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Elder would know what to do. He’s always calm when Robin’s crying her eyes out. He sings to her and she hangs on to his every word. I need to call Elder.
“Hello,” he mumbles when he picks up the phone.
“Were you sleeping?” I check the clock. Crap. It’s three in the morning. Of course, he was sleeping. Normal people who don’t have babies who won’t stop crying are asleep at three a.m. “Never mind.”
“What is it, Harmony?” he asks before I can hang up. “Are you okay? Is Robin okay?”
“I think she has a fever.”
“Touch her forehead. Is she warm?”
“I can’t tell.”
“Are her cheeks flushed?”
“Of course, her cheeks are flushed. She’s been crying for four hours straight.”
“I’m on my way.”
“You don’t need to—” He hangs up before I can finish telling him he doesn’t need to come over. Before I can lie and tell him we’ll be fine.
“WAAAAAHHHH!”
I cuddle Robin in my arms as I resume pacing the living room. When I notice the lights for Elder’s truck shine in the window, I sprint out the front door toward the truck.
“Let’s go,” I order Elder when I open the passenger door.
“Whoa. Hold on. Mom says we should check Robin’s temperature first.”
“Your mom says? Well, okay then, as long as your mom says it,” I snarl.
“My mom raised five sons and was a teacher.”
I inhale a deep breath. It’s possible I’m acting irrationally. “Okay. How do I test her temperature?”
Elder lifts up a bag. “I’ve got supplies.”
Robin hears his voice and reaches out her arms for him. Elder doesn’t hesitate before hauling her near.
“I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, baby girl,” he whispers to her as he rubs his nose up and down hers. “But don’t you worry. Mommy and I will get you all fixed up.”
“I’m not Robin’s mommy,” I say.
Elder marches toward the house. “Help Robin now. Argue over descriptors later.”
Damn. He’s right. I rush in front of him to open the door. The dogs bark and scamper down the hall to greet us. I think they’re as worried about Robin as I am.
“There’s a thermometer in the bag,” Elder nods toward the bag I grabbed from him.
I dump the contents on the kitchen table. When I spot the thermometer, I snatch it and rip the packaging open.
“How do we do this? I’m not putting a thermometer up Robin’s butt,” I insist.
“Mom says we can do it in her armpit.”
I blow out a breath. “Oh. Okay.”
I follow Elder to the nursery where he lays Robin down on her changing table. He removes her shirt and checks her armpit is dry before motioning for the thermometer. He places it in her armpit and holds her elbow against her chest. Robin cries in response.
