Page 16 of The Write Off
“Shit!” Travis shouts as he backs away from us. He jumps off the couch and books it down the hall.
“Language,” I warn, but seeing as “shit” was the first word that came to my mind, I don’t give him too much grief for it.
“Sorry, Uncle Lo–” Her words get cut off by another violent gag as she empties the rest of her stomach on me.
“It’s okay. This is…fine,” I reassure her, brushing the bangs out of her eyes. Her forehead glistens with perspiration and her eyes are glassy. “Travis, please grab a waste basket from the guest room.” He must have already been on his way, because he’s at my side with the white plastic bin before I finish my request. He settles it in his sister’s lap and then takes the mug of orange juice I’m still holding, setting it on the coffee table.
“You okay, Anna?” Travis looks a little pale himself. I can’t tell if he’s under the weather too or if it’s just concern for his sister.
“Yeah.” She takes a few deep breaths as she lays her head on the rim of the waste basket. When she looks up at me, her sea-blue eyes fill with tears and her lip wobbles. “I’m sorry I ruined your fancy clothes.”
I place my hand on her forehead, as one does in this type of situation. It’s warm. Very warm. Admittedly, I don’t know that much about small humans, but I don’t think they’re supposed to be this warm.
“Don’t apologize. Your stomach contracted involuntarily.” Noting the confused look on her small face I add, “There wasn’t anything you could have done to stop it. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Yeah,” Travis pipes up. “And it was a really ugly tie. You did him a favor. He should buy you a present.”
God. This kid isn’t pulling any punches today. The dig makes the corners of Anna’s mouth curve ever so slightly. I pretend to take offense to it, which makes her smile grow.
“I’m going to go get changed. Hopefully whatever I pick will be more suitable for your tastes.”
I walk down the short halfway to the main bathroom that also serves as my laundry room. I need to get this shirt off me before I’m the one throwing up. The smell is what gets me. I fed both kids mac and cheese not two hours ago and let’s just say it looked a lot better then. I unbutton and carefully peel off my linen shirt, grateful I don’t have to pull the damned thing over my head.
I throw the shirt into the washing machine, strip out of my pants and add them followed by the detergent. After starting the cycle, I grab a hand towel from the bathroom closet and use warm water and soap to clean my chest, neck and arms. I’ll take a shower after I get the kids set up at my parents’ place.
I walk across the hall to the master bedroom, drying myself off with a towel as I go. This is a newer condo, with high ceilings and a huge walk-in closet. I grab an old Celtics t-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants from one of the built in drawers. Pulling them on quickly, I rush back to the living room to check on my patient.
Make that patients.
Anna is lying down again. Her tiny body is facing the TV even though her eyes are closed. Her bangs appear to be matted to her forehead with sweat.
Her brother doesn’t look much better. He’s grown paler in the five minutes since I left them. Sitting up on the couch, he’s leaning forward, supporting himself with his elbow on his knees. When he looks up at me, his expression conveys pure misery.
“Do you need your own waste basket?”
He says nothing, but nods his head once in response. I hustle down the hall and grab the one from my room, then hightail it back to him. When I hand it to him, he accepts it gratefully.
“‘If you’re going to spew, spew into this,’” I tell him, awkwardly tussling his light brown hair. Judging by the way his eyebrows furrow in confusion, it appears that the Wayne’s World reference has gone over his head. “Do you know if your mom packed a thermometer in your overnight bag?”
I find it in the side pocket of Anna’s purple carry-on suitcase. It’s sealed in a plastic bag with Band-Aids and a bottle of chewable acetaminophen.
When I return to the living room, Anna looks like she’s rallied, a bit. Her eyes are open and she’s watching television again. I take her temperature first, putting the thermometer in her right ear and pressing the button. When it beeps, I look at the screen.
103.6 degrees. That seems high.
I go to her brother next, who takes the thermometer from me and inserts it in his own ear. After the beep, he shows me the reading.
102.3 degrees.
A quick Google search informs me that these are higher than normal for children. I know when I’m out of my depth; it’s time to consult a professional. I grab my phone and send their mom a quick text.
Me: Hey Shannon. Please call me at your earliest convenience.
Before I can even set my phone down, it starts to ring.
“What’s wrong? Is everyone okay?” Shannon is an Emergency Room nurse and doesn’t usually respond to messages so quickly. I must have caught her taking a rare break.
“Everyone is fine,” I answer, hurriedly. “But Anna got sick and both kids are running fevers.” I give her a detailed play-by-play of the last ten minutes. She doesn’t seem overly concerned about the fevers. Apparently there is a stomach virus going around. I’m given instructions on how much Tylenol to give each child to try to bring their temperatures down.