by Jody Kaye
Holly forces a weak smile. “I wish this wasn’t happening to you.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ve got a little more bad news, though. My neighbor three doors down is moving to India for a year. He leased his apartment to Cece on Monday and she moves in early next month.”
It’s like a shot in the solar plexus, but I’d wanted a clean break, didn’t I? I chug down the last of my beer and Laurel offloads a second into my paw. Her expression matches the one Holly had a moment ago. The whiny old forty-five lyrics about breaking it to me gently gets stuck on repeat between my ears as I realize why Laurel had gone inside.
I clink the bottle’s neck to the one Laurel’s opened for herself. “Bring your tongs next time. We’ll barbecue at Renata’s.” Cause I won’t be back here again until Cece is gone.
Sylvie clings to my neck as I carry her up the squeaky wooden staircase at the factory. In the living area, I set her down on one of the comfy couches, leaving the sack of Celine’s shit hidden behind it.
“You’ll be fine here.” I pull my cell out of my pocket. Unlocking it, I touch the folder with age-appropriate apps.
“Kay, Daddy.” Clearing her throat, my daughter hugs a stuffed snowman she’s been using as a pillow most of today and places the phone on a sofa cushion. She’s disinterested in the streaming preschool show I chose to keep her distracted while I take care of business.
Sylvie came down with a runny nose overnight. I kept her home from school and gave her medicine when all the snuffing led to a headache. She hasn’t wanted to eat or drink much, but that’s every kindergartener, right?
Holly’s on tonight and where Sylvie’s not feeling well anyhow, I don’t want to drop her with Laurel and pass anything along. At least if she encounters any adults, they’re more apt to soap up. I would be, anyway.
We’ve got to meet Renata’s plane after this and I need to be able to tell my mother-in-law I’m looking for a new job without her offering unsolicited advice on ditching my old one. For as open as my relationship with Renata is, she’s unaware of what goes behind the scenes here. I need to wash my hands of the mill now. I’ve already tempted fate. The last thing I want to explain to Renata is how fast everything in Boone went down the drain.
Carver and everyone else have been blowing up my phone all week. I ignored the texts and voice messages until someone put Sloan into the mix. Only then did I respond with a simple on vacation. Until I’d made my decision and agreed to meet, there wasn’t anything to say.
“Be back. In there, if you need me.” I toss a thumb toward Carver’s suite.
Her chin wrinkles, but doesn’t tremble. I reassure her she’s my brave girl, that this won’t take more than ten minutes tops, and watch as she rests her eyes the way she had on the trek through Brighton to get here.
I rap on the door to Carver’s suite and leave it cracked when he has me enter. I’ve done a bunch of repairs in the private space. While his living room has an expanse of windows, it’s decorated warmer, cozy and informal in opposition to the stark white of the common area I’ve left my daughter in. However, today the number of people here gives the impression I’m meeting the fucking inquisition when stepping inside. The three main stakeholders sit on a plush couch like a tribunal.
Trig silently nods at me. He and Jake flank either side of Carver. Morgan’s holding up the far wall with one leg tented and the opposite foot pressed against the brick. His arms are crossed.
“This is stupid,” I mutter, tossing the keyring that allows me access to everything here and at Sweet Caroline’s on a side table.
“Listen, Dusty, we’re truly sorry about what happened,” Carver speaks.
“Great. Thanks. I quit.”
“You can’t fucking quit on me!” Jake’s the first to get defensive and I love how he’s made it about himself. So much so, it’s no problem forming the words to call him an asshole.
“Celine took responsibility. There’s no need to turn in your notice.” Carver pretends to be the voice of reason.
“He came into my house with a gun,” I state firmly, pointing at Morgan.
“I didn’t know!” he interrupts. Carver glares at Morgan as if his presence was only allowed on the condition he was seen and not heard.
I peg him with a hard glare. “My kid could have been there. Wh-at then, Morgan? You were so goddamn amped up believing I was holding your sister against her will. What if Cece wasn’t even there? What if you pulled a gun on my daughter? What if you shot first and asked questions later?”
“I’m sorry. Everything—my past—it got the best of me. I was worried about Cece the way I worry about Aidy.”
“You’re not the only man in this room with demons. Not the only one trying to keep anyone safe.”
“You gotta trust me,” he pleads.
“Why? Where did all the trust you had in me evapo-rate to?” Mine in Morgan flew out the door when he barged in, entitled. This is the same friend who asked me to safeguard his sister. How had his request for me to walk Celine home one night turned into this line of suspicion?
“If the two of you had told us sooner,” Carver interjects, steepling his hands. “And I’m not saying adults aren’t entitled to privacy. It was a huge misunderstanding. We can get past it.”
“Not in-terested.”
“Stay on at the club. I’ll give you a raise,” Jake blurts.
“Fuck off.” I turn my back on the four.
The men I’ve broken ties with squawk like goddamn chickens as I step out of Carver’s apartment. I’d been upfront the first time Carver handed out a “Christmas Bonus” I wasn’t interested in delving into their underworld. I’m not one of Carver’s flunkies. I don’t take orders from Trig the way Morgan does. My job around here was to fix things.
My appreciation for Carver’s help ended when Morgan busted the lock on my cabin door. How the hell am I supposed to have faith in them that things won’t get worse if they haven’t any in me?
When it comes down to it, I’ve earned a fair wage being at their beck and call. Everything I’ve done has been on the up and up. They don’t need me to snake a drain when there’s someone a lot more qualified to do it cheaper. And there’s no reason to worry I’ll rat them out to the cops. There are too many good women who’d get hurt.
My only desire is washing my hands of it all. The mill is one less complication in my already complicated life.
The door snicks closed behind me, muffling the noise the cocksuckers are making. I swear those pricks are yelling as much at one another as they are for me to come back. “No” isn’t an answer they’re keen on hearing, but my attention lands on a bigger problem.
Sylvie’s stretched out on the couch and Cece is sitting on the middle cushion talking in a hushed tone to her. I’m about to stomp over, snatch up my child, and head for the hills when I watch Cece’s palm cover Sylvie’s forehead. An expression halfway between anguish and resignation crosses my daughter’s face.
“You’re warm, Sylvie Rhys. You said you have a headache?”
“All day.” My little girl clears her throat again. It hasn’t been constant, but has happened enough now I’m noticing.
“What about a tickle in your throat? Is it scratchy?”
Sylvie swallows with the same hesitancy as she does eating Brussel sprouts.
“Daddy’s giving me more medicine before we get Grandma.” She turns her head toward me like the children’s dose of acetaminophen I’m set to give her with dinner will make all her worries go away.
Mine? They’ve skyrocketed. And not because this is my first time seeing Celine since she bolted from Boone.
Cece faces me.
“Your stuff’s over there.” I point behind the couch, my tone and mannerisms gruff.
“Can I talk to your daddy for a minute, Sylvie Rhys?”
“Uh, huh,” she mumbles with no fight.
Celine approaches me like I’m a viper. My jaw ticks and my muscles tense. I word vomit a sentence or two about how Sylvie’s b
een under the weather today, repeating I’ve dropped off Cece’s stuff. She doesn’t pay any heed to her bags, asking about my child.
“When did her symptoms start?”
“This morning. Listen, we’re going to be late to get Renata.” We’re not. Done here, there’s zero reasons to stay.
“What’s she been taking?”
I shake my head, indulging her medical curiosity more because I’m not interested in causing a scene with Sylvie as a witness. “Rotating acetaminophen and ibuprofen.” The way Renata taught me to.
“And her last dose was a few hours ago?”
“Yes.” I blow out a breath, not happy with the interrogation.
“Dusty, she’s really warm. I bet if I ran to get a thermometer it’s over a hundred degrees. Uncontrolled by the fever reducers you’re using, that makes me concerned.”
We both look over and Sylvie shivers. I notice a slight sheen of sweat at her temple.
“I know we’re not on the best of terms, but would you mind—”
I scoff, interrupting.
“For everyone’s sake, I’d feel better assessing what’s wrong with Sylvie, but I won’t overstep. I don’t want you to leave without knowing if what she has might be more.”
“What do you think it is?” Arms crossed, I’m stoic.
“I mean, it could be as simple as a bug she picked up at school. But, for some kids, strep presents with a high fever that’s not easily brought down to normal with over-the-counter meds. She’d need antibiotics.”
I’m ready to tell Cece “whatever”. I’ll get Sylvie an appointment at the pediatrician’s tomorrow. My daughter can see the doctor and he’ll take care of it. I don’t want Celine Wescott treating my kid out of some sense of guilt. I’d have rather not seen her again at all. But she also works at the pediatric office Sylvie goes to, and with my luck, we’ll wind up running into her all over again, ruining another day.
Sylvie sneezes, coughs, and croaks. When she looks over at me with watery eyes like she’s certain I can cure anything that ails her, it changes my mind and I agree to let Celine examine her.
She’s got to go get a thermometer. By the time she’s returning, the other guys are filtering out of Carver’s apartment. I scowl for them to keep their opinions to themselves while waiting on the instrument’s final verdict.
Jake bolts. Morgan stays put, protective of his sister and ramping up my desire to throat punch the bastard. As if he and I haven’t had words not ten minutes ago. Trig’s telling some story about Owen’s last big cold to fill the silence.
Cece frowns, looking at the digital readout when the thermometer beeps. “One hundred and two point six. How high was it with her first dose this morning?”
“One-o-one.”
“Has it gotten back to normal?”
“Close. Once.”
Cece pulls a tongue depressor from her blouse pocket. “Can you open up for me, Sylvie?”
My daughter obliges and they wince in unison. Celine makes Morgan go get Sylvie a drink from the kitchen.
“Water?”
“Ginger ale, if Dad is okay with soda. Her throat is extremely raw, Dusty. I’m suggesting you take her for a rapid strep tonight at the children’s emergency room.”
I allow Morgan to get Sylvie the sweeter drink so she’s not swallowing shards of glass. She needs fluids and I’m dancing the single-dad fine line. I promised Renata we’d be at the airport and Sylvie needs to go to the doctor.
“I’ll pick up Renata.” Cece offers when I hedge, unable to take her immediate suggestion. Morgan and Trig offer to bail me out too, but I firmly decline. The barrel I’m over sucks and Celine’s the lesser of the evils. At least Renata and she have met. The redness seeping from Celine’s collar also means she’s not interested in rehashing what went wrong between us with my mother-in-law.
I whip off a text for Renata to find when she lands and boots her cell, and write down the flight info for Celine.
The out-of-body experience trying to coordinate madness while things are going wrong has my head pounding on the way to the ER. It adds to the parental guilt over missing the signs and underestimating how sick my daughter is. With a migraine coming on, I can’t imagine how Sylvie’s felt all day.
Buckled into her booster, Sylvie tells me her belly hurts and things go from bad to worse. Taking glances in the rearview, I reassure her we’ll be at the hospital soon. The silver lining is she doesn’t puke in the truck. Ghost white with a green tinge, a nurse behind the partition in reception takes one look at Sylvie and makes me the responsible party for a pink plastic bedpan. We’re ushered to a room before I’ve got her insurance card back in my wallet.
And then someone’s pressed the pause button again and we wait, stuck in a little four by four windowless cage. Eventually, a nurse comes in to get Sylvie’s vitals, a doctor who orders tests, and the same nurse swabs Sylvie’s throat and nose.
My daughter chokes and cries and becomes the shyest I’ve seen her when she’s offered some water. She shakes her head no to the nurse and buries her face in my chest, falling asleep.
My cramped arm’s about to do the same as the door cracks again.
“Gawd, Dust.” Renata covers her mouth as she whispers as not to wake Sylvie. “Your text had me so worried. I couldn’t get here fast enough.” She looks at me as if she understands how hard it was for me to send Cece as her ride.
I’m glad she’s gone home. I didn’t feel like seeing her at the factory building, and I don’t have the time to humor whatever sorry explanation I’ll get if she stayed.
As soon as we have the test results, I’m bringing Renata and Sylvie home. The doctor comes back, putting a monkey wrench in my plan.
My body wants to bolt up and past him, marching out of the hospital. He holds up two hands and I adjust my immense frame in the minuscule chair.
“She’s got strep, but Sylvie’s also testing positive for the Flu. Has she had her flu shot?”
“She always does. Her other grandmother has cancer and we want our visits with her to be as safe as possible. Not spreading germs and stuff.” Renata speaks for me.
“Interesting. It’s not unheard of to get the vaccine and still get influenza. The two combined are concerning. Not hugely, but Sylvie’s also dehydrated. I’d like to keep her overnight for observation. Not being alarmist or intending to worry you, but it’s a lot for her system to fight off, and I don’t want to see it turn into pneumonia.”
I appreciate the doctor’s overabundance of caution, even though my pulse ratcheted, worrying over those percentages my child could get worse.
Sylvie’s got a room and she hardly let out a peep when they put the IV in. My heart’s breaking, feeling like the worst dad ever. How did this come on so fast, and how did I miss the signs?
Renata’s sitting in a reclining hospital chair that doubles as a bed for caregivers. I hate being used to seeing her like this. She stayed in the same style chair for weeks after the car accident as I healed. I know she loves my daughter, but Renata literally got off the plane from her vacation and is back to taking care of us. It’s unfair, she had retirement by the balls a few years ago.
I watch her eyes drift shut and spring wide open. “Oh, crap!” She sits up. Her shoes squeak on the tiles.
“What happened?”
“My bag!”
“Did you leave it in the car?”
“No, I left it with Celine. In the lobby.”
“That was two hours ago!”
“Time flies when you’re old, Dust. I lost track.” She yawns, resigned to the long day.
“I’ll go get it,” I grunt, not wanting to do it at all.
“Make sure you thank her.”
When I’m out in the hall on my way to the elevator bank, I take off the face mask printed with a clown smile on the front the nurse on this floor had given me.
Pitch black refracts everyone’s movements in the windows of the lobby. Cece’s dozing the way Renata was trying to do upstairs
. She has her head propped in one hand. The other hand rests on the handle, protecting Renata’s suitcase.
“You could have called.” I startle her.
“I, uh, I haven’t replaced—My cell is still in—There was no point to bringing it. It’s dead.”
She’s worse than I am stammering through the explanation and I have no patience for it. Celine proved she was more concerned about the way our relationship looked to outsiders, how I look to them, to grant her any pity.
“Renata says thanks. You can go.” I lift the handle of the bag, rolling it behind me.
Once again, the way I had been when I left Carver’s office earlier today, I’m sure it’s the last time I’ll have to deal with the mill or Celine Wescott and her apologies.
But you know what they say about best-laid plans.
I’m sitting on Sylvie’s bed, helping her peel off a shimmery mermaid from a page in a princess sticker book I got for her in the gift shop. I’ve only been here for a few minutes and Renata’s been chatting me up about my day.
Sylvie looks loads better than she had at the mill. Her IV is out, and she’s “pwomised”—oh, my goodness did that turn my insides gooey the way it had when she’d talked to her dad when we first met?—to drink all of her juice. She has even made an impressive dent in her supper.
I’ve also learned the doctor-on-call has decided Sylvie’s staying one more night before she’s discharged. It’s loads more than I’d known since leaving here last night, which was a whole lot of nothing. Her dad hadn’t even bothered to mention Sylvie was admitted. How’s that for a “fuck you very much” when I’d volunteered to go to the airport and stuck around with Renata’s stuff for a few hours.
There’s an awareness with Dusty that I have what’s coming to me. But it’s also hard not to feel hurt that I’d had to resort to having Gloria at the pediatric office do some sleuthing to find out how Sylvie was fairing today.
“She didn’t turn the corner until after lunch,” There’s a courtesy in the way Renata speaks to me about her granddaughter. I’m not sure why I expect it now from Dusty other than he’s always struck me as a better man than he’s acted the past twenty-four hours.