Bringing Rosie Home

by Loree Lough

  “Uh-huh. Humor me,” she said, sliding it between his lips.

  “Yrre crrzy. Yrr knww thtt?” he mumbled around it.

  Crazy about you... “Shh. Don’t distract me. I’m timing this.”

  “Hww musssh lngrrr?”

  “Thirty seconds. If you stop talking.”

  Grant tapped his fingers on the table, keeping time with the kitchen clock’s second hand. “Okay, time’s up,” he said, handing her the thermometer.

  Rena held it up to the light. “102.6.” She looked at him. “You’re going to bed, right now.”

  Even Grant couldn’t argue with that number. He staggered up the stairs, and Rena followed. She threw back the quilt and fluffed his pillows.

  “Thanks, Rena.” He flopped onto the mattress, and as she covered him up, he grabbed her wrist. “What say we pick up where we left off?”

  “Are you kidding? You have a fever!”

  “Right. What was I thinking. I’m probably contagious.”

  “I never get sick. You know that. I’m not worried about catching what you have. It’s just that you need your rest.”

  “No.” He wrapped both arms around her. “I need you.”

  She tried to wriggle free, but he tightened his hold. “You’re delirious.”

  Rena waited for a well-timed joke, a pun...anything. Instead, he said, “How soon before I can take more ibuprofen? My head’s killing me.”

  “Yes, it’s too soon. But I can get you a cool cloth. And more water.”

  She raced around to gather what he needed, and when Rena got back, he was sound asleep.

  Or so she thought.

  “This is Joe Michaels’s fault,” Grant muttered. “We sat head to head going over his file day before yesterday, and he breathed germs on me the whole time. Said his boy brought some bug home from college.” He groaned again. Shivered, too. “The kid’s probably as sick as I am, or I’d charge him extra percentage points instead of the going rate on his investment portfolio.”

  “Stop talking and go to sleep.” Rena tucked the covers under his chin. “And FYI, if you still have a fever in the morning, we’re going to see Dr. Stewart.”

  Something unintelligible passed his lips.

  “I mean it. Go. To. Sleep.”

  “Mmm. Sleep. Love you, Rena.”

  She smoothed the blankets over his chest, letting her fingers linger there for a moment. “I love you, too, Grant.”

  His brow furrowed, even as he slept, and she blamed it on the headache. Rena gently refolded and pressed the damp washcloth to his forehead, and he exhaled a slow, relieved sigh.

  She sat in the overstuffed chair beside the bed and, wrapped in a puffy comforter, watched him sleep. Hours later, a crick in her neck woke her. He’d kicked off his covers and now lay in the fetal position, quaking as if resting on a block of ice. Tossing her blanket aside, Rena went to him. “Well no wonder you’re shaking like a leaf,” she whispered. “You’re drenched with sweat!”

  She couldn’t get him into dry pajamas or change the sheets without waking him. But his sleep wouldn’t be restful if he was that uncomfortable, and he needed to stay hydrated. And in a few more hours, another dose of ibuprofen.

  Rena nudged him awake. “I’m going to run a cool bath for you.”

  “No way. I’m already freezing!” he said, clutching at the covers.

  “All right then. We can try cool compresses on your face, neck, back and legs. And I need to take some of these covers away.”

  He moaned. “If I say I’m sorry, will you promise not to torture me with cold water?”

  “Sorry? For what?”

  “For everything. Stuff I said. Things I did.”

  “Ancient history,” she said. “Now try and get some sleep.”

  Rena turned the washcloth over, startled by how hot it felt. “I’ll be right back.”

  He grabbed her wrist. “You’re the best.”

  She bit back fear-induced tears and made up her mind to be cheerful for his sake. “I know.”

  “You’ll really be right back?”

  “I promise.”

  “And you’ll never leave me again?”

  “Never.”

  “Promise?”

  His normally strong baritone sounded thready and weak, and that concerned her.

  “Promise. Now go to sleep.”

  “I really am, you know.”

  “Am what?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Me, too,” Rena said.

  “You? For what?”

  “For not being able to figure out how to get you to go back to sleep.”

  A brief chuckle, then silence, followed by his soft, steady snores.

  * * *

  RENA WOKE TO the sound of raindrops pecking the window pane. It was still dark outside, so she levered herself up on one elbow to peer over Grant’s shoulder to check the time. 4:35. And fortunately, he seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

  Ever so lightly, she stroked his cheek, hoping to feel cool, whisker-stubbled skin. But it was clear his fever had spiked higher still.

  As she debated whether or not to wake him and get him to take more ibuprofen, the squeaky floorboard in the hall near Rosie’s room alerted her that her daughter was out of bed. Within seconds, the master bedroom door opened.

  “Mom? Are you awake?” she whispered.

  Rena moved back to the easy chair and patted the space beside her.

  “Is Dad still sick?”

  “’Fraid so. But he’ll be fine. I’ll make sure of it.”

  “Because you’re a nurse?”

  Because he has to be. “Something like that.” She pulled the coverlet over Rosie’s shoulders. “So what happened? Did you have another dream?”

  She cuddled close and nodded.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  She nodded. “I was thinking about the day my oth...when Barbara died.”

  “I’ll bet that was scary.”

  “After she fell, a nice lady came over and got onto her knees next to Barbara. She did that thing with her fingers that people do on TV shows, and touched Barbara’s neck. Then she called 911 and brought me to a bench. A bunch of people were standing around saying stuff like ‘Is she dead?’ and ‘What happened to that lady?’ But they were all talking so fast that I couldn’t understand anything else. I started to cry, and the nice lady said the ambulance would be there soon and I shouldn’t be scared.” Rosie hesitated. “But I was.”

  Rena pulled her closer, trying to imagine what that must have been like for Rosie, who’d had very little contact with anyone but Barbara for five years. “You’re a very brave, very strong little girl. I don’t know many grown-ups who could have dealt as well with a thing like that.” She hugged her tighter. “I’m so, so proud of you.”

  “I’m sorry I said that I’m glad she’s dead.” Leaning back, she peered into Rena’s face. “Would it hurt your feelings if I said I kinda miss her sometimes?”

  “Of course not, sweetie.” She kissed Rosie’s forehead. “You spent a lot of time with Barbara, counted on her for everything. She might not have been the perfect mother, but for a long time, she was the only mother you had. You wouldn’t be my sweet, big-hearted Rosie if you didn’t love her.”

  Kids, Danes had explained, often compartmentalized the traumas and tragedies in their lives. “Call it a survival tactic or a coping mechanism,” he’d said, “which allows them to feel their lives are normal.” Because she’d been so young when the abduction took place, Danes believed that Rosie had taught herself to concentrate on the good things about Barbara rather than her more unpleasant traits.

  “I’m so sorry, sweetie. So very sorry.”

  “Because Barbara is dead?”

  If it made her a bad person, so be it—in truth, Rena couldn’t
be happier about that! She couldn’t very well admit it to Rosie, though. “I’m sorry that she took you away from us, and I’m sorry she scared you with the story about the car wreck.” There were so many more reasons to be sorry, but Rena didn’t feel it was wise to share them with Rosie. Not now. Maybe not ever.

  Rosie sat, quiet and still for so long that Rena thought she might have dozed off.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course, sweetie. Anything.”

  “You didn’t leave the petting zoo, like Barbara said, and drive too fast and get in an accident?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Then...then where were you?”

  It was the question she’d dreaded. Rena’s answer could mean the difference between a Rosie who felt safe, and a Rosie who’d have trust issues for the rest of her life. If only Grant was feeling well enough to be a part of this conversation!

  “What do you remember about that day? The part before Barbara took you, I mean.”

  “I was petting the baby goats. Most of the other kids were, too, because they were so tiny and cute, and made funny noises.”

  “Do you remember Suzi?”

  “Who could forget her? She kept getting into trouble.”

  “And do you remember what Suzi was doing while you and the other kids were petting the goats?”

  “She wasn’t listening to the teacher. Or to you.” She paused. “Hey, wait...she almost climbed into the pen with that huge bull. And he was mean! But you scooped her up in time.”

  Rena had always wondered how much of that Rosie had seen. “Exactly. And that’s where I was—at the bull pen—and that’s what I was doing—getting Suzi out of there—when...when Barbara...when she took you.”

  She’d come right out and admitted that, even as a kidnapper prowled among the children, her attention had been on another child, not her own. Rena held her breath, waiting to hear her little girl’s reaction to the ugly fact.

  “I kinda think I know why she picked me.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was in Barbara’s room one time, looking through her jewelry box...”

  Rosie had always loved standing at Rena’s dresser, trying on bracelets and rings. She’d loved clomping around in high heels, too, and pretending to apply blush, using Rena’s makeup brushes...

  “I found a picture of a little girl. She had my same hair color. I asked who she was and Barbara got mad. She said it was her little girl, who died. Then she put the picture back and sent me to my room, and said if I ever touched her things again, I might get a spanking.”

  “I’m so sorry, sweetie. If I’d been watching you instead of Suzi...”

  She hadn’t meant to say that. Could have kicked herself for saying it! “Answer the questions Rosie asks,” Danes had warned, “and don’t press her for details. She’ll tell you what she needs to, when she needs to...”

  Grant began to stir and moan.

  “Let’s get you back to bed so I can put cool washcloths on Dad, to bring his fever down.”

  “It’s okay, Mom. I can tuck myself in. You take care of Dad. And I’m not mad anymore.”

  “Mad?”

  “You don’t have superpowers, so you couldn’t be in two places at once.”

  Rena had no idea how to react to that, and so she simply told the truth: “I love you, sweetie. Love you so much!”

  “You know what?”

  She was almost afraid to hear.

  “If Suzi had gotten into that pen, the bull could have stomped on her. And that would have been really, really awful, you know?”

  “Yes, it certainly would.”

  “You saved her life.”

  Maybe, but at what cost?

  “And I’m okay, so...so I guess things worked out for the best.”

  Was it possible that Rosie had actually come to such a conclusion all on her own? Rena leaned back to get a better look at her daughter’s face. “Are you sure you’re only nine?”

  “You guys talk too much,” Grant croaked out.

  How long had he been awake, and how much had he heard? Rena got up and, one knee on the mattress, reached out to feel his forehead. “Oh, my goodness. You’re burning up.”

  He tried to turn toward her but winced. “My neck is so stiff,” he said.

  If Rena had been worried before, now fear gripped her. She’d read an article in yesterday’s paper detailing a meningitis outbreak at several area universities. What if Grant’s client’s son had come down with meningitis instead of a nasty cold? Then infected his dad...who had passed it on to Grant?

  She faced Rosie once more. “I need to get you to Grandma’s so I can take this fella to the doctor’s.”

  “He’s gonna be okay, right?”

  Rena heard the fear in her little girl’s voice.

  “Soon as the doctor figures out what’s wrong with him, he’ll prescribe some medicine. And you and I will make sure he takes it!”

  “Oh, great,” Grant groaned. “Two women bossing me around.”

  Rosie giggled. “Da-a-d, I’m not a woman, yet!” She looked at Rena. “Want me to make him some toaster tarts to eat on the way to Dr. Stewart’s office?”

  “Cherry?” Grant asked.

  “I think they’re blueberry, Dad.”

  “With icing?”

  “And sprinkles.”

  “Perfect.”

  Rosie hurried down the hall as Rena made her way to Grant’s side of the bed.

  “Man. I’m dizzy. And I ache all over.”

  Could it simply be the flu?

  “Maybe all I need is a hot shower.”

  “Cool shower, you mean. Need any help getting there?”

  “Nah, I should be okay. And by the way, I only asked for the toaster tarts to keep her busy. Stop her from worrying. I’m not the least bit hungry, so you’re gonna hafta figure out what to do with them.”

  “Leave everything to me.”

  Grant staggered to the bathroom and turned on the water as Rena dialed the doctor’s cell phone. The family practitioner had entrusted her with the number shortly after Rosie was born—being a nurse had its perks. While waiting for him to pick up she pulled sweatpants and a sweatshirt from Grant’s dresser.

  When the doctor picked up, she quickly explained that Grant may have been exposed to meningitis. After listing his symptoms, she pleaded with Dr. Stewart to see Grant, as soon as possible.

  “Don’t take him to the ER. His immune system is down and Lord knows what he could pick up. Plus, he could spread it to everyone in the waiting room. Can’t say anything for sure until I get a look at him,” Stewart said, “but I’ll call the office as soon as we hang up, make sure we can get him in by nine.”

  Rena thanked him, then asked, “Can I give him more ibuprofen? He’s miserable.”

  “No, better wait until I see him. We don’t want the medication to alter the labs. We’ll need to run a few tests.” He paused. “But based on what you said, sounds like we’ll need to transfer him over to Howard General.”

  “I half expected that,” Rena admitted.

  “See you in a few hours. In the meantime, push fluids.”

  Rena thanked him and hung up, then went to check on Grant.

  “You all right in there?”

  When he didn’t answer, she slid open the door and found him shivering on the shower floor.

  Rena quickly turned off the water and grabbed every towel in sight.

  “Can you stand up?” she asked, draping them over his shoulders.

  He scrambled to his feet. “Aw, look. I got everything wet, including you.”

  “We have a linen closet full of towels.”

  She needed to get him onto his feet and into warm, dry clothes.

  “Okay, ready? Lean on me...”

  “Yo
u’re kidding, right? I’m a foot taller and outweigh you by sixty pounds.”

  “Which means you’ll have to help a little. Now come on. Lean on me.”

  After several faltering steps, Rena got him into the bedside chair and made quick work of getting him dressed. Despite the sweats, he continued to shiver. She grabbed a fleecy jacket and slid his arms into it. He was too weak, though, to be much help. Muscle weakness, she remembered from the article, was another symptom of meningitis.

  “Is the light bothering your eyes?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact, it is.”

  “Fingers tingling?”

  Grant flexed both hands. “A little.” He frowned. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure.” But she was. “I’m going to call Dr. Stewart, have him meet us at the Howard General. You can’t wait until nine o’clock.”

  “No way. All I need is sleep, like you said before.”

  “Grant, we’re going to the hospital. Period. Now, you stay put while I call the doctor. And your mother. Got it?”

  He sent her a crooked little smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Chapter Twenty

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, armed with the knowledge that Rosie was safe with Tina and the doctor would meet them at the ER, Rena turned on the car’s emergency flashers and drove twenty miles over the speed limit.

  And Grant, the classic backseat driver, didn’t even notice.

  Parking at the hospital’s entrance, she raced inside and grabbed the first wheelchair in sight.

  “Get in,” she said, opening the passenger door.

  He climbed out. “I can walk in there under my own steam, Rena.”

  Grant had no sooner completed the sentence than he had to grab the car’s roof for support.

  “Get in,” she said again. And this time, he complied.

  “It’s meningitis, isn’t it.”

  “Could be. But Dr. Stewart said he needs to run some tests to be sure.”

  She rolled him toward the registration desk as he said, “I really am gonna double-bill that jerk, Michaels.”

  “Let’s get you checked in first, okay?” She faced the counter and told the woman behind it, “Dr. Stewart told us to meet him here... Grant VanMeter?”

  The woman checked her log. “Yes, the doctor is on his way.” She buzzed for an intern, who took Grant into an exam cubicle. “You can join him,” the clerk said, “just as soon as you’ve filled out these forms.”