“Vincent?” Her voice was low and raspy, and wincing, she tried to cough.
“Shhhh.” I brushed a lock of hair from her face. “You’re burning up, baby. I think you’ve got a fever.”
She blinked. “I’m sick, Vincent. I feel really, seriously horrible.”
“Oh, baby, I know you do.” I glanced down her body. She was wearing yoga pants and a threadbare tank top. I was enough of a perv that I didn’t miss how awesome her boobs looked even now, when the rest of her looked like death warmed over, as my nonna often said.
“Let’s get you into something clean and comfortable, okay?” I snaked one hand under her neck and the other beneath her knees and then stood, cradling Amanda against my chest.
“The pants hurt my stomach. And I threw up so much. My throat hurts and I think I smell bad.”
“I figured you’d be happier with just a big T-shirt or something.” Laying her carefully on the bed, I turned to the huge oak dresser and began opening drawers.
“Second on the left,” Amanda mumbled. “There’s a drawer full of nightgowns. I’ll wear one of those.”
When I found the drawer she was talking about, I gaped down into it. Amanda hadn’t been kidding when she’d said it was full of nighties; there were piles of them, each folded neatly, unworn, with the tags still attached.
“My grandma in England.” She sounded groggy. “Every year, she sends one for Christmas. They’re some kind of specialty cotton, I guess. I don’t wear them, though. Usually I like to just sleep ... you know. Tees and stuff.”
“Yeah, but I think you’re right. One of these will be perfect for now.” I shook one of them out. “It won’t hit your stomach, and it’ll keep you cool. We need to bring that temp down, and I’m not sure you can handle ibuprofen with the nausea.” I bent to take hold of the hem of her tank. “Arms up.”
“Is this a cheap way to get a look at my boobs?” A brief flash of humor danced through her eyes.
“If that was the case, it would make me a sad, desperate man, honey. Besides, I don’t have to be desperate. You let me see your pretty tits whenever I ask.”
“True.” She was quiet as I dropped the fine white cotton over her head and helped her pull her arms through. I knelt in front of her and rolled off the yoga pants. Balling up both the shirt and pants, I took them into the bathroom and tossed both into her laundry hamper.
“Now you lie down.” I lifted her legs up onto the mattress and tucked the sheet over them. “I’m going to get you something to drink and grab the thermometer so we can see how high that temp is.”
“I don’t have a thermometer.”
“I brought one. Lay still. I’ll be right back.”
When I returned to the living room, Frankie was standing by the window, staring out. “It’s a really long way down there, Uncle Vince.”
“It is, so don’t fall through the window, or Nonna will kill me.” I hoisted the grocery bags. “Come on in the kitchen with me. We’re going to get this chicken soup started, and you can watch it while I take Amanda some ginger ale.”
“Okay.” She followed me into the kitchen, and we began working together in companionable silence. Most kids her age would’ve been a mess in the kitchen, but Frankie knew what she was doing. While I unwrapped the chicken and washed it off, she scrubbed a couple of carrots and snapped them into pieces and then peeled an onion and chopped it into chunks.
“How come we brought your knives? Why can’t we just use Amanda’s?” Her forehead creased into a frown as she snapped off several stalks of celery.
I snorted. “Amanda doesn’t own knives, sport. She doesn’t cook.”
If I’d just told my niece that Amanda had wings and could fly around the globe, she couldn’t have looked more shocked. In Frankie’s experience, everyone cooked. It didn’t matter if you were a man or a woman or what age you were—everyone in our family, everyone we knew, cooked.
“She’s just different than us, sport. She was brought up in a different place, and her mom has an important job. So they ate out a lot.”
“Huh.” Once again, Frankie sounded suspiciously like her namesake, my mom.
I filled the stock pot with water, watching it cascade over the chicken, and set it on the stove top. “Toss those veggies in there, and some salt and pepper, too. I’ll be right back.”
Armed with a tall glass and the brand-new thermometer I’d picked up on our way here, I returned to the bedroom. Amanda hadn’t moved, but she opened her eyes as I approached the bed.
“Thanks. I’m so thirsty.” She raised her hand to take the glass, but I held it out of reach.
“First we take your temperature. If you drink this cold ginger ale, the thermometer won’t give us an accurate reading.”
She sighed. “Fine.” Opening her mouth wide, she stuck out her tongue, and I slid the thermometer beneath it.
