Finn shouts for me in the night. When I come into his room, he is bent over the bed, being sick onto his duvet. “It’s okay,” I say, “it’s okay, it’s all right,” while taking off his pajamas and guiding him into the bathroom. I rinse him off in the shower, wrap him in a clean towel, and hurry downstairs to pour him a glass of water. He’s half asleep, too tired to drink the water, falling into bed the second I get clean sheets over the mattress.
When he wakes again coughing, I give him water and rub his back. He’s feverish, his chest and the soles of his feet like hot sand. Tomorrow he will need to stay home from playschool. I won’t be able to work, or meet with Eamonn, or Royce. A pause, one day with nothing else in it.
In the morning, I try to take Finn’s temperature, but he dislikes all thermometers, even the one that only hovers at the forehead. “Look, it won’t touch you, okay? It’s not even touching you,” I say. The display shows a high fever, and I wonder how many degrees to add since he was moving.
I am stabbing open the foil on a bottle of Pedialyte when mam calls me, saying that Marian still won’t speak to her. “Maybe,” I say, “you should try apologizing.”
We read books, watch Bluey, build Legos. Finn is sick another three times, always to the side or below the bowl I hold out for him. I am crouched on my knees, spraying cleaning fluid on the floor, when I realize I’ve not checked the burner phone today. I won’t know if Royce has tried to contact me, but I can’t leave Finn, I can’t walk around the corner to the hiding place. Mam would come over to help me, but she’d want to talk about her past, and I’m not able for that yet.
I finish cleaning the floor, scrub my hands, and return to the sofa to read a picture book to Finn. I can hear my own voice, as if it’s coming from very far away. “ ‘And the tiger drank all the milk in the milk jug and all the tea in the teapot.’ ”
A pressure builds in my skull. I can’t live like this, with Royce always at my back. “ ‘And then he looked round the kitchen to see what else he could find.’ ” I hold my hand to Finn’s forehead. He’s still burning. “ ‘He ate all the supper that was cooking in the saucepans and all the food in the fridge, and all the packets and tins in the cupboard.’ ”
That evening, Finn loses his voice. He tries to speak and fails, looking confused, then tries again. I look down at him, small and suddenly, abruptly mute.
“You’re only hoarse from coughing,” I say, “don’t worry,” and fix some warm chamomile tea with honey for him. Of all the things I check, his voice has never been one of them. It has never occurred to me as something to protect, the way I protect the rest of him. I hardly even understand the mechanics, the vibrations in his throat that let him speak.
I don’t sleep, not really. I am waking in the night, pulling dirty sheets off the mattress, holding Finn in the shower, finding the cleaning spray. By Thursday night, I am exhausted. Dark stains spread under my eyes, and at the top of the stairs I feel myself wobble, like I’m about to pitch down the steps.
I kneel in front of the washing machine, bundling in clumps of crumpled, mucky clothes that will come out of the dryer soft and fresh. I twist the dial, thinking, When will that happen for me? I’ve been trying for so long, but every bit of me is as creased and stained as ever. When will I come out clean?