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“I’m sorry, baby.”
“Bella,” she croaks in a barely audible voice.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
When I finally manage to free the top, I pause with the garment in mid-air. Sophie’s torso is covered in small, red spots. I quickly check her arms and legs. The same rash covers most of her body. I take a better look at her face. The red blotchiness of her skin conceals the spots, but on closer inspection, I discover more spots on her hairline and on the sides of her neck.
Measles.
I recognize the signs. I had measles when I was ten. The doctor who came out on a house call told my mom there was nothing to do but give me paracetamol for the fever and to make sure I got plenty of rest.
“Poor baby,” I say, brushing away the hair that’s stuck to her sweaty forehead.
She’s so small and frail it’s not difficult to lift her into my arms. I carry her to the bath and carefully lower her into the lukewarm water. Supporting her head in one hand, I use the other to wet a facecloth and run it over her hot cheeks. This is the most water I’ve put in her bath. The fact that she doesn’t resist or express her fear shows how ill she must be feeling.
When the water cools, I lift her out and wrap her up in a towel. After drying her, I carry her back to the bed and dress her in a light cotton T-shirt and underwear.
I manage to make her swallow paracetamol with a little water. Getting down beside her on the bed, I stroke her arm while she falls back into a fitful sleep. Remembering that Mom kept my room dark, I don’t open the curtains.
The paracetamol helps, but as soon as the medicine is worked out, her temperature flares again. Fabien, Angelo’s personal shopper, had the foresight to supply a medicine kit with a few basic first-aid items like band-aids and disinfectant. Sadly, there’s no thermometer.
I alternate between placing cool, wet cloths on Sophie’s forehead and giving her paracetamol at six-hour intervals. She sips a little water, but refuses the soup I try to feed her. As the hours drag on, my resentment toward my husband builds. This is why I need a phone. What if Sophie doesn’t get better and needs a doctor? The helplessness only adds to my anger.
The days pass slowly, my anxiety making it impossible to eat. The only reason I gobble down a sandwich at mealtimes is because my body needs the energy. Not wanting to stay away from Sophie for longer than necessary, I just grab the bread, bananas, and peanut butter and make the sandwich right there in her room. I let the dishes and the washing pile up, not even taking the time to load the dishwasher. At night, I sleep in the armchair next to Sophie’s bed. I’m too frantic she’ll go into a convulsion from the high fever. The tepid baths and paracetamol help for a short while before her fever spikes again.
On the third day, she seems a little better. Her eyes are less glassy, and the color on her cheeks is more normal.
“Bella,” she says in a voice that sounds clearer than it has in days. “I’m hungry.”
The relief is so great I almost cry. Not wanting to make a fuss in front of her, I pat her hand. “What would you like to eat?”
“Soup. With bread and butter.” She adds quickly, “Please.”
“Coming right up.” I get to my feet. “You stay in bed. I’ll bring a tray.”
“Am I very sick?”
I manage a tremulous smile. “You have measles.”
“Measles,” she says slowly, testing the word. “Is it bad?”
“It’s not serious if you take good care of yourself and get plenty of rest.”
She stares at me with big eyes. “Am I going to die?”
“What?” I take her hand. “No, sweetheart. You’re going to be fine.”
She bites her lip.
“I had measles when I was a little older than you,” I offer.
She tilts her head. “Really?”
“I had the same symptoms that you’re having now, but I was better after a few days.”
Seemingly put at ease, the tightness of her small body eases. “Okay.”
I squeeze her hand before letting go. “You haven’t been sick much, have you?”
