What else is a worried grandmother to do? I have no way of contacting Adam’s pediatrician. He has been vomiting for five hours. This is, by definition, an emergency.
I let Adam drink the rest of the bottle, then put him on Rose Gold’s bed. Scurrying around the house, I pack the diaper bag with bottles of milk, wipes, and so on. I rush to my closet to put on a clean shirt. I run outside, open the garage door, and start the van so the interior will be warm by the time I bring Adam out.
Turning on my heel, I march back into the house again. When I open the side door, the first thing I notice is the quiet. Inside is as silent as outside.
My heart stops.
I realize I left Adam lying on Rose Gold’s bed. He might have fallen off of it and hurt himself—or worse. I sprint past the kitchen and down the hallway, terrified. What if someone . . . No, I can’t let myself go there. I was only gone for a second.
“Be okay, be okay,” I chant to myself.
I cross the threshold to Rose Gold’s bedroom. Adam’s cries slap me like a glass of ice water. I’m flooded with relief to find the baby flailing around on his mother’s bed. For a moment, I don’t even mind that he’s thrown up in here too. He is here. He is safe.
I vow never to let him out of my sight again.
My relief is short-lived. Is it possible his cries have gotten louder? I know in my gut something is wrong. Adam needs medical attention.
“Okay, bub, let’s go,” I say. I pick up Adam. I put his diaper bag over my shoulder and take one last glimpse at Rose Gold’s destroyed room. This is not how I hoped to leave the house. If she comes back, she’ll know I’ve ransacked her belongings. But by then I will also have restored her son to good health. I’m calling it even.
I buckle Adam into his car seat and remember again where we’re going. I wonder what the doctor will be like—convivial with a perfect bedside manner or more formal and facts focused. I bet the nurses will pat me on the back, whispering I did the right thing. The other people in the waiting room will coo over Adam, say he looks like me, touch his forehead, and offer their own solutions. This is what I love about the medical community: everyone wants to help.
I back the van down the driveway, feeling a small twinge of fear. Some of Rose Gold’s old doctors and nurses probably still work at the hospital. Worse, there’s a chance Tom will be there. Then again he always worked night shifts. Besides, what choice do I have? Even if people there hold grudges against me, they still have to care for my grandson. We all took the same oath: First do no harm.
Maybe Adam has severe food allergies that need to be diagnosed and treated. That would make sense, after all. His mother has a long history of gastrointestinal issues.
I press on the gas pedal. Perhaps little Adam needs a feeding tube too.
24
Rose Gold
December 2016
I examined the three TV dinners on the folding table in front of me: Salisbury steak, lasagna, and a stuffed green pepper. I decided to start with the lasagna and pulled it closer to me. I couldn’t be bothered to cook for myself anymore—what was the point of making elaborate meals if I was just going to eat them alone in front of the TV? I refilled my cup with more Sutter Home White Zinfandel.
I scarfed down the food and flipped through show after show on Netflix. The new live-action Beauty and the Beast film had just come out—Mom’s favorite Disney movie. I stabbed at the remote, pausing on a documentary about weasels, but they reminded me of her too. I kept scrolling. After I’d been through every option, I turned off the TV and finished my dinners in silence.
For two weeks, a constant cry had run through my head: Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar!
It was like a car alarm with no deactivation button, and I couldn’t turn it off. I’d cracked a plate last night thinking about it.
After clearing away the plastic cartons, I flopped onto the recliner, drumming my fingers on the armrest. I’d already watched The Little Mermaid four times this week. I spotted Planty in the corner. By the time I found a pair of scissors, I realized I’d already trimmed her dead leaves yesterday. I stuck my finger in the soil: already watered.
I wandered the house. Opening the fridge, I stared at the alphabetically organized condiments. This was the way she’d stored them, I remembered. I swiped at the bottles, messing up the neat rows until I had three shelves of chaos. My elbow caught on a jar and sent it flying to the ground, glass breaking and dill pickles flying everywhere.
I squeezed my hands into fists and screamed.
Screaming felt good. I’d been doing a lot of it. Normally I screamed into pillows so my neighbors wouldn’t hear and call the police.
I left the pickles on the floor and stomped to my bedroom. The first thing I spotted was the pillow on my bed. I picked it up and pulled one end as hard as I could, arms shaking from the effort or rage. The satisfying rip of the cotton made me shiver. The stuffing tumbled out, landing in piles at my feet. I was standing on a cloud.
A knock at the front door broke my trance. I blinked, then tossed what was left of the pillow back on my bed and ran to the door.
When was the last time someone besides me had been in this apartment? I’d had an Amazon package delivered six months ago. . . .
I swung open the door. Mrs. Stone stood in the hallway. How had she gotten into the building? I thought about closing my door in her face. Then again, a little human interaction with someone not affiliated with Gadget World would be all right. I might need her down the road.
“Hi, dear,” she said, scanning me up and down, like I might have a bomb strapped to my chest. I wondered what she saw. I hadn’t looked in a mirror today or showered. Why bother on my day off?
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” I asked, pasting a smile on my face.
“You haven’t been over in a while. I thought I’d visit. Can I come in?” Mrs. Stone gestured inside my apartment.
I opened the door wider and let her enter, taking her coat and draping it over a chair. She walked past me, eyes sweeping the living room. I didn’t know what she was searching for. This woman deserved a plaque for annoying people in record time—she couldn’t have been here more than thirty seconds.
“How’s work been?” she asked, moving onto the kitchen. She stopped short at the refrigerator. “What’s this?”
I remembered the pickles on the floor. “I was just cleaning those up,” I said, bending down to pick up the soggy vegetables. “Had a little accident.”
Mrs. Stone brought her hands to her face, a gross overreaction. “Oh, honey, are you all right?”
If I never heard that question again, it would be too soon. I was beginning to think there were worse things than loneliness—like unwanted company.