I was dreaming about luxurious dove gray bedding and Cristiano’s muscular body against mine.
The weight of guilt presses down on my chest and drags me sharply back to reality. I’m staring up at the familiar ceiling with its water stain, surrounded by scratchy sheets.
The penthouse. Cristiano. The things I let him do to me while my son was getting sick.
Leon whimpers in his sleep, and I press my hand to his forehead. He’s still hot, despite the Tylenol I gave him when we got home from Rosa’s. His dark curls are damp with sweat, plastered to his temples.
“Mama,” he mumbles without opening his eyes. “Don’t feel good.”
“I know, baby.” I kiss his forehead, tasting salt. “Go back to sleep. Mama’s here.”
He drifts off again, but I don’t. I lie beside him in the gray morning light, watching his chest rise and fall, and I think about what I did last night.
I slept with Cristiano Montoni. I let him fuck me against a window, come inside me, whisper about putting a baby in me while his son—our son—was running a fever at Rosa’s apartment.
What kind of mother am I?
Guilt is lodged in my throat like a stone. I told myself that last night was just for me and it didn’t involve my son, but I’m already paying the consequences. I should have been here instead of wearing Rosa’s slutty dress and begging a dangerous man to—
I squeeze my eyes shut.
It was one night. One stupid, reckless night. Leon has a cold, that’s all. Kids get colds all the time. I’ll get him some soup, make sure he drinks plenty of fluids, and by tomorrow, he’ll be bouncing off the walls again.
Tomorrow is Monday, which means going to work.
The thought sends a spike of anxiety through my chest. I haven’t seen anyone from the spa since I nearly broke Ariana Barone’s bones giving her a massage.
The day Cristiano spread me out on the break room table and made me come so hard I saw stars while my coworkers were just down the hall.
My face burns at the memory.
Cristiano told Gloria I’d be taking the rest of the week off, and I can imagine what they’re saying about me. At best that I’m a kept woman. At worse…
I squeeze my eyes shut. Sara and the other beauty therapists have always been friendly and kind, but I can imagine the whispers about me.
Did you hear about Mina? She’s fucking the owner. Right here in the break room. No wonder she gets special treatment.
They might not say it out loud, but they’d all be thinking it.
Whore.
I loathe the thought of facing them tomorrow, but it’s not like I have any choice.
I slip out of bed carefully, trying not to wake Leon, and pad to the kitchen to make tea.
Leon barely moves all morning, so I give him a fresh pull-up that he usually only wears at night for accidents.
He won’t eat, not even the dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets that are usually his favorite.
He takes a few sips of apple juice and then pushes the cup away, complaining that his tummy hurts.
“Can we watch the truck show?” he asks weakly, and I put it on for him, but he falls asleep before the opening credits finish. He never falls asleep during the truck show.
I sit beside him on the couch, stroking his hair, telling myself it’s fine. Kids sleep when they’re sick. That’s how they heal. His body is fighting off the virus, and tomorrow he’ll be better.
But when I change his pull-up in the afternoon, the urine is darker than normal. Not quite brown, but definitely not the pale yellow it should be.
Dehydrated, I tell myself. He’s not drinking enough. I need to get more fluids into him.
I spend the rest of the day coaxing sips of water and juice into him, and by evening his fever has climbed again despite the Tylenol. His cheeks are flushed, but the rest of his face looks pale. Almost gray.
I hold him on my lap and rock him like I did when he was a baby, and I try not to think about how wrong he looks.
I don’t sleep Sunday night.
Every time I start to drift off, I jerk awake, certain something is wrong. I check his temperature obsessively, and it’s 101, then 102, then down to 100.5, then back up to 101. I give him more Tylenol at midnight, more at six in the morning.
By the time the sun comes up on Monday, his eyes look wrong. I tell myself I’m imagining it. I’m exhausted and stressed, so of course I’m seeing things that aren’t there. But when I carry him to the bathroom to try to get him to drink some water, the light catches his face, and I freeze.
The whites of his eyes aren’t white anymore.
They’re tinged with yellow.
“Leon, baby, look at Mama.”
He blinks up at me, and his amber eyes are surrounded by a faint but unmistakable yellow.
My hands start to shake.
I call in sick to work, leaving a message for Gloria because it’s too early for anyone to be at the spa. Then I bundle Leon into his car seat and drive to the urgent care clinic on Maple Street because it’s cheaper than the emergency room, and I can’t afford an ER bill right now.
The waiting room is packed. Everyone who was waiting out the weekend to see a doctor is here.
All the plastic chairs are taken, mostly by parents with coughing, sniffling children.
A toddler is having a full meltdown in the corner while his mother scrolls through her phone, ignoring him.
Someone is hacking up a lung near the reception desk.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead, one of them flickering in a way that makes my head pound.
I sign in and they tell me the wait is approximately two hours.
Two hours.
Leon is heavy in my arms, his head lolling against my shoulder. He’s too tired to even ask to watch videos on my phone. I find a spot on the floor against the wall, and I sit there with my sick son in my lap, watching the minutes tick by.
One hour.
Ninety minutes.
Two hours.
Two and a half.
“Santoro? Leon Santoro?”
I struggle to my feet, my legs cramped and aching, and carry Leon into the exam room.
The doctor is a middle-aged man with a distracted expression and a stain on his white coat that looks like coffee. He glances at Leon, glances at his chart, glances at me.
“So what seems to be the problem?”
I explain everything. The fever since Saturday night. The fatigue, the loss of appetite, the dark urine. And then, my voice shaking: “His eyes. They look yellow. The whites of his eyes are yellow.”
The doctor leans in and shines a penlight into Leon’s eyes. Leon whimpers and turns his face away.
“Hmm.” The doctor straightens up. “Could be a mild case of jaundice. Usually clears up on its own. Is he breastfed?”
“He’s four years old.”
“Right, right.” He’s already typing something into the computer, not looking at me. “Probably just a stomach bug. Kids pick up all kinds of things. Push fluids, rest, give him Tylenol for the fever. He should be fine in a few days.”
“But his eyes—”
“I’ll order some blood tests if it’ll make you feel better.” There’s a condescension in his voice that makes me want to scream. “But I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. First-time mom?”
“I’ve been his mother for four years.”
He doesn’t seem to hear me. “The nurse will come do the blood draw. Results should be back in a few hours. Any other questions?”
A thousand. But he’s already halfway to the door.
“Someone will call you with the results,” he says over his shoulder. “If there’s anything concerning.”
And then he’s gone.
The blood draw is awful.
Leon screams when he sees the needle, thrashing in my arms, and I have to hold him down while the nurse tries to find a vein. His little arm is so small, his veins so tiny, and it takes three attempts before she gets it.
“Mama, stop! Mama, it hurts!”
“I know, baby, I know. It’ll be over soon. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
By the time it’s done, we’re both crying.
I carry him back to the car, his face buried in my neck, his body shaking with residual sobs. I strap him into his car seat and drive home, and I wait for the phone to ring.
It doesn’t.
By three o’clock, I’ve heard nothing. I call the clinic and get put on hold for twenty minutes before someone tells me the doctor will call me back.
By five o’clock, still nothing. I call again. Hold for another fifteen minutes. “The results should be in the system. Let me check… Yes, they’re here. The doctor will review them and call you.”
“Can you just tell me what they say?”
“I’m not authorized to discuss results. The doctor will call you.”
Leon is worse. He’s barely conscious now, drifting in and out of a restless sleep. His skin has taken on a yellowish tinge that I can’t pretend isn’t there. When I carry him to the bathroom, his urine is the color of dark tea.
I call the clinic again at seven. This time no one answers.
I’m about to drive back there and pound on the door when my phone finally rings.
“Ms. Santoro? This is Dr. Chen from North Malus Urgent Care. I’m covering the evening shift, and I’ve just reviewed your son’s blood work.”
“Yes? What does it say?”
A pause.
“You need to take your son to the emergency room. His liver enzymes are extremely elevated. This isn’t something that can wait until morning.”
“What does that mean? What’s wrong with him?”
“They’ll run more tests at the hospital. But you need to go now, Ms. Santoro. Do you understand?”
I don’t understand anything at all.
The emergency room is worse than the urgent care clinic. A drunk man is arguing with a security guard. Someone is moaning behind a curtain. A baby’s screaming. The smell of antiseptic and vomit hang in the air.
I carry Leon to the reception desk and try to explain that I was told to come here, that his liver enzymes are elevated, and I’m terrified.
The woman behind the desk barely looks up. “Fill out these forms. Take a seat. Someone will call you.”
“How long?”
“Depends on how busy we are.”
I find a seat between a man with a bloody towel wrapped around his hand and a woman who’s coughing so hard I’m worried she’ll pass out. Leon lies limply in my arms, too exhausted to even cry anymore.