Carlee wanted to cry but knew it would only give her a headache. And that she didn’t need, because it didn’t look as though she was going to get any sleep tonight, either. Scotty had more or less drifted off, but every so often she could hear him fretting, making little thin, whimpering sounds. He was probably coming down with a cold—he seemed to have a stuffy nose. That could mean a trip to the doctor and a prescription. Plus, she’d be stretched thin till payday in order to pay the sitter. And what if a day-care center wanted some kind of deposit or registration fee? How could she take time off work to get Scotty to the doctor, anyway? It all seemed so hopeless.
Drowning in a pit of despair, she couldn’t help but think of Scotty’s father—whoever and wherever he was. If he had worked at Cape Canaveral, he undoubtedly made a good salary and could afford to help. But Alicia had been so stubborn she never once gave a hint about his identity, saying only that he was drop-dead gorgeous, and during the short time they’d been together, she’d fallen deeply in love.
“So he went back to his wifey-poo,” Carlee said aloud in a voice thick with disgust. “Probably to a cozy house with a minivan and an SUV in the driveway, without a care in the world. A real selfish bastard—like all men.”
Then she chided herself for being so judgmental. After all, he didn’t know about Scotty. If he did, he might be willing to help with his support.
Carlee’s eyes started burning, so she pushed the bills aside and went to bed. She was going to have to get up early to feed and dress Scotty. She would take him to the doctor if necessary even if it meant being late to work. As for class tomorrow night, well, maybe she could take him with her, and the instructor would understand. Finally Carlee drifted off to sleep.
The sound came from far, far away, and Carlee fought against it, wanting to sleep on and dream of happier times, like the trips to Indialantic Beach she and Alicia used to take; they’d been planning one the day Alicia died. There, seawater pooled among the coquina rock, making ideal spots for Scotty to sit and splash. They loved it there and…
It was a frightening sound, a thin, pitiful crowing. She sat up in bed and looked about wildly, trying to gather her wits. Turning on the bedside lamp, she was jolted by terror to see it was Scotty making the noises, his little arms flailing in the air as he fought for air. He was choking!
She grabbed him up, pounded on his back and then realized there was nothing stuck in his throat, and still he struggled to breathe.
Frantic, she raced to the phone and dialed 911, then paced about, fighting hysteria as she held Scotty and waited for the blessed sound of the ambulance’s siren. It seemed like hours, but finally the paramedics arrived.
Never had she felt so helpless. They started him on oxygen, then loaded him into the ambulance, telling her to climb in with them. An IV line was started in his wrist, and she listened fearfully as she heard one of the paramedics radio into the emergency room that Scotty was in severe respiratory distress with a heart rate of 160.
“Please, tell me,” she begged. “What’s wrong with him?”
The man answered, “We won’t know till we get him to the ER, ma’am. We’re doing everything we can.”
She watched as medications were injected into the IV line, and she wept to see how tiny and helpless Scotty looked, plastic tubes in his arms, an oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth. When the paramedics had arrived at her apartment, Scotty’s face had been turning blue, but now a little color was returning, and her fear subsided, slightly.
At last they reached the hospital where a team was waiting to wheel Scotty into the trauma room. Carlee tried to follow, but she was told she had to remain outside. When she realized he was being taken into the same room his mother had died in only three days earlier, her knees buckled. Someone helped her to a chair, and when she was able, they took her to fill out the requisite admission forms.
When she was asked to give Scotty’s last name, she felt a rush of panic. She didn’t know what to write. How had Alicia listed him on his birth certificate? Had she named the father or used her own name—Malden? Carlee had never asked—never had reason to. Then she decided it didn’t matter. Not right now, anyway. So she used her own surname and wrote Scotty Denton, and, on the line for parents, listed herself as mother and unknown for father.
The woman in the admissions office didn’t bat an eye over that, but when she learned Carlee did not have insurance, she told her she would have to make a deposit.
Carlee only had the twenty-five dollars in her purse that she had planned on paying the baby-sitter.
The woman shook her head. “We need at least five hundred.”
Carlee wrote a check and tried not to think about using most of the money she had left in the bank. The rest would barely cover the bank’s service charge, and payday was not for another week.
Hurrying back to the ER, she took up her vigil once more. Finally a man wearing green scrubs, paper slippers over his shoes and a stethoscope looped around his neck came out of the trauma room. “I’m Dr. Vance. Your son is going to be fine.”
Carlee bolted to her feet and burst into tears of relief. “Oh, thank God. Thank God…”
“He has croup, but we’ve got it under control. His heart rate is down to 120 and respiration to forty-eight. Those are good vital signs. He’s also awake and alert and taking a bottle without wheezing.”
“Croup.” She mouthed the word. It was familiar, but she could not recall what it meant.
“It’s a viral infection of the upper and lower breathing tract. It can come on suddenly, without warning, most often at night, and sometimes it’s triggered by exposure to cold air.”
Carlee blanched. Cold air. It had been damp and cold at the cemetery. She had not wanted to take him, but wanted to be able to tell him one day that he had gone to his mother’s funeral. “It’s my fault,” she whispered, overcome with guilt. “I had him outside today. I shouldn’t have.”
Dr. Vance was quick to assure her, “Now, now. I said triggered, not caused. He already had the virus, only you didn’t know it. There was no way you could have. So don’t blame yourself. I deal with croup several times a night. It’s one of the few diseases I can think of that can give the impression a child is going to die. Unfortunately some do, but you acted quickly and did the right thing in calling an ambulance, and now the danger is over. We’re going to admit him overnight for observation, though, and keep giving him humidified oxygen and epinephrine every four hours as needed. By morning, I expect all the symptoms to be completely gone. We’ll send him home with a prescription for prednisone and keep him on that for the next four days.
“You’ll have a copy of his records,” he continued, “so you can take them to his regular pediatrician. He’s going to need a follow-up in about a week to make sure he’s doing okay. I suggest you keep him inside, in bed if you can, till he’s completely over this. Being weak, he doesn’t need to be exposed to other children who might have another kind of infection. Just keep a close eye on him.”
“I’ll watch him every minute, believe me,” she promised.
The door to the trauma room opened, and a nurse came out pushing Scotty in a rolling cradle. Carlee thanked the doctor and fell into step beside the nurse.
The woman smiled. “He’s so cute. And such a good baby, too. You can stay with him in the pediatric unit if you like. They have recliners for parents.”
Carlee wasn’t about to leave Scotty’s side. They’d have to drag her out of the hospital if they tried to make her. And she didn’t care about recliners.