Jazz’s skin is hot to the touch, even though she’s shivering from chills. I wrap the comforter tight around her. “Where does it hurt, Jazzy?”
Through chattering teeth, she says, “Everywhere. I want my mommy.”
“I know you do, sweetheart. But I’m going to take good care of you.”
I force a smile to hide my concern. I have no clue what to do. Google will tell me. Grabbing my laptop, I search for treating a child with a fever. One prominent medical website says medication isn’t needed for an otherwise healthy child, which I have to assume Jazz is since I don’t know her medical history. Another website says, for a fever below 102, to make sure the child gets lots of rest and drinks plenty of fluids. I don’t have a thermometer, and no way to get one without walking to the store. Surely there’s something I can do right now. I read on. If the child is uncomfortable, give her Tylenol or Advil. Yes! I have Advil.
I retrieve my bottle from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. My heart sinks when I read the label. It says for ages twelve and younger to call a doctor. What to do? I can’t call Opal. She’s still sick. I text Cecily and Katherine, to see if either of them is available to run to the store. Both respond immediately that they are out of town for the weekend. I consider calling Jack and Brian, but I’m not that desperate yet. I cut an Advil tablet in half, nearly severing my finger in the process. When Jazz refuses to swallow it, I pound it with my hardback library book, breaking it into pieces and mixing the pieces with a tablespoon of peanut butter. The kid who loves peanut butter turns up her nose, but at my insistence, she gives the spoon a lick. Thirty minutes later, she’s back to normal, begging me to take her swimming in the lake.
“No way, kiddo. You’re sick. Just because your fever is gone, it doesn’t mean you’re completely recovered.”
“Yes, it does,” she says, planting a hand on her hip. “I get fevers all the time.”
So, she’s not an otherwise healthy child. “What does your mommy do when you get sick?”
“She gives me medicine. Please! If we can’t go swimming, can we at least go for a bike ride?”
I think about my nearly empty refrigerator. What am I going to feed this kid? She skipped dinner last night. Isn’t she hungry? Why isn’t she asking for food?
“I’ll make a deal with you, Jazzy. If you’ll walk with me to the market, we’ll pack a picnic and go for a short bike ride.”
“Deal,” she says and gives her fanny a sassy shake.
Jazz and I stroll to the store. To avoid contaminating the other customers, we purchase only the bare necessities, including a bottle of children’s Advil and a digital thermometer. At home, after putting away the other groceries, I throw together a simple picnic of ham sandwiches, apple slices, and chocolate chip cookies.
When I ordered forty bikes from Allen—twenty for adults and twenty for kids—he gave Jazz and me our two favorites for free. We ride our bikes down to the lake and set up our picnic in the shade of Opal’s tree. Even though she insists that she feels fine, Jazz hardly touches her lunch, and instead of dancing or tumbling across the grass, she lies beside me on the blanket while I read to her.
Sprinkles drive us back to the cottage, and a heavier rain sets in for the afternoon. Jazz and I camp out on the sofa with a bowl of popcorn for a movie marathon.
Her fever returns around dinnertime—a thermometer reading of 102—and she chokes down the grape-flavored Advil liquid.
I reheat the homemade chicken soup I bought at the market, but she refuses to eat it. “Let’s put your pajamas on and get you into bed.”
“No! I want to stay with you.” And so we cuddle under my comforter on the sofa, watching yet another movie.
When Jazz drifts off, I carry her to bed. She still feels warm to the touch, but according to the dosage instruction, I can’t give her more medicine for at least another four hours. I change into my pajamas and crawl into bed beside her with my library book. I doze off around nine. Jazz wakes me two hours later when she projectile vomits all over the bed. She’s crying hysterically, and I don’t need a thermometer to tell me she’s burning up with fever. I lift her off the bed and carry her into the bathroom, setting her down on the marble floor in front of the toilet.
Rocking back and forth on her knees, her hands pressed against her head, she wails, “It hurts so bad.”
“What hurts, sweetheart?”
“My head.”
“Hang on. We’re gonna get you some help,” I say as I clean her face and hands with a washcloth. My mind races. What to do? But there is only one thing I can do. I need to take her to the hospital. “Stay right here by the toilet, Jazzy, in case you get sick again. I’ll be right back.”
Jazz’s pajamas were spared, but mine are covered in puke. Changing into jeans and a clean T-shirt, I strip the bed linens and take the bundle to the laundry closet in the kitchen. Not bothering with the car seat, which is sitting in the middle of the living room floor from when Katherine brought Jazz home from camp on Friday, I wrap her in a fleece blanket, grab my purse, and carry her out to Billy’s Jeep. Buckling Jazz into the back seat, I climb behind the wheel and speed off, careening around the corner of the main building.
Although I’ve never driven on public roads before, I’ve ridden in plenty of cars, and I’m on autopilot as I cruise down Main Street. I ask Siri to direct me to the nearest hospital, but Jazz is sobbing too loud for me to hear.
“I need you to stop crying, Jazz,” I say in a stern voice. “I can’t hear the directions.”
She lowers the volume a decibel. When we arrive at the hospital five minutes later, as I’m getting her out of the car, she pukes all down my back. I can feel the warm dampness from my saturated T-shirt against my skin.
The emergency room is packed with people of all ages in varying degrees of Saturday night drunkenness seeking medical attention. Fortunately, there is no one waiting at the check-in desk.
“I have a sick child,” I say to the receptionist. “She needs to see a doctor.”
The young woman’s beautiful face is distorted with meanness. “Is she your child?” I interpret the insinuation in her tone to mean she has a problem with mixed race couples.
Anger pulses through my body. Is she kidding me? So what if she’s my child and her father is black? “She is not my child. I’m taking care of her while her mother’s away.”
“Are you listed on the child’s HIPAA form?”
This has not occurred to me in my rush to get Jazz help. “Her parents had to go out of town unexpectedly on a family emergency. I have no idea how to get in touch with them.”
She smacks her hand down on the counter, palm up. “Insurance card.”
Jazz is getting heavy. I look around for a place to put her down, but all the chairs in the waiting room are occupied. “I don’t have that either. Her mother forgot to leave it with me.”
The receptionist rolls her eyes. “Naturally.” She picks up a clipboard and thrusts it toward me. “Fill these out. The doctor will decide whether to treat her.”
An older man with a sweet face gives me his chair. Balancing the limp child on my lap, I scribble Jazz’s first and last names on the top form. Those are the only two blanks I can fill out. I know Jazz’s favorite color is pink. I know she loves ladybugs but is terrified of spiders. I know she can’t hold a tune but dances like an angel. But I don’t know any pertinent information that will get her seen by a doctor.
I can hardly think. My throat swells. Tears of both fear and anger are close to the surface. I’m terrified something is seriously wrong with this child, but I’m also furious with Naomi for putting me in this position. She doesn’t deserve to be a mother, especially to a kid as awesome as Jazz.
Fumbling in my purse for my phone, I click on Brian’s number. He answers on the second ring, his voice alert despite the late hour. “Stella, is something wrong?”
“Jazz is really sick. We’re at the emergency room. The receptionist is asking for her insurance card, which Naomi neglected to leave. And because of the privacy laws, they may not let me talk to the doctor about her condition.”
“Jazz was born in that hospital,” Brian says. “They should have her insurance information in their system.”
“I’m sure they do. The receptionist is being a . . . “I catch myself. “She’s being uncooperative.”
“Can you get her direct dial phone number for me?”
My gaze travels to the check-in desk where the receptionist is sharing a laugh with a coworker. “Sure. Give me a minute. I’ll text it to you,” I say, and end the call.
When I stand up, Jazz moans. “It’s okay, baby.” I kiss her head. “We’re gonna see the doctor soon.”
Returning to the check-in counter, I say to the receptionist, “My attorney would like a word with you. I need your direct dial number, so he can call you.”
The color drains from her face. When she stalls, I say, “Now!”
When she tells me the number, I one-thumb text it to Brian. Seconds later, the phone on the desk beside her rings and she lifts the receiver to her ear. She listens for a minute. “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.” Her fingers fly across the keyboard. “Yes, sir. I have her patient information right here. Yes, sir. I’ll make sure she’s seen right away.”
The nurse snarls at me as she hangs up the phone. “Have a seat. They’ll call you back in a minute.”
We’ve no sooner gotten situated again when a nurse wearing blue scrubs and a pleasant smile calls Jazz’s name. I gather up the child and my purse and follow her through to the examining rooms. The nurse, who tells me her name is Maggie, closes the door behind us. As I’m settling Jazz on the bed, she fires off questions, most of which I can answer. “Has she been sick recently? When did she last eat? How long as she been running a fever? Has she complained of a sore throat?”
I give her a brief rundown of the past sixteen hours while she checks Jazz’s vitals. Her temperature is 104, which seems alarmingly high to me, but Maggie seems unconcerned.
“The doctor will be in to see you soon,” she says and leaves the room.
Jazz starts crying again, not the same loud bawling from earlier but a soft whimper. “What is it, sweetheart? Can I get something for you?”
“I want my mommy.”
Of course, she does. Every kid wants their mom when they’re sick. “I know you don’t feel well. But the doctor is gonna make you all better.”
Dr. Boyd Taylor is about my age and kinda cute with blond hair, a baby face, and a platinum wedding band on his ring finger. As he’s reading Jazz’s chart, he sniffs and turns up his nose.
“Sorry. I’m wearing puke perfume, courtesy of my little friend here.”
He smiles. “I know the fragrance well. I’m sure there’s an extra hospital gown lying around here somewhere. I’ll see if I can find you one.”
After listening to Jazz’s heart and lungs, Dr. Taylor looks in her ears, nose, and throat. “It’s probably just a summer virus, but we’ll run some tests.”
Our examining room becomes a hubbub of activity. One nurse brings Jazz ibuprofen while another one delivers hospital gowns for us both. I remove my soiled T-shirt, tossing it into the trash can, and put on the gown, tying the extra fabric around my waist. When Maggie comes to draw blood, Jazz freaks out, and the nurse has to call in reinforcements to hold her down while she inserts the IV. After they leave, it takes me thirty minutes to calm Jazz down. I lie next to her on the bed, her little body a ball of fire. She tosses and turns before falling into a restless sleep.
It’s nearing morning when Dr. Taylor returns with disturbing news. “Jazz’s white blood count is alarmingly high. We’re running more tests to rule out the possibility of meningitis.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. “Meningitis? But isn’t that serious?”
He gives a solemn nod. “It can be.”