by Andrew Hart
“Anna, I’m sorry to get you up so early, but Grace is sick again.”
Oaklynn had been tapping at the bedroom door. She looked anxious, upset. Josh had already gone to work, but I had not slept well and had opted to have a few more minutes before taking a shower. I rubbed my eyes, heart sinking, stomach turning.
“The same as before?” I managed, fumbling for a robe to pull over my panties and T-shirt.
“Same high fever. Her diaper has some blood in it.”
Fuck.
I blundered down the stairs, Oaklynn in my wake, her hands slapping at the banister rail as she chuffed heavily after me. I think I was cursing as I went, but she said nothing, still purposeful and controlled, despite her worry. Later, I would reflect that her obvious distress was especially alarming. She had been with us less than two months, but I had grown used to her solid dependability; seeing it shaken like this filled me with dread.
Grace was exactly as before, hot and uncomfortable, moaning.
“She threw up in the night,” said Oaklynn. “I tried to give her a bottle, but she wasn’t interested.”
“I guess . . . we go back to the ER?” I said, holding my baby, feeling the unnatural warmth of her against my face. “We could call the pediatrician and see if he can squeeze us in, but the hospital said to bring her back if the symptoms returned.”
“Then we should do that.”
I hesitated.
“She seemed so much better,” I said, flushing, feeling like I had screwed up. “She has been fine. I don’t understand it.”
“Still,” said Oaklynn, “we should probably go . . .”
“I know. Get the diaper bag together. I’ll drive.”
“It’s no trouble . . . ,” Oaklynn began, but I cut her off.
“For me either,” I said. “She’s my child. I’ll drive.”
I was being defensive because I felt guilty for not having been more vigilant. I knew that but couldn’t stop it from coming out. Oaklynn just nodded and set to getting Grace’s things together, calling for Veronica. I considered telling her not to bother, that I could manage with Grace by myself, that Oaklynn should stay home with Veronica, but I didn’t, because even though I wanted to say it, a part of me was afraid she’d agree. I wanted to be Mommy, but I had come to depend on Oaklynn, and I knew that having her with me would steady my nerves and protect me from the accusatory looks of the nurses.
Here she is again, the incompetent mother, the repeat offender, the type who doesn’t know the names of her kids’ friends, her teachers, because she’s too wrapped up in her own life, the goddamned dinner parties for which she doesn’t even cook . . .
So I drove and did my best to look like I was in charge and informed, though even as I did so, I found myself resenting Oaklynn for being in the back with the kids, sponging Grace’s forehead and whispering encouragingly to Veronica, who sat beside her, infected by our panic.
Poor Oaklynn. Talk about a no-win situation . . .
I was relieved to see different nurses on duty this time. The doctor was also different, an Indian woman with a New Jersey accent who was kind and attentive as she went through the notes from our last visit.
“I should have taken her to see our pediatrician,” I said, like I was confessing to a priest, as if saying it would somehow make sure my daughter was treated properly and not discounted as not worth the effort. “I called, but in the end, I just talked to the nurse because she seemed to have recovered. I’m sorry,” I added stupidly.
The doctor waved the apology away but said they would need to do some blood work “to rule some things out.”
“Blood work?” I said.
Oaklynn took my hand.
“Is that really necessary? I mean, she’s already distressed.”
“I know,” said the doctor. “But this is the best way to see what’s going on. Her temperature is down again, but two fevers in a few days means something isn’t quite right. You didn’t bring her last diaper with you, did you?”
I shook my head, my eyes swimming again, and the doctor’s smile slipped a little.
“We need a urine sample,” she said. “If she’s not wet now, we may have to have you wait a while. I’d prefer not to cath her if I can avoid it.”
I blinked, almost numb, then nodded quickly.
Stupid.
I should have seen this coming. If I’d spent more time with Grace instead of fretting about the stupid dinner party and squabbling with Josh, I would have spotted something, some sign that she wasn’t quite right. Then maybe I could have spared her whatever had to happen now.
Grace looked so small and frail, smaller and frailer still as the nurse prepped her to have her blood drawn. I wasn’t ready for it and felt tricked or betrayed, as if my confession about not actually seeing the pediatrician should have been enough to barter Grace out of further misery. Which was ridiculous. Obviously.
The nurse poked and prodded Grace, studying her forearm, but looked unhappy.
“Everything OK?” I asked.
“Not really used to kids this young,” muttered the nurse, as if this was more than should be expected of her. “Hold on.”
I watched, aghast, as she left. There was a TV on in the corner playing some infomercially thing about diabetes. I gave Oaklynn a desperate look.
“It’s OK,” she said. “She’s just taking precautions. Doesn’t want to stick little Gracie more than necessary.”
I didn’t know what to say to this, and in the same instant, the nurse returned, leading Alysha, the black nurse from our last ER visit. Her eyes met mine, and I saw the fractional hesitation, the appraising consideration before the formal smile snapped on.
“Let me take a look here,” she said. “Can you hold her for me?”
It wasn’t clear whom she was addressing, and when I hesitated, Oaklynn picked Grace up and held her while the nurse rubbed her arm, then bound it with a rubber ligature. Grace cried as the needle went in, more in surprise than pain, and Veronica buried her face in Oaklynn’s skirts, one hand toying with the silver buckle on her shoes.
“It’s OK, honeybun,” Oaklynn cooed to each of them in turn. “All part of getting her well again. Good news,” she added, smiling up at the nurse. “I think we have a wet diaper.”
“You’re so good with her,” said Alysha to Oaklynn, not looking at me. “It’s hard when they are this small. You don’t understand what’s happening, do you, babe?” She smiled into Grace’s face. Grace had already stopped crying.
“Who’s my brave girl?” said Oaklynn.
“Can I have her, please?” I said, extending my arms.
Alysha watched the handoff critically, as if I might drop her, then said that I should make an appointment to see my pediatrician.
“Leave the diaper with us, please. We’ll send the blood and urine tests over to your physician as soon as we have the results.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
ANNA
Grace’s tests all came back normal, which should have made me happy but only served to inflate my anxiety.
“What would cause her symptoms that wouldn’t show up on the tests?” I asked the nurse over the phone.
Nothing they could pinpoint at this stage, I was told. I should continue to monitor her—as if I might not—and update the doctor with any changes or persistent symptoms. I told Oaklynn, and she made a pouty, sad face and hugged me and promised to keep a “super-close eye” on Grace, so that I felt bad and hugged her back, as if she might be more upset than I was. We were sitting on the lower back deck, watching Veronica playing with Mr. Quietly in the yard below. The cat had a way of sitting very still, jaws apart and eyes fixed—usually on a bird or a squirrel—making these odd chittering noises in his throat. Veronica thought it hilarious. I found it faintly demonic. Somehow it suggested a distance between us so that I felt lost, a bad mother who was losing her relationship with her older daughter and couldn’t keep her younger one healthy.
“What am I doing wrong?�
�� I said, as much to myself as to Oaklynn.
“Nothing. It’s just one of those things. We’ll stay on top of it, and it will blow over. I promise.”
I had been momentarily sure she was going to say something about God or how everything happened for a reason, or some other damn thing that would make me pull my hair out. I was so grateful that she didn’t that I hugged her and whispered, “Thank you” into her soap-scented hair.
I had been facing her as I spoke, so it was only out of the corner of my eye that I caught something streaking across the backyard. I turned to look properly, my heart in my mouth, and the dreaded word—coyote—in my mind. In the same instant, Veronica squealed with alarm and shouted, “No!” just as I realized that the blur I had half seen was not a coyote at all but Tammy Ward’s mangy terrier, Angus, which had escaped and was chasing Oaklynn’s cat.
I started for the stairs, but Oaklynn was faster, barreling down into the yard and shouting at the errant dog as Mr. Quietly bolted, yowling into some undergrowth by the fence. Veronica blundered after him, and I actually screamed as I leaped down the last few steps in pursuit.
“Veronica, stop!” I yelled, as she got alarmingly close to the thin strands of wire that separated her from the steep and slippery bank of the creek. There was such force in my voice, such horror, that Veronica froze as if she were about to be electrified or bitten by a snake. Her face was a mask of horror and fear, tears in her eyes, confused distraction in every part of her. I swept toward her and caught her up.
“I’m sorry, Mommy!” she babbled over and over, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“It’s OK, honey,” I said, startled by the way my panic had infected her. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Get out of here!” Oaklynn commanded the terrier, but it sprang for the bush where the cat was nestled, hackles raised, mouth open and spitting. Oaklynn stormed over, snatching at the dog’s collar and pulling it back, and as it strained to get free, it snarled and yipped at Mr. Quietly with undisguised malice. If we hadn’t been there, I think it would have killed him.
I joined Oaklynn, grasping the dog’s collar and holding it in place so she could reach for Mr. Quietly. For a moment, her eyes—usually so placid—were fierce, raging. She caught the cat up in her arms protectively and made for the house, Mr. Quietly shrinking into her bosom but watching the terrier with baleful yellow eyes.
“Oh my goodness,” Oaklynn cooed as she mounted the steps, her previous anger entirely gone. “You are frightened, aren’t you, my love?”
“Is he OK?” I called after her.
“I think so,” said Oaklynn, managing to smile.
“I’ll speak to Tammy,” I said. “The dog shouldn’t be out. If someone reports her, she’ll be in trouble.”
Oaklynn nodded but didn’t respond, and a moment later, she disappeared inside, closing the door behind her.
“Is Mr. Quietly OK?” asked Veronica, genuinely concerned.
“Yes, I think so,” I said. “I’m sorry I yelled. I just don’t like you getting so close to the water.”
“Are there snakes in the water?”
Veronica had a particular horror of snakes.
“There could be,” I said. I had never seen one there, though we sometimes got small copperheads in the garden, and it was too late in the year now. She took my hand, shrinking into my legs.
“Let’s go inside,” she said. “It’s getting cold.”
This was true, but I saw the evasion for what it was and marveled at how quickly we learned to hide things, even from ourselves.
Josh flipped the plain brown flaps of the huge Amazon box and peered inside.
“What the hell?” he said.
Oaklynn pursed her lips but managed to smile.
“Language,” said Anna.
Josh gave her a blank look, remembered Oaklynn, and said, “Oh. Sorry.”
“It’s not a problem,” said Oaklynn, in a way that wasn’t quite convincing.
Josh’s attention had already returned to the contents of the cardboard box. Inside was another box, glossy with photographs featuring lots of camo and a bold, comic-book-type font proclaiming the words Barnett Jackal.
“You bought a crossbow?” he said. “When did you buy a crossbow? Why did you buy a crossbow?”
“I was worried about the coyotes,” said Anna. “Oaklynn said it was a good idea. Better than a shotgun or something.”
“I thought . . . ,” Josh began, then redirected. “What about the girls?”
“What about them?” said Oaklynn. Anna seemed to have receded into the background.
“You don’t want them getting their hands on this,” said Josh. He kind of wished Oaklynn would go away. He wanted to talk to his wife, if only because the purchase seemed so . . . odd. Out of character.
“It’s quite safe,” said Oaklynn. “This thing has a hundred-and-fifty-pound draw. Without the rope-cocking mechanism, even you might struggle to load it.”
“And with it?” said Josh, considering the separate blister pack containing a length of rope with a plastic handle on each end.
“You’ll be fine,” said Oaklynn. “But Anna probably couldn’t do it. No chance the girls could.”
“Still,” said Josh, considering the box warily. It had a kind of undeniable appeal, but the gift—if that was what it was—bothered him, like he was being invited to enjoy something he had always thought illicit and dangerous, something that might be morally suspect. His wife was fiercely antigun and had been known to blame most of the evils of the world on the NRA. This was different, of course, but still . . . It felt strange, slightly dreamlike in its unexpected perversity. If Anna had bought him porn for Christmas, he thought wildly, it would feel like this. He considered her, deliberately looking past Oaklynn.
“You really think we need to worry about the coyotes?” he said. “We haven’t heard them in weeks.”
“It’s just a safety precaution,” she said. “I thought you’d think it was fun.”
That didn’t seem quite true, and suddenly, he thought he understood. Anna had been miserable after they had taken Grace to the hospital again, convinced she’d blown some key parenting thing. But Grace had made another complete recovery, and none of the hospital’s tests had shown anything wrong. It had been some weird anomaly, and maybe not even the same one that had made her sick the previous time. Anna couldn’t fix that, couldn’t ensure her children would always be healthy or that her role as Mommy would always be flawless. So she had fastened onto a different threat, one she could see or at least hear, one that she could keep from the door with this lethal little trinket. She couldn’t keep bacteria and viruses from harming the kids, but she could sure as hell keep the coyotes at bay.
“You sure about this, Anna?”
“Of course,” said Anna, with a casualness she almost certainly didn’t feel. “You’ll have to learn how to use it properly, safely, but yes.”
“And where am I going to do that?” he asked.
“I can show you,” said Oaklynn. “Set up a target in the yard now, if you like.”
So they did. The “target” was just the Amazon box with a couple of circles drawn on with Magic Marker, stuffed with rags, and set against a willow oak by the creek. If he missed, which Josh thought pretty likely, the arrow would lose itself in the overgrown bank. Because the land sloped so drastically, he’d have to miss very high indeed for the arrow to fly any distance beyond the little belt of water, and there was no danger of hitting anything living beyond leaves and branches. But first, the crossbow had to be assembled, the bow part fixed to the stock, and the cables waxed with something that looked almost exactly like lip balm. The bow had a built-in quiver holding three arrows with screw-in metal heads. They felt purposeful. Josh had thought the whole thing would feel like a toy, but it was big and heavy, and he could sense its raw power long before he fired it.
Oaklynn walked him through each step in that methodical farmhand way of hers, pragmatic and polite in e
qual measure, then showed him how to thread the rope around the groove in the stock and attach its hooks to the drawstring on either side of the stock. She had been right about the force required to cock the thing, and for an awful moment, Josh feared he wouldn’t be able to manage it, standing with his foot in the stirrup at the end of the bow to hold it down while he drew directly up with both hands. The green drawstring moved slowly in its pulleys, and he had to haul much harder than he had expected, but at last, it latched into place.
“Safety’s there,” said Oaklynn, glancing up from the instructions. “Goes on automatically when the bow is drawn. Arrow has to go in with the white flights down, or it won’t fire.”
Anna was cradling Grace, whom she had barely put down since they’d returned from the hospital. Veronica was watching warily, half-hidden behind Oaklynn, not saying anything.
“The sights are set to show three green dots,” said Oaklynn. “The middle one should be set at thirty yards, so the top one is twenty, and the bottom is forty.”
“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” asked Anna. She was looking less sure about this idea now that the thing was ready to fire.
“Sighting on the higher dot means you are lowering the business end of the bow,” said Oaklynn.
“OK,” said Josh. “Well, here goes nothing.”
He knelt down, the stock of the crossbow against his shoulder, peering into the scope with one eye, squeezing the other closed.
“Safety,” he said, feeling for it, then pressing the button gingerly, half expecting the bow to go off. “This feels really dangerous,” he added, almost to himself.
“OK,” he said again, then aimed at the target box and squeezed the trigger.
It was quieter than he had expected, little more than a snap, and there was no kick like what he associated with a firearm, but the arrow smashed through the target, out the other side, and deep into the tree. He wasn’t surprised when he approached the target to consider the damage. Though he had initially assumed the crossbow would deliver a hit like an air rifle, he had felt the power of the thing as he shot it. An air rifle might break the skin of a coyote, but he doubted it would seriously slow it down. The crossbow would skewer it where it stood.
