Magic Sometimes Happens

by Margaret James

  ‘We can get pizza, Dad?’ Joe frowned, confused. ‘Mommy said no pizza.’

  ‘I’m not Mommy.’

  ‘We can have four seasons?’

  ‘Yeah, Joe, sure we can – or even five.’

  ‘Dad, you’re so dumb, there’s only four.’ Joe managed a wan smile. ‘The Terminator’s doing great,’ he added. ‘You took good care of him.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘we’re buddies, me and the little guy.’

  ‘Pizza, Daddy?’ Polly said, reminding me.

  ‘Okay, let’s hit the road.’

  After pizza, ice cream floats and fries, we picked up a bunch of movies. Then we headed back to the apartment in the trash-mobile.

  We watched Toy Story, Cinderella, Shrek. I told the kids a story, gave them supper – Lex-approved this time. I got them into their pyjamas and then put them to bed.

  When I woke on Saturday, I found them piled on top of me like puppies, lying in a grunting, snorting heap. I shoved them off of me. Then we had a pillow fight and then I fixed some breakfast. I decided we would have a super-duper day, as Rosie Denham – why couldn’t I stop thinking about Rosie, I already told myself to quit – would maybe put it?

  ‘What do you guys want to do?’ I asked them, making with the democratic process but reserving my own right of veto in case they wanted to go play with lions or travel into outer space.

  ‘Be a fairy, Daddy,’ Polly told me.

  ‘She means she wants to wear her wings,’ said Joe disgustedly. ‘They’re in her Barbie backpack.’

  As I pinned Polly’s bright pink glittery wings on to her bright pink sweatshirt, Joe started snickering. ‘Poll, now you’re a fat pink bug,’ he said. ‘Poll, you look like—’

  ‘Joe, shut up. What do you want to be?’

  ‘A superhero, Dad.’

  So I fixed a Rambo-style bandanna round his head, but drew the line at face paint, which in my opinion makes little kids look weird.

  Then we went out to find some action.

  We went to a play park, manned a fort. But then it started raining, so we went to three museums, which were pretty cool, since you ask, not like the museums I remembered from when I was a kid. There was stuff to ride on, slide on, hide in, levers to be pulled, bubbles to blow, buttons to press.

  We got chicken fingers in a downtown fast food outlet. We drank sodas, milkshakes, we ate fries. Then we ran the calories off in Minnehaha Park.

  Joe climbed on stuff and jumped on stuff and threw himself off stuff and generally acted like a tough guy. The fairy didn’t join in these activities. She sat on my lap and chewed my shirt cuff, like I guess fairies do.

  On Sunday it was cold and cloudy, reminding me that winter would soon be on its way. But it wasn’t winter yet – hell, we were barely into fall.

  ‘What do you want to wear, you kids?’ I asked when we had eaten breakfast.

  Joe of course picked out his usual Angry Birds apparel. But Polly wasn’t into wings today. She chose a short-sleeved tee, pink jeans and jacket with little guys like robins, sparrows, bluebirds appliquéd – I think that’s the word – around the neck and cuffs. The cuffs themselves were fraying where she’d sucked and chewed on them.

  Then we went to the Minnesota Zoo, where both kids had a ball and I did too, I must admit. Why didn’t we come here before? We saw the tiger cubs. We checked out all the big brown bears on Russia’s Grizzly Coast. We followed foxes round the Northern Trail. We said hey to the beavers and raccoons.

  Then we stopped off at a TGI to get more chicken fingers and more fries and chocolate shakes. Joe ate everything, slurped down his shake and asked for more. But Polly didn’t seem to want to eat more than a couple fries and half a chicken finger. She didn’t touch her shake.

  ‘Polly, are you done?’ I asked.

  ‘Daddy, sore.’ She had been fidgeting awhile and now she started fussing with her jacket. Sore – maybe she meant she was overheating?

  ‘Come here, baby.’ Polly climbed on to my lap, her thumb wedged in her mouth. ‘You want to take your jacket off?’ I added when she started pulling at the buttons.

  She nodded and went right on sucking. So I eased her jacket off. I saw she had a rash all round her neck and down her arms. When did this flare up? It hadn’t been there when I dressed her in the morning, I was sure of it.

  Joe checked out his sister’s spots and poked them, making Polly cry.

  ‘You cut that out,’ I told him.

  ‘But we need to make a diagnosis, Dad.’

  ‘So what’s your diagnosis?’

  ‘We should take her to the hospital. Daddy, Polly’s sick. When little kids get sick, they sometimes die.’

  ‘Polly isn’t going to die,’ I said.

  ‘Dad, a rash like Polly’s could be a real emergency. Our kindergarten teacher told us. Mrs Daley said that if we ever get a rash, we need to tell our parents right away because it could be serious. Dad, we should go to the hospital.’

  Maybe Joe was right? I wasn’t seriously worried – yet – but Polly was still crying and the rash around her neck was red and sore and angry.

  What to do, call 911, ask for an EMT?

  Maybe not, I thought. I don’t want to look like Mr Crazy Panicker.

  But if Joe was right, if Poll was sick …

  So we left the TGI, drove right on over to the children’s hospital, passing near where Lexie’s friend had his real house with its real yard on Saint Paul’s Grand Avenue. I wondered if – since we were in the neighbourhood – we might have time to vandalise the yard.

  Maybe later, I decided, after Polly was fixed up.

  I made a total screw-up of getting Polly’s stroller organised so she could sit in it. I couldn’t make sense of the clips and catches. I was scared that when she climbed on board the thing would fall apart.

  Who in hell had engineered it, some wise guy from NASA with a grudge against the human race? But I had to sort the stroller. Polly fussed and grizzled when I picked her up as if she was in pain and, as Joe pointed out a dozen times, she was too sick to walk.

  We crossed the parking lot and went into the hospital, were clerked and told to wait. Joe was fascinated by the doctors in their scrubs and clogs, and by the kids with bandages, on crutches or in plaster or with patches on their eyes.

  So somebody was happy.

  But Polly cried and cried. A candy striper stopped and talked to us, assured us we’d be seen as soon as possible, and did I want to get myself a coffee?

  ‘No, thank you,’ I replied. I wouldn’t mind a pair of jeans, I didn’t add. My own were soaked where Poll had wet on me. I hadn’t changed her diaper in a while and it was leaking now.

  ‘Hey, Dad – check out that poster!’ Joe was gazing round the place, intrigued by all the artwork on the walls, most of it designed to make you feel much sicker than you did before. ‘Men-gin-itis, that’s what Polly has – look, you can see the rash!’

  I checked out the poster. Bacterial meningitis – a killer of young children – if you notice any of these symptoms …

  I didn’t know what I should do. Polly had a rash. She was hot and sticky. She might have a temperature. She fussed and fussed and fussed. I thought of going to the desk and making a big scene, shouting that my baby here was dying but no one seemed to care.

  As I was considering my options, a nurse came up to us. ‘Hi, guys,’ she began. ‘I’m Sandy Pearson, I work in Paediatrics.’

  ‘I’m Joe, and this is Polly,’ said my son. ‘Polly here’s real sick.’

  ‘We’ll soon fix Polly,’ Sandy said. Then she took us to a doctor’s office, white clogs slap-slapping on the rubber floor.

  ‘Hey, hey, little lady – there’s no need for all this fuss!’ The tired-looking resident – well, I guess he had to be a doctor, even though he looked about fourteen – smiled reassuringly.

  What did he know?

  The nurse helped Polly squirm out of her jacket and her tee. Then the doctor looked at Polly’s rash. He took her temper
ature. He checked her pulse and listened to her heart. He looked into her ears and down her throat.

  Joe was almost literally fizzing with excitement, like a soda bottle that’s been all shook up.

  ‘What’s Polly done today?’ the doctor asked us.

  ‘We took her to the zoo,’ said Joe. ‘We saw the tiger cubs and bears and foxes. She liked the foxes best.’

  ‘Did you introduce her to the monkeys?’

  ‘No,’ Joe told him, puzzled. ‘Why would we do that?’

  ‘The monkeys are our cousins. It’s good to visit with our families from time to time. Swing by and say hello, how are you doing?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess,’ conceded Joe. ‘When’s Polly going to die?’

  ‘Oh, not for years and years,’ the doctor said. ‘I’m guessing Polly here will live to be a hundred.’

  ‘Yeah?’ said Joe incredulously. ‘I thought she was dying. The gerbil in our homeroom died. It had a rash as well.’

  ‘No kidding, little buddy. That jacket, is it made of wool?’ the doctor asked me, pointing to it.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I guess there’ll be a tag?’

  I checked the tag and it said wool.

  ‘Okay,’ said the doctor. ‘Polly doesn’t like wool next her skin. I’ll let you have some cream. Apply it four times daily and the rash should soon clear up.’

  ‘She won’t need any other meds? No painkillers? You don’t need to run some blood work to be sure it’s just an allergy?’

  ‘No blood work,’ said the doctor wearily. ‘No other meds. You guys remember no wool next the skin and Polly here is going to be fine.’

  ‘We got it, Doc,’ Joe told him, man to man.

  The doctor gave him a high five.

  I got a prescription and was told to take it to the pharmacy.

  As we were walking down the corridor, the candy striper happened by again and asked Joe if he’d like a juice or popsicle? Joe beamed at her and said he surely would and thank you, ma’am. She beamed right back at him and took his hand. I could see her thinking, a kid with good, old-fashioned manners, someone’s raising children right today. Then she said if I would like, she’d take him to the hospital canteen and meet us there. She also told me where to find the pharmacy, like I was dumb or something and couldn’t read the signs.

  As I was waiting in the pharmacy, the nurse we’d seen came in. She nodded hi and then went through a door into an office. But she left the door ajar.

  ‘That’s the guy through there?’ asked someone else.

  ‘Yeah, that’s him,’ the nurse replied and I could hear the giggle in her voice. ‘A case of weekend father syndrome, he was panicking because his baby had a little rash.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Just an allergy. He’d dressed the kid in a wool jacket and she had a lanoline reaction.’

  ‘He should have known, the klutz. No wool next to the skin on babies, it’s an irritant.’

  ‘Quiet down, Mary-Lou, he’ll hear you.’

  ‘Well, perhaps he ought to hear me? Guys like that, they say they’re fathers, but they never change a diaper, never read a tag. They never use their brains.’

  ‘Their brains live in their shorts and they—’

  I didn’t hear the rest because they realised they hadn’t shut the door and now they closed it, snickering.

  ‘Mr Riley?’ said the pharmacist. ‘Okay, this is a moisturising cream. It’s very light and you can use it any time. Just smooth it on your daughter’s skin, don’t rub, and soon …’

  She rattled on like I was stupid and had never seen a tube of cream in my whole life. I took the stuff and headed out the pharmacy with Polly and her discharge papers, feeling like a fool.

  ‘Dad, is Polly going to die?’ asked Joe as I strapped them both into the backseat of the trash-mobile then offered them some bran-rich cookies from a store of sugar, salt and allergen-free snacks that Lex kept on the dash.

  ‘No,’ I told him. ‘Polly won’t be dying yet awhile. You heard that doctor, didn’t you? She’s going to live at least a hundred years.’

  Joe looked so disappointed. I thought he would cry. But the little guy was tired. He’d had a busy day. He’d been to the zoo and to the children’s hospital. He’d seen tigers, foxes, doctors, nurses, candy stripers, kids with plasters on their wrists and ankles, kids with pirate patches, just like on TV. He’d have lots to say to Mrs Daley on Monday, wouldn’t he?

  Oh, and to tell his mother, too.

  ‘Mommy, Mommy, we went to the hospital! Polly nearly died!’

  ‘What?’ Lexie stared at me in horror. ‘Pat, whatever happened? Did you let her fall, eat something bad?’

  ‘She had an allergy.’ I shrugged. ‘But I didn’t know it at the time. I thought it needed checking out.’

  ‘You took her to the children’s hospital?’

  ‘Yeah, we went to the ER and Joe thought he had died and gone to heaven.’

  ‘Please don’t talk about my children dying. Pat, you should have called the doctor’s office. There’s a weekend number in the binder. You say she had an allergy. What caused it?’

  ‘It was a wool reaction.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Lexie and did her best school-principal-from-hell impression – folded arms and mouth set in an angry, disapproving line. ‘She wore her robin jacket, is that right?’

  ‘Yeah, but she—’

  ‘Patrick, you should know – no wool next to the skin, particularly in the case of little ones and babies.’

  ‘So why do you dress the kid in wool?’

  ‘When she wears that little coat, she also wears a tee with a high neck and sleeves that come down to her wrists. If you ever noticed what your children wore, you would have noticed that.’

  ‘Why don’t you put it in the garbage and buy her a new jacket made of cotton or whatever?’

  ‘Your mother sent it on her birthday.’ Lexie sighed. ‘I never would have bought it. The stupid thing’s hand wash, and that’s a drag. But Polly really loves it. She loves the birds on it. They all got names. She sucks the cuffs as well – that’s why they’re fraying.’

  Yeah, I thought, it figured. It was the sort of jacket Mom would buy. She loves to get new clothes for Polly, real expensive stuff she can’t afford, perhaps because I had a little sister who died of scarlet fever before I came along.

  ‘Good weekend?’ I asked to change the subject and hoping Mr Wonderful had fallen off a bridge and drowned to death. Or somehow got himself burned up in a precisely-targeted incendiary attack.

  ‘Yeah, it was great.’ At the thought of Mr Wonderful – or so I guessed – Lex became all bright and glowing, and I wondered if I’d ever made my wife light up? I never checked.

  ‘What did you do?’ I asked.

  ‘I told you, one of Stephen’s friends got married. Come on, kids, it’s late and you got school and stuff tomorrow. You should be in bed.’

  As Lexie hurried them toward the door, Joe turned to glance at me. ‘Thank you for the weekend, Dad,’ he said. ‘I had the best time ever.’

  ‘Why was that, then?’ I was curious to know what I got right and to hear him talk about it while his mother listened.

  ‘Come on, guys,’ repeated Lexie. ‘Stephen’s waiting.’

  Let him wait, I thought. I hunkered down so that my eyes were level with my son’s. ‘What did you like best about the weekend, little buddy?’

  ‘The zoo was awesome, we got fries and shakes, and you took us to the hospital.’

  ‘You bought them fries?’ snapped Lexie, adding this new crime and misdemeanour to the charge sheet for, according to the Gospel of St Lexie, fries were the Great Satan.

  ‘You’ll take care of The Terminator, Dad?’ said Joe as Lexie zipped his hoodie.

  ‘Yeah, sure I will,’ I promised. ‘I’ll see you kids tomorrow after school. We’ll bake up cupcakes.’

  ‘I get to put the frosting on?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Joe a
nd Polly, do I have to tell you for the third time?’ Lexie glared at me. ‘You’re doing this on purpose, Patrick, trying to alienate my children. My attorney warned me about devious guys like you.’

  She pushed them out the door.

  I fed The Terminator, shot the breeze with him awhile. But I have to tell you now that hamsters aren’t the greatest when it comes to conversation.

  I took a shower and grabbed a beer, lay on the couch and watched some trash TV, missing my kids, my cotton-candy-scented baby, my little tough guy Joe.

  I missed Rosie, too – and missing Rosie made me hurt like I had never hurt before. If hearts and minds can truly ache, mine did that Sunday night.

  ROSIE

  I got so excited.

  I did my hair and did my nails and gave myself a special lime-and-mango facial that was guaranteed to make me glow. By Friday lunchtime, I was more than glowing. I was almost radioactive with anticipation.

  But Patrick didn’t come. On Friday evening, there were just the three of us for dinner, which we had at home – a takeout pizza, coleslaw, garlic bread – because there was a game on television Ben wanted to see.

  Okay, perhaps on Friday Pat was tired? But surely he’d turn up on Saturday, if only to see Ben? I wasn’t going to ask. I wasn’t going to say his name out loud because I knew I’d colour up. Tess was sure to notice and she would laugh and tease me.

  But I’m sorry, this was not a laughing matter.

  On Saturday I said I had a headache when Ben suggested he and Tess and I should go and check out something scenic, a waterfall or lake or something wet, I didn’t catch its name. So he and Tess went out while I stayed home, because for some ridiculous reason I was certain Pat would call me.

  I was wrong, of course. I mean, good heavens, psychic – me? I’m just about as psychic as a box of jelly doughnuts.

  ‘What’s the matter, Rosie?’ Ben enquired when he and Tess came home again with their usual clutch of carrier bags – more clothes for Tess, gadgets for him. ‘Your colour’s very high. Perhaps you have a temperature? I said we ought to get that foot checked out.’

  ‘She’s wearing make-up, stupid.’ Tess looked hard at me. ‘You going somewhere, are you?’