Only the last monster remained. The one he’d feared the most all along. The possibility that he would survive, but left damaged beyond repair. That he wouldn’t be able to take care of himself — or anyone else — afterward.
Writing gave him absolute control. If he wanted a character to be a closet alcoholic, he’d write her sitting in the stands at her son’s soccer game, nursing a Yeti full of hot chocolate and Maker’s Mark and chewing cinnamon Trident to cover her breath. If he wanted to give a young woman a reason for being alone, he’d have that soccer mom cross the centerline in her minivan on the way home and kill a handsome fiancé.
But he couldn’t write a bridge over this uncertainty, not one that could carry him safely into the future he wanted.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
OSCAR WOKE UPcrying. Meredith reached for him in the darkness, and as soon as she touched the simmering heat of his skin, she understood. Her baby hadn’t been fussy simply because she wasn’t at home. Oscar was sick.
A glance at the clock told her it was just after four in the morning.
“It’s okay, baby,” she whispered. “Let’s get you some medicine.” But before she could scoop him in her arms, Oscar whimpered, turned toward her, and threw up. On her. On himself. And on the bed.
“Oh boy,” Meredith muttered, cringing against the sickening splash. It ran down her chest and soaked into her shirt as Oscar’s cries turned to wails. “Jamie, wake up. Oscar’s sick.”
She flipped on the bedside lamp, and Jamie grunted in protest, but he didn’t move. Getting to her feet, Meredith surveyed the mess. “Jamie, you’re about to roll in puke. Please help me.”
“Fuck!” Jamie shot up just as Oscar gagged again, and Meredith bolted for the bathroom. She made as far as the tub before he was sick again. At least it wouldn’t require a mop, Meredith thought, closing the shower curtain and turning on the water. In her arms, Oscar began shivering, and Meredith hoped this meant the worst was over.
“It’s okay, Oscar. We’ll get you clean and warm.”
Jamie stomped into the hallway. “Are you going to clean that up?” He jabbed a finger back toward their bedroom and glared at her.
How? How did I ever find him attractive?
Reaching in and checking the water temperature, Meredith ignored him. The water was just right, and when she stood and moved toward the bathroom door, she saw Jamie take in the mess she and Oscar both wore.
He narrowed his eyes at her as though she’d planned it. As though she’d chosen to have their baby vomit all over himself and her. Meredith closed the door in Jamie’s face and turned the lock.
“Mom!” she heard him yell behind it.
“Seriously?” She knew he heard her. Leona and Big Jim might have even heard her. Meredith didn’t care. She peeled off her fouled T-shirt, tossed it in the sink, and got Oscar undressed. By the time they stepped into the shower, his shivers shook him almost violently. But he sighed in relief once she moved him under the warm stream, and Oscar slumped against her in her arms. She shampooed and rinsed his hair and soaped off his body. As fast as she could, one-handed, Meredith washed her own hair and got herself cleaned up. When they were both rinsed, she aimed the showerhead down and set Oscar on his feet.
“Stay in here where it’s warm until I can get you a towel.”
Oscar whined, looking exhausted, but he stayed on his feet, so Meredith twisted the water from her hair and stepped out. When she was dry and her hair and body wrapped in towels, Meredith shut off the shower and dried her baby.
She could hear voices.
“Hell if I know, Mom… asleep… woke up in puke… Ask Meredith.”
And then someone tried the bathroom knob. “Meredith? Is he all right?” This was Leona.
She ignored this, too, putting a fresh diaper on her son and wrapping Oscar’s towel tightly around him before moving to the medicine cabinet. First, she grabbed the baby Tylenol and then she found the thermometer. Sitting on the lid of the toilet, she carefully positioned a weakly protesting Oscar on her lap before slipping the reader into his ear. A few seconds later, the thermometer told her Oscar had a fever of 102.6.
“My poor baby,” she cooed. “I’m sorry you’re sick.”
Oscar just leaned against her chest. She reached for the bottle of Tylenol, filled the dropper, and brought it to his mouth.
“Swallow this, Oscar. It’ll help.”
Oscar whined again, but he didn’t fight as she gave him the medicine. He made a face when he swallowed, but his eyes were already half-lidded.
“Let’s get you into some clean pajamas and go back to sleep.”
Meredith opened the door to find Leona McCormick practically suctioned to it. “What’s wrong?” she asked, reaching for him.
“Let me get dressed,” Meredith said, veering away.
