Chapter 6 - The Call He Made From the Driveway
I don't remember him leaving the house that morning. I remember the elephant under my arm and the cold air when the front door opened. Grandpa told me the rest years later, and I've held onto it because that's when he stopped guessing and started making a plan.
He said the screen door creaked behind him the same way it had when he came in. He had the purple gift bag folded over his arm, and inside it, upright where it wouldn't tip, was the little cup with the white lid and the straw. The yellow-orange juice rocked when he stepped off the porch. He kept his hand steady around it.
The driveway was bright. Daylight bounced off his car roof and hurt his eyes for a second. He unlocked the passenger door first, not the driver's side. He set the bag down on the floor mat and wedged it with the old blanket he kept back there, so the cup would stay upright and cool away from the heater vent. He didn't want it spilling. He didn't want anyone asking what it was.
Then he got in the driver's seat and just sat there. His hands stayed on the wheel. My mom's house was quiet behind him. My bedroom window was cracked open over the light bedding. He told me he could picture me right there, blinking slow, holding what he'd brought me.
He pulled out his phone and his reading glasses. He had the pediatric nurse line saved from when my cousin was little, but he'd never called it for me. He dialed and put it on speaker, and listened to the hold music and the recorded voice about fevers and emergencies.
When the nurse picked up, he gave my age first. Seven. Then he said I was unusually drowsy on a morning visit, slow moving, slow blinking, hard to keep focused. He said I'd had some juice from a cup by the bed. He said I'd told him my mom put something in it to help me sleep.
He hated saying that part out loud. He told me his voice caught on it.
The nurse didn't panic, and that steadied him. She asked if I was awake now, if I could be woken up, if my breathing looked normal, if my lips were normal color, if I'd thrown up or taken any medicine he knew about. He answered what he could. Awake but groggy. Breathing looked okay to him. No vomit. No fever that he saw.
She told him what to watch for. If breathing got slow or shallow, if he couldn't wake me, if I slurred badly or stumbled, go to the ER and bring the cup. Otherwise, no more of that juice, keep me awake and watched, and get me to my pediatrician that same day for a check and a possible test. Don't try to make me throw up. Write down times and what he saw.
He repeated it back to her while he dug for the little notebook he kept in his tan jacket pocket. He wrote ER if breathing slow. Same-day pediatrician. No more juice. Bring cup. He underlined bring cup twice.
He asked if he should pour it out and wash the cup. She said no, keep it as it was, cool and upright, lid on. He said good, he'd already done that. For the first time that morning he felt like he'd done one thing right.
After he hung up, he didn't start the car. He called my pediatrician's office next. The front desk said the doctor had a full morning but a cancellation slot might open after lunch if he could bring me in quick. He said yes, he'd make it work, he'd call back with my mom. He didn't say why, just that I was extra sleepy and he was worried.
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Then he sat with the phone in his lap. He knew if he walked back in empty-handed, Mom would ask where he'd gone. He needed a reason to come back and stay. He decided on groceries. Milk and bread and chicken soup, the plain things a grandpa could bring without it looking like anything else. A cover, but also real food he could put in front of me.
He started the engine and backed out slow, checking the bag on the floor mat one more time to make sure the cup hadn't tipped. It hadn't.
