Our morning in the emergency room is nothing short of hell on earth. The nurses wheel Jazz away for tests. They won’t let me go with her, and when she returns, she’s inconsolable. She sobs and throws fists and rakes her hands through her hair, screaming, “Make it stop!”
Jazz’s fever spikes to 105, and when she has a seizure, I go into full panic mode. I threaten to air ambulance her to a major hospital, and even though I suspect she doesn’t have her phone with her, I leave repeated desperate voice messages for Naomi.
Brian and I are in constant communication. He does his best to find Naomi. At the inn, he hacks into her email program on the office computer and discovers past correspondence with psychiatric hospitals and substance abuse programs. He speaks to the head administrators at all the facilities, explaining the urgency of the situation. None of them have seen or heard from Naomi.
My stomach does an acrobatic dive when the doctor enters the room wearing a face mask. “We’ve confirmed that Jazz has bacterial meningitis. While not as contagious as viral meningitis, you should still wear this.” He hands me a mask identical to the one he’s wearing. “This is serious, Miss Boor. If I were you, I’d locate her parents.”
“Trust me, Doctor, we’re doing everything we can to find them.”
He doesn’t tell me what I already know. I’ve been sleeping with the kid. I’ve already been exposed. I take the mask from him anyway. “You’re gonna transfer her, right? To a better-equipped hospital?”
The doctor goes rigid. “We have a pediatric ICU, which makes us plenty equipped to handle her case here. While we are one of the smaller hospitals in the state, we serve many neighboring towns.” He leaves the room before I can argue.
I google bacterial meningitis. What I learn causes me to hyperventilate. Not only is there a chance she could die, the effects from the disease can be long term if she survives.
Gulping in deep breaths, I click on Brian’s number.
“The news is bad, Brian. She has bacterial meningitis. We need to find Naomi.”
Brian lets out a loud sigh. “I have a friend in the police department. I’ll give him a call.”
As soon as I hang up, a team of nurses dressed in full surgical garb—booties, masks, gloves, and caps—arrives to transport Jazz. Her room on the pediatric floor is a fishbowl with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at the nurses’ station. Aside from the hospital bed and a host of medical equipment, there’s a small desk, lounge chair, and bathroom complete with shower. With a sinking feeling, I realize this will be my home for the foreseeable future.
For the next few hours, Jazz thrashes about on the bed, muttering nonsense in her fever delirium. Nurses—wearing yellow isolation gowns, plastic gloves, and masks—bustle in and out, monitoring her vitals and injecting fluids into her IV. How do they cope with the heartache of tending sick children every day while remaining so positive and cheerful? To be sure, there’s a special place reserved for them in heaven.
Midafternoon, Jazz’s regular pediatrician stops by to examine her. In her fifties, Dr. Flowers is attractive with salt-and-pepper hair and a gentle bedside manner. She speaks to Jazz in a comforting tone as she moves her stethoscope around the child’s chest. With glassy eyes, Jazz smiles up at the doctor as though she trusts her.
When I ask the doctor when the fever might go down, she asks, “Who did you say you were again?”
“I didn’t say.” Using Brian’s legal jargon, I add, “I’m acting as Jazz’s personal representative in her parents’ absence.”
“Unless you’re identified on the HIPPA forms, by law, I’m not at liberty to discuss Jazz’s medical condition with you.”
Here we go with the privacy laws again. “Look, Dr. Flowers, Naomi had to go out of town at the spur of the moment, and she left Jazz in my care. I have no idea where Naomi is and no way of getting in touch with either Naomi or her husband. That is not my fault, and it’s certainly not Jazz’s.” I flash my phone at her. “Would you like to speak with my attorney?”
Dr. Flowers takes in my vomit-matted hair and hospital gown. “That won’t be necessary.”
Jazz and I have a long road ahead of us, and I need the doctor on my side. I lower my tone. “I promise, we’re doing everything we can to find Jazz’s parents. But, until we do, you’re stuck with me. I adore this kid. I only want what’s best for her. I will do whatever it takes to get Jazz well.”
Dr. Flowers straightens, and giving Jazz’s head a pat, she says, “You hang in there, kiddo. We’re gonna make you all better soon.” She takes me by the arm and leads me out of the room. “While we are hitting Jazz hard with antibiotics, it could still take days to lower her temperature. We’re also giving her meds to hopefully avoid any more seizures and to make her comfortable so she can rest. Our primary concern at the moment is avoiding the long list of potential complications.”
“Right. I read about those online.” Despite my discussion with Dr. Taylor, I’m not convinced Jazz is in the right hospital. “I’m going to be honest with you, Doctor, and I expect the same in return.”
Dr. Flowers gives me an affirmative nod.
“I’m from New York, the home of some of the best medical centers in the country. Do you feel the staff here is equipped to handle this case? I’m committed to getting Jazz the best possible treatment, even if that means transferring her to a larger facility.”
The doctor’s posture relaxes and her lips part in a smile. “That is a fair question. And I respect your line of thinking. As of now, I feel that Jazz is in very good hands. I will be checking in on her several times a day and monitoring her progress with the doctors on staff. If my opinion changes, you’ll be the first to know. I’ll give you my cell number. If you have any concerns at all, I want you to call or text me immediately, night or day.”
“Don’t worry. I will.”
After we exchange phone numbers, the doctor moves down the hall to visit another patient, and I return to Jazz who is finally resting peacefully. Exhaustion hits me like a wrecking ball. Reclining the lounge chair, I close my eyes and immediately fall asleep.
I’m dreaming of needles and nurses in hazmat suits when someone nudges me awake. I’m surprised to see Jack standing over me with a backpack slung over his shoulder.
Rubbing my eyes, I bring my chair to the sit-up position. “Jack. What’re you doing here?”
“Brian asked me to check on you. He wanted to come to the hospital himself, but he’s down at the police station filling out a missing person’s report.”
I mentally roll my eyes. Being a parent is a privilege Naomi does not deserve.
I snatch a disposable mask from the box on the desk beside me. “You should wear this.”
He waves off the mask. “I’ll take my chances. I want Jazz to see my friendly face.”
I smile. I like his style. When I stand to face him, he gets a whiff of my vomit hair. Eyeing my hospital gown, he says, “I can tell you’ve had a rough time of it. Go home and get cleaned up. I’ll sit with Jazz while you’re gone.”
My gaze travels to the sleeping child. “No way! I’m not leaving her.”
Jack places a hand on my arm. “Who knows how long you’ll be here, Stella. But you won’t be of any use to Jazz if you get sick. Taking care of yourself is a priority. Be sure to grab plenty of clothes for both you and Jazz. And any toys or stuffed animals that might make her feel more at home.”
His concern touches me. “You sound like the voice of experience. Do you have kids, Jack?”
“Nope. No kids. Let’s talk about how you got here. Did you drive without a license?”
“Yep. I drove Billy’s Jeep. It was the middle of the night, and Jazz was burning up with fever. I didn’t think, Jack. I acted. This town really needs Uber.”
He laughs. “Believe it or not, we actually have a few Uber drivers. You just have to catch them when they’re on duty. Do you want to call Cecily or Katherine to take you home?”
“No. After the day I’ve had, breaking the law is the least of my concerns.”
“How much longer before you can get your license?”
“Technically, I can take the test at the end of the month. But I need to learn to parallel park first.”
I drive slowly and carefully on my way back to the farm, holding my breath when a patrol car pulls up beside me on Main Street. What’s the worst he can do? Give me a ticket for driving without a license? Brian can get me out of it. When the light turns green and the patrol car drives off, I exhale a sigh of relief.
At home, I throw the soiled comforter from my bed into the washing machine while I shower, dress, and pack. In addition to my clothes and toiletries, I add Jazz’s two pairs of pajamas and her favorite stuffed bear. When the drier buzzes, I grab the comforter and the tote with the books from the library and return to the hospital.
What I find in Jazz’s room brings a smile to my face. Jack has dimmed the lights and pulled the lounge chair close to the bed. Classical music plays softly from a Bluetooth speaker on the bed table while he reads to a sleeping Jazz from the June issue of Sports Illustrated.
Leaving my suitcase beside the door, I enter the room. Peering over his shoulder, I see he’s reading an article highlighting predictions for the upcoming Wimbledon tournament. “Jazz is a big fan of tennis,” I say.
“That’s what she told me.” He closes the magazine and smiles up at me. “You look refreshed.”
“I feel, and smell, much better. Thank you.” I drag the desk chair to the side of the bed opposite him. “You’re an old pro at this. Soft music, dim lighting.” I gesture first at the speaker and then the overhead lights.
Jack stares down at the magazine in his lap. “I’ve spent my share of time in this hospital.”
He told me earlier that he doesn’t have children. “With sick parents?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “My wife. She died of cancer three years ago.”
“Oh, Jack. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” I think back to all the references I’ve made to his wife. What an idiot I am.
His hazel eyes are warm. “You had no way of knowing.”
“What kind of can—” I stop myself. “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business. It’s just . . . you’re so young. I assume your wife was as well.”
“Jenna was only thirty. She had stage four melanoma. Fortunately, she didn’t suffer long.”
His demeanor exudes such sadness. He obviously loved her very much. While I want to know more about Jenna, I sense this is not the right time to ask.
Jack stuffs his magazine in his backpack. “Would you like me to leave the speaker?”
“That would be awesome.” In a teasing tone, I add, “Maybe the Sports Illustrated as well.”
He laughs and gives me a quick tutorial on how to connect the speaker to my phone. “Did you get something to eat while you were out?”
I shake my head. “I was in too much of a hurry to get back to Jazz.”
“You need to eat. Do you want to run down to the cafeteria before I leave? The food’s actually pretty good. You can’t go wrong with the salad bar.”
“I’m fine, but thanks.”
“You’re not fine,” he says. “When’s the last time you ate?”
When I think back on what I’ve eaten over the weekend, I feel a pang of guilt for allowing Jazz to go to bed without dinner on Friday night. She was already sick, and I didn’t know it. “I had a bowl of chicken soup for dinner last night.”
Jack gets to his feet. “If you won’t go to the cafeteria, I’ll bring the cafeteria to you.”
“Jack, seriously, don’t go to the trouble.”
He walks toward the door. “If you don’t tell me what you want, you’ll have to settle for what I bring you.”
“In that case, I’d like a salad with mixed greens, sliced chicken, lots of toppings, and balsamic vinaigrette.”
“Thatta girl. One healthy salad coming up.”
Through the window, I watch him disappear down the hall. Now there’s the Jack I met my first week in town.