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Fevers and chills.
Damn.
“You think you’re done, baby?”
A teeth-chattering nod.
I scoop her up again, carry her to my bed, and tuck her under the blankets. “I’ll be right back, baby girl,” I murmur, brushing her sweaty bangs off her forehead.
Fatigue clings to my limbs as I hurry back into the bathroom, wet a cloth, snag a trash can, then hurry over to her and drape it over her blazing skin, strategically positioning the garbage pail to catch anything that might come up while I’m cleaning up.
I know I need to get something in her to help with the fever, but it’s too soon, I think, for her to keep anything down. So instead, I grab the carpet spray and some paper towels, start scrubbing at the spot on the floor.
Holding back my gags at the smell and trying not to get anything on my hands as I scrub accompanies my next five minutes, but eventually the carpet is clean—or as clean as it will be. I set the spray on the shelf, get rid of the dirty paper towels, and?—
Hear it as I walk back into the bedroom door.
More retching.
“Shit,” I whisper, hurrying over to Rox, placing my hand on her forehead, feeling that she’s even hotter than she was ten minutes before.
I grab the thermometer, manage to get a temperature, and?—
Freeze.
One-oh-five.
“Dammit,” I whisper.
But I can’t get the Tylenol, can’t hurry to the bathroom and run the cloth under cool water again.
Because she starts puking.
And the temperature I retake when she stops hasn’t gone down.
“It hurts, Mommy,” she says, clutching her tummy, tears rolling down her cheeks. “It really, really hurts.”
Panic eats at the back of my throat, my heart is thudding hard against my rib cage, my hands shake and I feel more than a little sick myself.
Because I don’t know what’s wrong.
I just know that something is wrong.
“Hang on, baby,” I murmur. “Just hang on.”
I grab clothes and yank them on, shove my feet into shoes, tie back my hair and snag a jacket, a phone charger, and my cell. Then I’m down the hall, rushing into Roxie’s room, grabbing her unicorn tote, shoving a blanket inside, along with socks and clothes and shoes.
“Breathe, Brit,” I whisper, spinning in a circle, looking around, trying to think of something else my baby might need.
My gaze lands on a well-worn stuffed tabby cat, one eye missing, the fur matted and clearly on the wrong side of loved.
Battered and stitched together.
But Rox still loves Mr. Fluffernut.
I snag him, shove him in as well, and then haul ass back down to the bedroom, back to my baby. “Come on, love,” I murmur.
She groans as I lift her.
