I said good night and whistled on my way to the produce section. Maybe I’d buy a few mangoes or something, really live it up.
Two weeks ago Mom had told me—zipped-lips Rose Gold, her sweet little confidant—exactly what had gone on at 201 Apple Street. She said she’d never told anyone the horrific details before. Patty Watts had told me her secrets because she trusted me and me alone. Or maybe she didn’t trust me. Maybe she just never thought I’d use her weaknesses against her.
Maybe she had underestimated me.
23
Patty
I pull Adam from his bassinet, cradling him in one arm and feeling his forehead with the back of my hand. He isn’t burning up—no fever. I rock him back and forth a few times, but he keeps on wailing. The stench of vomit reaches my nostrils. I can’t leave it pooled there in his bassinet.
I place my grandson in his crib in Rose Gold’s bedroom.
“Just for a few minutes, sweetheart,” I call over his shrieks.
Running to the kitchen, I grab a roll of paper towels and antibacterial spray. Adam’s cries haven’t subsided, but they’re harder to hear now. I could walk out the side door and pace the yard for a while until he quiets down. Of course I won’t. Overbearing? Maybe. But I have never been neglectful.
I square my shoulders and walk back to my bedroom, cleaning products plus trash bag in hand. I scoop the puke out of the crib and whistle the Mary Poppins song “A Spoonful of Sugar,” struggling to drown out the baby’s cries.
When the bassinet is clean, I return to Rose Gold’s room, lean over the crib, and watch Adam. He’s still crying, but losing steam.
I pick him up. “We’re a team now,” I tell him. “You have to be good for Grandma.”
Adam’s lower lip trembles, breaking my heart a little. His cries sound pitiful.
“What’s wrong, sweet pea? Are you hungry?”
I carry him to the kitchen and pull a bottle from the refrigerator. A couple days ago, she was still here, pumping breast milk and feeding her child. Now she’s left me alone.
When I bring the bottle to Adam’s lips, he sucks hungrily, which means—oh, thank baby Jesus—he stops crying. I slump into a chair and try to feed him the bottle slowly, delighting in every second of quiet. That old maxim is true: children are better seen and not heard.
With the baby calmed down, I can think again. I need to make a plan, figure out where my daughter is.
When the bottle is empty, I return Adam to his clean bassinet in my room. He whimpers a little, but nothing that can be heard through a closed door. I leave the door open a crack when I leave.
I have been searching the living room for clues for no more than four minutes when he starts bawling again. I bite my lip. This is the last thing I need in the middle of a crisis. I head down the hallway to check on him.
He’s vomited again, more this time. I rack my brain for answers: the flu? Reflux? A stomach bug? I sniff his diaper and wince, carrying him to the changing table in Rose Gold’s room. He has diarrhea because of course he does. I put a new diaper on him before he makes a mess in two rooms.
His howling is giving me a headache. I put him in his crib and set to work cleaning the bassinet for the second time this morning. I’ve almost finished scrubbing when I hear the sound of spit up. I run over to the crib to catch him throwing up in there too.
“Panicking won’t solve anything,” I say aloud. The tremor in my voice is unmistakable. My heart is thumping in my chest. I should be used to this—I dealt with a sick child for years and years. But it’s been a while, and I am out of practice.
I clean off Adam’s face, then rush to the bathroom. Yanking open drawers and pulling on cabinet doors, I toss bottle after bottle on the floor next to me. There has to be some Pedialyte here somewhere. Is that even the recommended treatment for vomiting children anymore? I don’t know. I haven’t been a medical professional in a long time. Adam’s cries get louder.
I have ripped the bathroom apart, hunting for a relevant treatment, but I can’t find one. Rose Gold has very few bottles of children’s medicine; she is wholly unprepared for a sick baby.
I dash across the hall, back to Adam’s side. His cries have morphed from short bursts to a steady wail. I lift him from the crib. “Please be okay, little one,” I beg, trying to soothe him. He vomits all over my shirt.
“What’s wrong with you?” I cry, trying to rip my shirt off with one arm while holding Adam in the other. He’s going to get dehydrated if he keeps puking like this.
I should call his doctor, to be safe. That way, someone else will know what’s going on. Someone else can help me find a solution to this problem. And if it turns out to be a twelve-hour bug, then fine. There’s nothing wrong with calling to be safe.
I pick up my phone from the nightstand and press the address book icon before realizing I don’t know the name of Adam’s pediatrician. Maybe Rose Gold wrote it down in her physical address book. I ransack the kitchen junk drawer, pull out the address book, and flip through every page. When I get to “Z” and still haven’t found an entry with a “Dr.” title, I want to join Adam in his crying.
“What about Mommy’s desk?” I say to the baby. I carry him back to Rose Gold’s bedroom. I’ve already turned every drawer inside out, seeking clues about her disappearance, but I wasn’t looking for doctor’s information then. Maybe I missed something.
I search the desk’s cubbies again, more frantically this time, not bothering to put everything back where I found it. Nothing in the file folders. Nothing on the side shelves. Nothing in the pencil drawer. She must keep the pediatrician’s contact information on her phone. I yell in frustration.
An hour later, Adam is still crying and throwing up. I’m no closer to having a plan. I’ve reached my breaking point, wanting nothing more than to collapse on the floor and throw a tantrum. I don’t know what to do, I keep thinking. Someone tell me what to do.
I get a flash of inspiration: I’ll give him another bottle. He quieted down for ten or so minutes when I gave him one earlier. Ten minutes is all I need—a little block of time to think straight and choose a course of action. And I don’t want him getting dehydrated. A little milk will be good for him. For what must be the fiftieth time today, I dart from the bedroom to the kitchen.
Adam latches onto the rubber nipple. His screams subside. I nearly crumple to my knees in thanks. I watch Adam’s tear-streaked face while he drinks. I need help. Then I have a thought.
I can—nay, should—take him to the hospital.
A tingle shivers down my spine. I imagine the doctors and nurses crowding around us, hurrying to attend to my sick baby, asking me questions, hanging on my every word.