Chapter 3: The Pediatrician Call
I could feel him through the dress. The heat coming off his little body soaked right through the white texture and into my chest where I held him. He wasn't wailing anymore, just this thin, tired whimper every time he breathed out. His forehead was damp against my collarbone.
Diane hadn't moved from the doorway. She watched me shift him higher on my shoulder and her mouth pressed into a thinner line.
"He's warm because you've got him swaddled in that," she said. Her voice stayed even, controlled. "That outfit is too heavy for this house. You're over-wrapping him, Maya."
Ethan stood between us at the island, his hands still clasped. He looked at me, then at her, then back at the baby.
"He's been like this since four this morning," I said. My voice was hoarse and I hated how it sounded. "He wouldn't eat. That's not over-wrapping."
Diane tilted her head just enough. "Newborns run warm. You call a doctor for every little thing and they'll have you in an office waiting room full of germs. That's what makes them sick."
I didn't answer her. I adjusted the baby with one arm and pulled my phone out of the pocket of my dress with the other. My hand was shaking a little.
"I have the number," I said quietly. I put it on speaker and set it on the white marble.
The ring tone filled the kitchen. One, two. Diane's eyes flicked to the phone and her jaw tightened. Ethan took a half step closer to the island like he wanted to turn it off and didn't know how.
The front desk picked up. "Mercy Pediatrics, this is Carla, how can I help you?"
I swallowed. "Hi, this is Maya Miller. My son is ten days old and he has a fever. I took it rectally, it was a hundred point six about twenty minutes ago. He's really fussy and not feeding well."
"One hundred point six rectally for a ten-day-old?" Carla's tone changed instantly, sharper. "Is he with you now?"
"Yes, I'm holding him."
"And you're at home? Any trouble breathing, blue color, rash?"
"No. Just hot and... just not himself. He's whimpering."
I felt Ethan staring at me. Diane's arms were now crossed over her burgundy dress, her fingers digging into the fabric at her elbows.
Carla said, "For any fever over a hundred point four rectally under twenty-eight days, we need to see him today. Same day. Can you bring him to the clinic within the hour? We'll get you straight to a room. Don't give anything at home. Bring what he needs and come now, okay?"
The words came out of the small speaker loud and clear against the cream cabinets.
Diane let out a short breath through her nose. "A hundred point six," she repeated, like she was checking the math. She looked at Ethan. "That's barely over. My doctor, Dr. Felton, has seen all our family since you were a boy, Ethan. He would tell you to let the baby rest, keep him cool. You don't rush a newborn into a clinic to sit with sick children."
She said it calmly, reasonably, as if Carla hadn't just said come now.
Carla was still on the line. "Mama, are you still there? We have a eleven-thirty you can have."
"Yes," I said. "Yes, we'll be there."
I ended the call. My thumb hovered over the screen a second longer than it needed to.
Diane stepped forward one pace, out of the doorway but not all the way into the kitchen. Her expression had gone completely still, that stern look from earlier hardening around her eyes.
"You don't need to cause a scene over this," she said to me, then turned it to Ethan. "Call Felton. He'll tell you the same thing. Why put Maya and the baby through that drive and that waiting room when he just needs to be unwrapped and left to sleep?"
Ethan's hands unclasped. He rubbed the back of his neck. I saw his throat work when he swallowed.
"He said a hundred point four is the line," he said, quiet. He wasn't looking at his mother anymore. He was looking at the baby's face pressed against me, at the redness in his cheeks.
"He's ten days old, Mom."
Diane's lips pressed together. "I know how old he is. I was there when your sister was ten days old."
I held the baby tighter. The heat from him was real under my hand on his back. It wasn't my imagination. The nurse had heard it. I hadn't been making it up.
Ethan reached for his keys on the island. The sound of them scraping the marble was sharp.
"We should go now," he said to me. It wasn't loud. He didn't look at his mother when he said it. "I'll drive. You sit with him in the back."
I nodded. My eyes stung. "Okay."
Diane didn't move. She stayed in that spot between the kitchen and the hall, watching him pick up the keys, watching me pull the phone off the counter and slide it back into my pocket while balancing the baby. Her hands stayed crossed. Her face didn't soften. It tightened.
"You'll have them waiting for hours for nothing," she said.
Ethan opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked at me again. "You have the bag?"
May you like
"It's by the door," I whispered.
He stepped toward the hallway, past his mother, and held the door for me. I started to walk, the baby warm and whimpering against my chest, and I could feel Diane's eyes on my back the whole way out of her bright kitchen.
