Another Dawn (5 page)

The next morning Dylan seemed to feel a little worse. His cough grew more persistent; his temperature edged a bit higher. “Mama, can we please go over and play with Hannah Rose after we visit Grandpa in the hospital? I won’t make her sick, I promise.”

Dylan’s eyes were enormous in normal situations, but when he did his full-blown, most sincere, most yearning expression, they were gigantic pools of liquid chocolate that even the hardest heart could not ignore. And I didn’t want to ignore them. I wanted to spend time with my sister and my niece even more than Dylan did. But we couldn’t. It wasn’t responsible and I knew it.

Dad was well tended at the hospital; he could do without my visits for a day or two if necessary. So I had made the heartbreaking decision to stay home with Dylan until his fever went away.

Unfortunately, the day went by and then another with no improvement. I took to cleaning out my old closet and scrubbing kitchen cabinets just to pass the time. As I worked, I worried about Dad’s knee—in spite of the encouraging updates Jana phoned in once or twice a day—and I wondered why Jasmine hadn’t called me yet. Was she too devastated to talk about it? Did she blame me? I wanted so badly to pick up the phone and call her, but since I wasn’t supposed to know anything, all I could do was to wait it out.

When Dad arrived home from the hospital late Thursday evening, we still hadn’t left the house and Dylan was feeling worse than ever.

Dad hobbled through the door on his walker, took one look at Dylan lying on the couch, and said, “He still under the weather? Maybe he needs some fresh air.”

“Dad, he’s running a fever. A hundred and two this morning.”

Dad nodded. “Did you give him something for it?”

Did he really think I was that big of a moron? “I did give him something. Even Tylenol isn’t bringing his temperature completely back to normal anymore.”

“Hmph.” Dad dropped into his recliner.

“I’ll put your bag away, Charles.” Rob walked down the hallway and I followed. He looked over his shoulder at me. “You sure you’re going to be able to handle this?”

“No.” I sat down on the bed. “It’s such a bummer Dylan is sick. We could have all spent a lot of time together this trip. A little family rebonding, you know.”

“And now you’re stuck all alone dealing with your father, in pain and on narcotics. Not a nice combination, is it?”

“You can say that again. I’d say he’s in one of the grumpiest moods I’ve ever seen him in—and from my father that is saying a lot.” I sort of laughed. “You tell that sister of mine she better appreciate this.” I regretted the words right after I’d said them. I realized how little I’d shown appreciation for all the years that she’d been here carrying all the family burdens. Still, she had always been Dad’s favorite.

“Oh, believe me, she knows.” He sat beside me. “I know the two of you have some things to work through right now, but it’s all going to work out just fine.”

Rob had always been a calm voice of reason. He and Jana had just gotten engaged when Mom got sick, and I couldn’t count the ways he’d helped during that time.

I reached over and gave him a hug. “Hopefully, both boy and beast will be feeling better by the weekend. We’ll get together then.”

“Count on it.” Rob saluted. “I better get back to work before someone notices I’m missing.”

“See you later. Thanks for driving him home.” I watched him leave, dreading the next few days. How I hoped Dylan got better soon. I didn’t think I could stand this otherwise.

I walked back into the living room to find my father’s eyes about half closed. Good, maybe he would go on to sleep.

“Did you get my stuff put in my room?”

“Yeah, well, the guest room, anyway.”

“Guest room?”

“Dad, we talked about this.” The master suite was the one and only room on the second floor. It had been off limits to us as kids—officer’s quarters, Dad had called it. Now it was off limits to him as well. “You can’t go up the stairs to the master bedroom for at least a couple of weeks. Remember, Jana got you all set up in the guest room?”

“It’s noisy there, on the front of the house.”

“It also has a private bath. But, if you’d rather, take my room, then. I’ll sleep in the guest room.”

“I’m not taking your room. That’s an even dumber idea than putting me in the guest room.”

“Oh, Dad.”

Dylan had been lying on the couch, taking in this whole scene with wide-eyed interest. “You want to sleep in my room, Grandpa? It’s got a really cool bedspread. I think you’d like it there.”

Dad actually smiled at this. “Thanks for the offer, but that bedspread is special just for you. I guess I’ll have to learn to make do in the guest room.”

I had always tried really hard to shield Dylan from the strained relationship between my father and me, but much more of Dad’s current mood and Dylan would know all. I walked over to the couch and sat beside him. “Come on, honey. Let me run you a nice bath.”

“I’m tired.”

“I know you are. You can go to bed right after, okay? It’ll help you relax.”

“Okay.” He held up his arms for me to carry him, something I knew would fry my dad.

I scooped him up, casting a glare in the direction of my father as I did. Let him think what he wanted, but I was not going to make my sick child walk to the tub just so he could learn to man up.

I set Dylan on the toilet lid while I turned on the water and checked the temperature. “Okay, honey, now let’s get you undressed.” I pulled the T-shirt over his head, and as his hair pulled away from his face, I noticed what looked like a rash. “Oh, Dylan!”

“What?” He looked puzzled.

“On the side of your face—it just looks like a rash. I don’t see anything on your shoulders or chest. Let me see your back.” I checked his back, his legs, everywhere, and saw no sign of anything. “It’s probably a reaction to those sheets. Grandpa doesn’t use the same good laundry detergent we use. I’m afraid your little body doesn’t know how to respond when confronted with all those chemicals.”

It made sense that it would bother him, since he’d been lying down for most of the week, either in his bed, or on the couch, but he’d had his race-car pillow with him the whole time. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll run to the store and get the good stuff, huh?”

“Sure,” Dylan answered, but he had long since tuned me out. He sat in the tub and leaned his head against the wall. “Can I get out and go to bed now?”

“Really soon, sweetie.” I washed, dried, and clothed him as quickly as possible.

He fell asleep almost instantly once he climbed into the bed, the little race cars covering both him and Frederick. I sat and watched him sleep for a long time. I wanted to be sure he was okay. And I was in no hurry to deal with my father right now.

Early Friday morning I sat in the kitchen planning my outings for the day, enjoying the peace for what little time there was left of it. I was hoping the narcotics would help Dad to sleep in. He needed the rest and I needed the quiet.

Between Dad’s grumpiness and Dylan’s sickness, I had little hope that today might be anything other than just plain hard. I walked through my room and the adjoining bathroom so I could peek at my son—just to reassure myself, I suppose. The morning sun was shining through the pink curtains and it cast a reddish light across his face. Funny how the pink lace seemed even more distinct now that the bedspread was in such direct contrast. I wondered if Dad had noticed it, too. Probably. I was guessing there would be sterile white blinds in here the next time we came home.

It concerned me that Dylan’s face seemed so especially red. I supposed it was a combination of the glow from the curtains and a bit of lingering fever. Still, he slept soundly. He could do just fine without me for a little longer, so I tiptoed out to the kitchen determined to enjoy what few minutes of quiet I had left.

Thump. Thump-thump. Thump.

The sound of my father’s walker banging across the guest room—or perhaps into the bathroom door—let me know that my moments of peace had just come to an end. After one especially loud thump, everything went quiet. Time to go check on him.

I stood outside the guest room, knocked lightly, and turned the knob.
Tried
to turn it would be more accurate. It was locked and barely moved with the pressure. “Dad?” I leaned close to the door and cupped my hands against it.

“Don’t need no help.” His voice came from well inside—the bathroom, I guessed. “Just get on about your business while I get on about mine.” And that was the end of that.

“Mama?” Dylan’s scratchy voice sounded from somewhere behind me. It was followed by a volley of coughing.

“I’m sorry we woke you up. How you feeling, sweetie?” I turned around to see my son padding down the hall, Frederick the bear in one hand. In that moment I realized it hadn’t been a funny light cast by the curtains. On his forehead and all around his hairline was a solid rash, and his whole face looked flushed. I put my hand on his forehead. “You’re burning up.”

I picked him up and carried him into the kitchen, where I set him on the counter closest to the medicines. I pulled out the digital thermometer, which I had purchased at the local pharmacy a few days ago. “Put this under your tongue and let’s wait for the music,” I said. This particular thermometer was the kind that beeped when the reading was complete. The slower the ending beeps, the lower the temperature. I waited nervously, hoping for slow. Really slow.

A rapid staccato of high-pitched beeping soon filled the morning air. This was not going to be good news.

One hundred three point four.

“Okay, buddy, time for some more of that good cherry medicine. Okay?”

“ ’Kay.” He didn’t say anything else, just rubbed his eyes, which also looked red and irritated.

“I’m sorry, buddy. You’re having a hard time getting over this thing, aren’t you?” I handed him a small measuring cup full of thick red liquid. “Drink this. It’ll make you feel better.”

“ ’Kay.” He drank the Tylenol without comment, then held out the cup for me to take away. “I don’t feel good, Mama.”

“I know, sweetie, I know.” I looked at my watch. It was seven thirty here, which meant it was only five thirty back in California. His pediatrician wouldn’t be in the office for another three hours. I supposed there was nothing of an emergency in a rash, so I carried him into the living room, where his pallet was still set up from the day before. “How about some juice? Or water?”

He shook his head. “I don’t want anything.”

As his fever had grown higher over the last few days, his appetite had gotten significantly smaller. I didn’t want to force food, supposing that his stomach was just telling him it couldn’t handle anything right now, but I was starting to worry about dehydration. “You need to drink something. Do you want water or juice?”

“Neither.”

“How about Sprite?” I knew this would get him. I never allowed him to drink soda, but Dad had gone out and bought a twelve-pack before we came, thinking it was perfectly fine since there wasn’t caffeine in it. Just sugar and chemicals.

Dylan looked up at me, a bit of a light in his eyes. “We’ve got Sprite?”

“Yes we do.” I was already moving toward the pantry door.

“No thank you.”

“No thank you?” I asked. “I thought you loved Sprite.”

“I just don’t want any right now.”

That sealed it. The answering service would have to page the doctor, but something was wrong. I needed to do something to help my son, and I needed to do it now. I called into the office and soon found myself connected with the call center.

“Children’s Medical Clinic, what is the nature of your call?”

“My son is a patient of Dr. Conrad. He’s had a fever for five days, which seems to be getting worse, and this morning his face is covered with a rash.” I made certain I mentioned the five-day thing. The general rule of thumb at our doctor’s office was fevers less than three days were not considered urgent unless there were other factors involved—pulling at ears, wheezing, and so on.

“At what number can Dr. Conrad reach you?”

I gave her my cell number, thankful to find out it was my own pediatrician on call. She was a no-nonsense doctor, never got alarmed at anything, but followed through on everything—from the most to the least significant symptom.

“Thank you. I’ll page the doctor.”

Five minutes later the phone rang. “Yes, this is Dr. Conrad. Can you tell me what is going on with Dylan?”

“I’m visiting my family in Tennessee, and he’s had a fever since Monday. It started out kind of low-grade, runny nose, cough. I thought it was just a cold. For the last day or so, he’s been feeling worse, and this morning his temp is one hundred three point four, and he woke up with a rash on his face.”

“What does it look like?”

“A rash, you know, flat, red, lots of specks that are kind of joining together in one big red blotch on his forehead.”

“Besides his cough, does he have any respiratory symptoms? Wheezing? Difficulty breathing?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Does he have a sore throat?”

“No.”

“This sounds like what we’ve been seeing a lot of in the office lately. Viruses that cause rashes are a dime a dozen these days, and our waiting room has been full of those kids the last few weeks. The best thing to do is treat his fever with acetaminophen and ibuprofen, make sure he stays hydrated, and have him get plenty of rest. Keep him away from other kids and make sure you wash your hands a lot. When will you be back here?”

“Not for another week.”

“Since he’s had a fever for five days, you could take him to a local pediatrician there, but I suspect she would say the same thing. The current virus we’ve been seeing at the office tends to run its course in about a week. If his fever isn’t gone by Monday, you should take him in. If he should develop any more troubling symptoms in the meanwhile, you should also find someone local and get him seen.”

“Thanks, Dr. Conrad.” I hung up the phone a bit relieved. This wasn’t some terrible, awful disease; it was just a dime-a-dozen virus that would all be over soon. Just a couple more days and things would be getting better.

My father shuffled into the kitchen, his walker making a low-pitched squeaking noise with each step. He looked at Dylan lying there on the living room couch. “Where’d that rash come from?”

I shrugged. “Some kind of virus, I guess. I just got off the phone with our doctor back in California. She said there are lots of viruses going around now, and several of them come complete with a rash. Apparently, we are the lucky recipients of that variety.”

“Ahh, that’s too bad. I feel sorry for the poor kid.”

“Me, too.”

“Guess it doesn’t surprise me none, though.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

He shrugged. “It’s just the way you watch over every little thing he does—no sweets, no fast food, you use antibacterial hand wipes about every fifteen seconds, don’t let him climb trees or nothing. By the time something from real life gets near him, he don’t stand a chance. Let him fight through some stuff. Let him get used to germs, figure out a way to deal with it.”

At this point I’d listened to my father’s criticisms of my overprotective mothering more than I could possibly stand. I stood up and leaned on the table so that I was towering over him. “Your theory doesn’t work, and you of all people should know that. Mom sure never got used to a little smoke, did she?”

My father’s face went ash white, but he didn’t respond. It seemed as though my words had found their mark. I went to sit beside my son on the couch.