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She held up a hand, smiling tenderly. “It’s fine, Nat. I told you, there’s no rush.” She turned to Sophie. “I’ll see you soon, kiddo.”
“Goodbye, Aunt Jaida!” she yelled, smiling and giving her a hug. Then, once Jaida had nodded at me and slipped out the front door, Sophie redirected her attention to me. “Mommy, are you going to read me a story tonight?”
“Not tonight, sweetheart. I have…” I paused, considering my words carefully. I hadn’t been dating much since Sophie came into the picture, and even when I had, I was mindful of the language I used to introduce men, whose comings and goings I wouldn’t allow to affect her. “I have a meeting… with a friend,” I settled on finally.
“Is it a specialfriend?” she asked, and I panicked. I had introduced past men I had gone on dates with as “special friends.” Then I remembered she was only four and had probably not made any sort of connection that would alter the way she perceived her mother.
“Yes—a special friend,” I responded. I began tickling her all around, holding her in our embrace so she couldn’t escape.
“Mommy!” she yelled, as she giggled and flailed, and all the while I thought how grateful I was to have her.
“I love you, sweetheart.” I pulled the food container and a pile of napkins out of the plastic bag, placing them into her eager hands. “I’m going to get ready—if you eat on the couch, make sure you use the napkins, okay?”
“Yes, Mommy,” she said, giving me a kiss on the arm before running back to the couch, fish sticks in hand.
I went to the bedroom, where I pulled out my phone and checked the time: 5:45 p.m. My plans with Lucas were at eight, which meant that, assuming it took me a half-hour to get to our agreed-upon meeting spot, I had just under two hours to shower and get ready. I’d been thinking about what I was going to wear since I’d first run into Lucas again. In my imaginings I’d been dressed to the nines, most certainly not in my waitressing uniform, and now I was determined to pull together an outfit that would make him forget. He would see me and think I was elegant, and cosmopolitan, and had never worked a day in my life. I had the perfect black dress, with a pair of nice dress heels my mother had gifted me for my eighteenth birthday, before the business burned down, when money had been more abundant, and I was going to curl my hair and do a purple smoky-eye paired with a sensual red lip.
My phone buzzed, and the screen went black; the battery had died. I took it to my nightstand and plugged it into the charger, then headed to the bathroom. As I stepped into the shower I heard the microwave beep, and Sophie’s eager footsteps scurry across the apartment floor, and for a moment everything felt right. My daughter was happy, and so was I, for we had both crossed paths with something pleasant and joy-inducing; me with a dreamy millionaire, her with fish sticks. I laughed to myself, thinking of how easy happiness had come to me as a girl, when I thought all it took to achieve it was ice cream or cherry lip gloss or the occasional trip to the movies. How things changed! But then, was this really so different? Was Lucas not merely one of those things—albeit in a more attractive, more sophisticated package—which had, whether by mistake or by design, fallen right into my lap, when most I needed it?
As I began shampooing my hair there came a series of knocks on the bathroom door, hard and quick.
“Sophie?” I called out, but there was no response.
I turned off the shower and grabbed a towel, wrapping myself and hurrying to the door. I unlocked it and threw it open, and there was Sophie, her expression terrified.
“Mommy,” she said, “my throat feels funny.”
That was when I noticed a subtle rash was developing around her neck and along her left arm. Her breathing sounded labored. In a panic, I ran into the kitchen, where my worst fear was confirmed: Tartar sauce. Sophie had a severe mayonnaise allergy; the regular chef knew this, and so would always prepare the fish sticks and leave the sauce aside. But the regular chef was out of town for the weekend, and the sous-chef had taken over in the kitchen, and I must’ve forgotten to remind him of this, and of course he wouldn’t have known to ask.
“Dammit!” I yelled, as much frustrated at the sous-chef as at myself.
“Mommy!” Sophie yelled, although her throat had constricted somewhat, lending her voice a deeper, more sinister quality. She coughed, then winced, as though this action had brought her a great deal of pain. The rashes had tightened their hold on her and were now a deep crimson.
“Sweetie, I—I’m gonna take you to the hospital, okay? I just need to grab my phone.” I ran to my room, finding my phone precisely where I had left it, but when I tapped it, the screen remained dark. I tried the power button, but nothing. I looked down by the electrical outlet, only to discover the charger had been unplugged all along, and my phone was dead.
This can’t be happening…But I had no choice. Sophie was my priority, and she was depending on me. I would take her to the hospital, and they would stabilize her; Lucas would understand—he’d have to.
“Let’s go, sweetie,” I yelled, after I’d hastily slid on a sweater and jeans and grabbed some slip-on shoes, pulling them onto my feet as I made my way to the front door. I grabbed my keys and purse, then turned to see whether Sophie was coming, but she didn’t move.
“Sophie?”
She looked up at me, but by then her neck was fully red, as though she had been badly burned by the sun. “I can’t breathe, mommy,” she gasped.
Panic immediately set it, more acute than before, and without considering what I was doing I swooped her into my arms, grabbed her shoes (not even bothering to put them on her), and carried her out the door, stroking her hair all the while, whispering to her—and to myself— “Don’t worry, my sweet angel, don’t worry, everything’s gonna be alright.”
Luckily the hospital was only a ten-minute walk from our home, and the adrenaline all but ensured that Sophie weighed nothing. It was times like these I wished I had a car, but then again, here I was, fulfilling my role as mother, using only what I had, and something about that momentarily put me at ease. Then I remember who had forgotten to instruct the sous-chef not to put the sauce in the container and was again awash with guilt.
The journey slid by miraculously, the sense of urgency intensified by Sophie’s loud gasps and soft weeps. I turned on Van Nuys, and suddenly there was the hospital, the bright lamplight illuminating it as if it were a holy Mecca.I made it—we made it.
“Natalie? I didn’t know you were scheduled for tonight…” began the woman at the front desk.
“Gretchen, I need a doctor—immediately.” Then, my eyes flitted down to Sophie. “My daughter’s having an allergic reaction, and it’s bad.”
Gretchen’s eyes widened, and she immediately sat upright in her chair. “Got it.” Then spoke over the intercom. “Urgent, I need a doctor at reception—I repeat, urgent!”
A doctor appeared within seconds.
“Dr. Elyaszadeh, my—”
