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Log Cabin
Aspen, Colorado
CONNOR COBALT
“I don’t feel well, Daddy,” Jane whispers so softly I just barely catch the words. Sitting on the edge of her twin bed, I pull a stitched quilt to her neck, a thermometer in my left hand. She’s warm but no fever. I wipe her runny nose with a tissue, fatigue weighing down her eyelids.
I kiss her forehead. “Je sais, mon cœur.” I know, my heart.
She’s not the only one sick on this trip.
Lo had a cold since yesterday on the private plane to Colorado. He quarantined himself in the back cabin, but the illness still seemed to spread to Jane and Daisy.
Last night, Lo deliriously and mistakenly texted me. I was sitting across from him in the living room of our rented log cabin. Bundled in blankets and empty tissues boxes, he made what Lily called a “sick nest” for no one to near.
Didn’t mean to get you sick on your 23rd. Who has worse luck: you, me, or my brother? – Lo
His text was meant for Daisy. We all took off work this week to celebrate her birthday. We don’t always go somewhere around February 20th, but this was a good month for us to leave work behind.
I replied to Lo: I don’t believe in luck, darling.
He didn’t even realize that I texted him. His phone slid from his hand, thudding to the floorboards, and he fell into a weak, tired sleep.
Jane shivers beneath her covers. I stroke her damp hair, and while cold medicine combats her symptoms, I try to ease her to sleep with history about Eleanor Roosevelt, her namesake. If I leave out a detail, she usually points out that I skipped a part, and she’ll argue until I retell the history from the beginning again.
Rose said that Jane reminds her of me.
I said that Jane reminds me of her.
Rose and I determined that we’re alike in many ways, and so it’s no surprise that our children will be too. Lily then interjected, “You’re the same nerd stars you’ve always been.”
I watch Jane try to shut her eyes, but she forces them open as I reach the 1920s in Eleanor’s history. She loves this section because of how animated and passionate Rose becomes when relaying the 19th Amendment and how Eleanor joined the League of Women Voters. Rose paints women as the superheroes they are, and she bolsters this truth until our daughter believes she is one too.
No matter how much Rose and I are the same, we’re also drastically different. And I can never replace Rose in Jane’s heart.
I skip one detail to see if she’s listening.
Jane misses this, eyes glazed and staring at the quilt that’s not hers. We’re in a place that she sees as strange and foreign. This isn’t the first time she’s been sick, but it’s the first time she’s cognizant of the illness, of what it means to be sick. So for Jane, this feels like the true first time.
Tearfully, she says, “I want Mommy.”
I lift Jane out of the bed and hold her in my arms. She cries softly against my chest. Her tears. Her illness. It’s all temporary. It will eventually end, and no matter how much I think it, this misery she experiences for the first time in her life overcomes me.
I don’t stand up. I can’t bring her to Rose. I’ve already told her why. Rose is six-months pregnant and can’t risk catching a fever. Through these circumstances, Jane lost the option to be comforted by her mother, and this frightens her, maybe even more than being sick.
Rose is always there for Jane. For everyone.
I brush Jane’s tears with my thumb, her arms around my neck. For any adult, I’d be able to supply what they need, but children have wishes that drift into fantasy.
She sniffs and mutters, “Can…can you make my nose stop?”
I wipe her nose with another tissue.
“Pour toujours?” Forever?
My lips rise for a short moment. “You’ll feel better when you close your eyes and sleep. Would you like me to stay for a while longer?”
Jane nods repeatedly, rubbing her eyes. “Please, Daddy.” She coughs a little, but not as much as she did during the evening.
I tuck her back into bed, her PJs mismatched Cheetah print pants and pink plaid top. And I whisper close to her ear, “I love you.”
She mumbles quietly an I love you too and then tries to shut her eyes. I stay seated on the edge of her bed, my hand on her arm. The darkened room is decorated in cabin décor, mostly fish-patterned items like a rug, a lamp, even the knobs on a dresser are shaped like trout.
Thirty minutes in this room and the second twin bed has been empty the entire time. Quilt rumpled to the bottom. I notice the warm glow of light beneath the bathroom door, but no sound has come from there.
Daisy is sharing a room with my daughter, so Jane wouldn’t be scared alone and so Daisy wouldn’t pass the cold onto Sullivan.
I don’t jump to irrational conclusions.
Most likely, Daisy is awake and downstairs. It’s around 5:00 a.m.—and I can’t always discern whether or not my sister-in-law sleeps more than she used to. I don’t live with her anymore, and Frederick is too moral to offer information about her therapy sessions.
As much as I care about Daisy’s health, I have no real reason to pry. No advantages. Nothing at stake. So I haven’t in a while.
Jane has finally shut her eyes, soft breaths through her parted lips, so I quietly stand. She never stirs or wakes.
I pull my navy shirt off my head, soaked in tears and mucus, and I walk to the bathroom. I plan to wash my hands before I return to Rose.
Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
Cell notifications.
Then my phone starts buzzing with texts.
Wonderful. Anytime there’s a sudden onslaught of messages, I’m not being presented with good news. I type in my passcode and then graze over the email notifications from my publicist, a Cobalt Inc. board member, and investors.
Naomi Ando 5:04 a.m.
How would you like me to respond…
Steve Balm 5:04 a.m.
Ridiculous. I’m contacting the company lawyers…
Kent O’Neill 5:05 a.m.
Hi Mr. Cobalt,
How will this (link below) affect future investmen…
My brows slightly furrow in intrigue, not panic. I rest my arm on the bathroom door and click into a tweet:
@Lalipop2476: Connor Cobalt’s hot-as-fuck father *heart eyes* #wefoundhim
I don’t want to waste time thinking about Jim Elson. I send a quick reply to Naomi and then click into several texts my wife sent me from the room next door.
How is she? – Rose
Is she sleeping? If she needs another blanket, I have one here for her. Does she need anything more? – Rose
If you’re deleting my texts, you’ll be making a bed for yourself on the floor, Richard. – Rose
I begin to grin, but then I see the next text has no relation to our daughter.
Twitter has lost its mind. – Rose
I take her word for it and pocket my phone.
I push into the bathroom. I expect to see nothing out of the ordinary, but I didn’t factor in a variable: the most likely outcome isn’t always the outcome that happens.
Daisy is collapsed next to the toilet, cheek on the tiles, blonde hair splayed over her eyes, dressed in yellow cotton shorts and a long-sleeve top.
Quickly and as soundlessly as possible, I rush to Daisy’s side and crouch over her while taking out my phone. I do what I would want Ryke to do if Rose were in this situation.
I dial his number.
“Daisy,” I say gently. I put my hand to her forehead, my phone to my ear. She’s much hotter than Jane, and I roll her onto her back. I smell vomit in the toilet, and just as I put my fingers to her neck, her eyelids flutter open. Like she’s waking from a sleep.
“Connor?” She yawns and then cringes, probably at the taste in her mouth.
Ryke answers on the fourth ring. “What?” He’s not as groggy as most people would be.
“Don’t yell or stomp
around,” I say, hearing the squeak of his bed as he stands up, “but Daisy is sick in the bathroom—” He hangs up on me.
I know he’s on his way because I know him, but he could’ve at least used his words.
Ryke acts the exact opposite of how I would most of the time, and convincing him to follow my logic is like telling a wolf to sleep in a lion’s den.
There’s no point in trying anymore. He does what he does. He is who he is. And I’ve grown to like him best that way.
“I can help you stand,” I tell Daisy as she recollects her location. Her skin is pale and clammy.
“I fell asleep,” she says with another yawn. “I got sick, and I just conked out. I didn’t faint or anything.” She tries to pick herself up, hanging onto the toilet seat.
I assist her, my hand on her waist.
“You probably shouldn’t touch me,” she says softly and slowly. “I accidentally… I think I gave Rose strep throat when I was seven…you should’ve seen her…” She blinks and blinks. “Rose…she acted like she’d been damned with the bubonic plague. And she’s pregnant now…” Daisy weakly attempts to push me away.
She looks like she’s patting a couch cushion instead of swatting me.
