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I’ve never ridden in an ambulance before. If Jake hadn’t given his mom the car, we could have taken Natalie in ourselves, but when we explained to the triage nurse it would take at least twenty minutes before we could get on the road, she told us to call 911 instead of waiting around. The paramedics arrived just a few minutes ago. The same man with the blondish beard is still the captain on the crew, and now that we’re en route to the county hospital, he’s trying to get my mind off my daughter’s raging fever.
“Your family must have clipped out the two-for-one coupon from the paper.”
I can’t understand his words. Why is he talking to me about coupons?
I hate Jake right now. Hate him for not being here in the ambulance with us. For some reason, he in all his gifted intelligence decided to get the car from Patricia’s hotel and meet us at the hospital. As if Patricia and her stinking baggage couldn’t wait.
At least Orchard Grove’s a small town. Natalie and I will arrive at County in a few minutes.
One of the EMTs gives me a sympathetic smile. “I thought you’d be relieved to know your daughter’s pediatrician is the on-call doctor tonight.”
I don’t even grasp what that means. I just wonder if Jake’s going to meet us there like he said or if this was his way of bailing out on our daughter and me for good.
The captain’s trying to ask me questions about Natalie’s history, but I’m so nauseated I can’t answer. I don’t know if it’s the fast ride or what, but I swear I’m going to throw up. My daughter looks so tiny in here. The paramedics have her buckled in her car seat, which they’ve strapped to the stretcher. So much empty space. She only takes up one-sixth of the gurney. Maybe less. So much room to grow. God, do you see how little she is? Do you see how tiny? You can’t take her from me.
You said so yourself, remember?
A sermon that Sandy’s husband once preached is whizzing through my brain. He was talking about how God used prophets to deliver his messages in ancient times, but now that we have the Bible, the Old and New Testaments, there’s no need for prophecies anymore. I didn’t think I was paying that much attention, but now his words haunt me like I’m in some low-budget horror movie. No such thing as prophecy... Only valid in Bible times ... So why did my heart speed up when I first heard Grandma Lucy pray? Why did my spirit feel so secure when she said my daughter would live, as if she was giving me a direct promise from the Lord?
That was a promise, wasn’t it? Or was it what I wanted to believe? Another sermon, this one about people who only listen to what their itching ears want to hear, plays through my mind. With all of Carl’s preaching I’ve got downloaded in my brain, it’s a shock I’m not some missionary or other kind of saint.
We slow to a stop, and my very first, very bumpy ambulance ride is over. I’m back on autopilot now, scarcely functioning as the paramedics open the back doors and lower Natalie’s stretcher to the ground. I follow them, lugging that massive suction machine slung over my shoulder even though the hospital room will have one built in by the bedside.
I follow my daughter and her troop of first responders down blurry hallways that are far too bright. My brain doesn’t turn back on until I see a familiar face looking at me with so much compassion I feel like either hitting the liquor store and getting completely wasted or sitting down and treating myself to a long, hard cry.
“I’m so sorry to hear she’s sick. How long has she had the fever?” Dr. Bell asks. I could hug her for being here for me and my baby.
“I don’t know. I thought she felt a little warm this afternoon, but nothing like this ...” I’m going to start bawling. It’s stupid of me. There are lots of other things to get worked up over besides a fever, but it’s everything compounded. Jake and Patricia and that Grandma Lucy lady and now Natalie. I’ve never felt somebody that hot. My fingers have this strange, creepy sting to them where they touched her forehead.
“Is she still congested?” Dr. Bell asks. She’s not wasting a single second. She’s conducting this interview while the ambulance crew wheels my daughter into one of the rooms. “Has she been around anyone else who’s been sick lately?” She’s asking me so many questions I can only answer one out of every two or three.
“Her grandma has a cold or something.”
Dr. Bell frowns. “Any fever?”
“Not until just now. That’s why I called the ambulance.”
“No, I mean does her grandma have a fever?”
“I don’t think so.” I don’t want to think about Patricia right now. I swear, if that woman is the one who got my daughter sick ...
“How high did you say her temp was?”
“104.7.” I hate the way the words feel slipping out of my mouth. Like I’m defiled. Unclean. What kind of mother lets her daughter get this sick?
“And that was on a home thermometer? We better retake it here.”
“Got a new reading on the way over,” Captain Blond Beard says. “104.5.”
Dr. Bell’s not smiling. She’s not giving me a hug, telling me my daughter’s going to be just fine.
I need to get myself to a bathroom because I swear I’m about to puke.
We’ve stopped. We’re in a room now, and there’s at least one nurse in here for every EMT. All this for a fever?
Dr. Bell slips the ear tips of her stethoscope in place. I never would have guessed a face that pretty and youthful could appear so strained. Is she angry at me? Does she think I did this on purpose?
Something’s beeping behind me. I turn. Man, I hate those stupid monitors. The numbers are flashing and the buzzers yelling at us all as if we didn’t know. As if we couldn’t see for ourselves.
My daughter’s blood is only 84% oxygenated. The number drops to 82% after a few more beeps.
Dr. Bell turns to a nurse. “Get her on two liters of O2.”
I wonder if I’m the only one who can hear the desperation in her voice.