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“I don’t feel good.”
I know that tone, know what the color of Roxie’s skin means.
The wrong side of pale but with bright pink cheeks.
Fever and?—
I toss the blankets back, swing my legs out of bed, feet hitting the carpet a bare second later.
But it’s still too late.
Roxie’s little body tenses?—
And then she pukes all over the floor.
I rush over to her, ignoring her when she tries to apologize, when she starts to cry, swooping her up into my arms, holding her close as we race into the bathroom, hurry toward the toilet.
I plunk her down onto the rug in front of it, reach for her hair and hold it back as she continues to retch.
“I’m—” Cough. “Sorry?—”
“Shh, baby,” I tell her, stroking a hand up and down her back. “Don’t worry about it. Just get everything out, honey.” I place a hand over her forehead, feel that her skin is blazing hot.
Damn.
Not food poisoning then.
Likely a stomach flu.
Which means that I’m probably going to get the stomach flu.
And maybe Diane too.
Great.
I’ll have to text her a warning in a bit, advise that she take a bath in hand sanitizer.
Kids.
Fun times.
The little germ machines.
“My tummy hurts, Mommy,” she whispers when she finally stops puking, and my heart squeezes tightly at the use of Mommy. I’ve been straight Mom for a while now and had mourned the loss of my baby growing up.
That she’s using it now?
My soul can’t take it.
But I have to.
“What kind of stomachache do you have?” I ask. “The kind that your food isn’t agreeing with you? Or that you need to sit on the toilet?”
“Uh-uh.”
I open my mouth to ask her which question that uh-uh answered, but I don’t get the chance.
Because she’s puking again, heaving until nothing is coming up, and then shivering in my arms when I cuddle her close.
