I stare at one red dot.
It glares at me in the mirror as I use the edge of the sink to hold myself up. It’s Friday. I’ve been sick four days. My mom figured it was the flu and that it simply had to run its course. She’s kept track of my fever, plied me with herbal tonics, and insisted I needed sleep and liquids. I’ve barely found the energy to make it from my bed to the bathroom, but I had to pee bad enough to make my way here.
The dot is on my hairline above my left eyebrow. I assume it’s a pimple at first. But then I notice another one by my right ear. Two more above that. I tug down my shirt. See more at the neckline, where my collar has been hiding them.
“Mom!”
Poppy cruises past the partially shut door of the bathroom, doubles back, and pushes it open all the way.
“Whoa,” she says, looking at my face.
“Where’s Mom?”
“Kitchen.”
“Go get her.”
Poppy races down the hallway and down the stairs. I can hear the hurried thump of her feet as she goes. I’m impressed she actually listened to me. And then my mom is standing in the bathroom, looking at the same reflection in the mirror as I am.
“Does it itch?” she asks. “Or burn?”
“Maybe? I don’t know.”
She presses her index finger to a red spot. The skin fades to white, then springs back to red when she pulls it away.
“It’s probably only a rash. You’ve been pretty sick.” She lifts up my shirt to look at my back. “You have a few more right here.” She traces along the waistband of my pajama pants where they hit my lower back.
“It looks weird.”
“Maybe I can get someone to see you today.” My mom hasn’t found a local doctor who will take Poppy, Sequoia, and me. Many doctors refuse to see unvaccinated patients. “There’s always urgent care. But right now, let’s wait and see. Maybe they’ll clear up on their own.”
There are more spots a few hours later.
They’ve spread along my hairline. Around my ears. Down my face and into my shirt. They keep running and forming all the way to my feet, smearing together, turning me red.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” my dad says, studying my back.
“Me either,” my mom says. “Do you think it’s an allergic reaction?”
“I’d buy that if she hadn’t been so sick. You haven’t eaten anything store-bought or processed, have you, Junebug?”
I shake my head.
My mom forces me into a baking-soda bath and rubs a creamy oatmeal concoction all over me when I get out. None of it helps, and by five o’clock I’m one big red welt.
“I need to take her to see someone,” my mom says. “I can treat her better if I know what it is.”
“Probably a good idea,” my dad says.
So an hour later, my mom and I climb into Bessie—me still wearing pajama pants and a sweatshirt because I don’t have the energy to put on real clothes—and drive to an urgent care clinic by the big grocery store in town.
The parking lot is crowded, so we have to park in the back. The walk seems too far, and I have to lean on my mom for support.
“Hang in there,” she says.
The waiting room is filled with a few stuffy-nosed kids and their parents, a thirtysomething woman who coughs in fits, and a twentysomething guy in a soccer uniform holding an ice pack over his knee.
My mom checks me in, hands over my insurance card, and pays cash for the visit while I slump down in a chair with my hood pulled up over my head.
“You doing okay?” my mom asks when she sits down next to me.
All I can manage is a grunt and a shrug.
“We’ll get to the bottom of it.”
An elderly woman checks in after us and takes the seat on the other side of me. I recognize her as someone I’ve seen buying produce and flowers at the farmers market. I’ve noticed her because she kind of reminds me of my grandma Mimi, perfectly put together. But her look is more severe, her hair pulled back into a bun so tight it looks like it hurts. She glances my way. Flinches. Looks again. Studies me. I pull the drawstrings on my hoodie tighter to cover my face and keep the light from burning my eyes.
By the time I’m called in to see the doctor, I can barely stand. My mom and I pass through the waiting room door that leads us into a hallway lined with additional doors to five different exam rooms. A nurse takes my vitals at a station in the hallway, clucks at my high fever, then leads me to an exam room about the size of my closet. I take off my hoodie, knowing the doctor will need to be able to see my rash, but I’m glad I remembered to wear a short sleeve T-shirt underneath. When I see the doctor walk by as he heads down the hallway, I decide he should be playing a doctor on one of Mimi’s soap operas instead of seeing patients here. He’s young, with slick black hair and cheekbones too sharp to be a real doctor.
When he finally comes to my exam room, he looks at me for half a second and says, “Uh-uh. No. You have the measles. Up. Out. I can’t have you in here.”
“What?” My mom’s voice is shocked. High. “It’s a rash. She couldn’t have measles.”
“It’s the measles.”
“How? Nobody gets the measles anymore.”
“Not true,” he says. “Has she been immunized for the measles? An MMR shot?”
“Well.” She tangles the thick strap of her recycled fabric purse in her hands. “Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“She hasn’t been vaccinated.”
“For anything?”
“That’s correct.”
“Why? Does she have a special medical condition?”
“I don’t have to explain to you why I haven’t had my child vaccinated.”
“Well, explain it to her,” he says, tipping his clipboard at me. “Because she’s the one sitting here with a case of the measles. You need to make sure you get her proper medical attention, but I’m not equipped to give it to you here.”
“But, but—” My mom’s flustered in a way I’ve never seen before.
The doctor turns to me. “You have to go. I can’t have you shedding measles in my office. I have babies with compromised immune systems coming in. Chemo patients arriving with complications. It’s not safe for them.”
“What are we supposed to do?” my mom shouts loud enough for the people in the waiting room to hear. “You’re a medical professional! We are here for treatment. You can’t refuse us service!”
“I can if it puts everyone else in my office at risk. You need to go somewhere with a more structured protocol in place. I can let the hospital ER know you’re on the way.”
“Let’s go, Mom.” I grab my hoodie. I’m so cold. I pull it over my head as the doctor keeps lecturing my mom. He’s saying all kinds of things about why she didn’t recognize the measles and how we’ve exposed everyone at this clinic. I cringe as I listen.
“You have some nerve,” my mom says.
I pull on her sleeve like a three-year-old, but she wiggles free. My hands fall back to my sides and I drag my feet out of the exam room, down the hallway, and back through the waiting room. In the fog of my fevered mind, I can still hear her arguing with the doctor.
Come on, Mom.
He wants us to leave.
He thinks I should be vaccinated.
He says I’m highly contagious.
People swarm in a hazy cloud in my head. My brother. My sister. Mary at her fruit and veggie stand. Everyone I sold herbs and oils to on Monday. Was I sick then? Like contagious sick? Because I touched a lot of money that I handed back to other people. And I touched almost every tomato in Mary’s bin. And now I’ve breathed and coughed and sneezed all over every person in this waiting room. I push through the door to the outside air. I don’t know if it’s the fever that makes me want to crawl out of my skin or the thought of exposing someone else to this. I keep hearing the doctor’s words. It’s not safe for them. Meaning I’m not safe.
A guy my dad’s age, wearing a neck brace, comes to the door. He holds it open for me, thinking I’m going in. I stand there. And then I hear the nurse.
“I regret to inform all of you that you have been exposed to the measles virus,” she says. “If any of you haven’t been immunized or have never had the measles, I need you to let me know immediately.”
The elderly woman who had been studying me earlier stands up. Points at me. “I knew it!” she shouts.
Inside, the room becomes a flurry of activity. Chatter erupts. Voices rise. Yes, people have been vaccinated, but they’re wondering if they’re totally immune as the nurse does her best to calm them. The man in the neck brace turns right around and walks back down the sidewalk.
I make a move to go inside again. I want to apologize. But then I don’t. They already know it’s me. That’s bad enough.