“Yeah. He’s hungry. I’m going to heat up his bottle as soon as I’m done with the soup.”
I’m about to ask her if she’s using the stove or the microwave for the soup . . . but the loud, piercing shriek of the fire alarm, which wipes out any other sound from her end, pretty much answers that question before it’s asked.
“Whoops!” Rosaleen shouts into the phone. “Gotta go. Bye!”
“Rosaleen, wait—”
But she’s already hung up.
Shit.
I call back. It rings and rings, then goes to voice mail.
“Fuck!”
10
It’s not my problem. It’s none of my business. I have my own shit to worry about.
That’s what I tell myself as I put my phone aside, push my chair forward, and refocus on the document in front of me. On the hours of work I still have to finish tonight.
Be smart. Prioritize.
They’re fine. People get sick all the time . . .
And then they die.
Fire alarms go off every day . . .
As houses burn to the ground.
“Goddamn it!”
I pick up my phone and dial again. Still nothing.
I shake my head and put my fingers on the keyboard . . . but the only thing I can picture is Chelsea passed out on the bathroom floor.
“Son of a bitch!”
I throw in the towel and pack my briefcase with my laptop and files. I make it to my car in record time and wonder if calling 911 would be an overreaction. It’s touch-and-go for a while, but I hold back—I’ll be there in ten minutes.
Seven minutes later, I tear up the driveway, throw my car in park, and stomp to the front door. My mouth is dry and my palms are wet with concern. I bang on the door, but the only answer is Cousin It’s yap from the other side. I cup my hands and peer through the window, but I don’t see anyone.
“Chelsea! Rosaleen!” I try knocking again. “It’s Jake.”
When there’s no response, I contemplate busting the door down. But then I remember to check under the mat—and lo and behold, there’s a shiny silver key. And I’m in.
? ? ?
Cousin It dances around my legs as I walk into the foyer—just as Rosaleen is coming down the stairs, carrying a tray that’s bigger than she is. She smiles when she sees me.
“Hi, Jake. When’d you get here?”
Placing the key on the front table, I take the tray from her hands. “Where’s your aunt?”
“She’s upstairs in the bathroom. She told me to get Ronan’s bottle from the refrigerator.”
My eyes cut to the upper landing. “Okay. You go do that, I’m going to check on your aunt.”
I walk up the stairs and down the hall, following the sound of someone barfing up their stomach lining the way Hansel and Gretel followed bread crumbs. I stand in the bathroom doorway, casting a shadow on Chelsea’s crumpled form as she hunches over the toilet, holding on to the sides of the bowl like her life depends on it. She’s in a loose-fitting black T-shirt and sweatpants. Her hair is pulled back, a few strands damp with perspiration clinging to the back of her neck.
I crouch down next to her, my hand on her back.
Once her heaves subside, she wipes her mouth with a tissue and groans at me. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
“Rosaleen called. I used the key that was under the mat. You shouldn’t keep it there.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whimpers. “Run. Save yourself.”
“When the hell did this start?”
She closes her eyes, panting. “Monday—in the middle of the night. It started with Raymond, and the rest of us fell like dominoes.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I called the neighbor—Walter’s mother. She said she couldn’t risk one of her kids catching it. Her daughter has a pageant this weekend. She said she was sorry.”
Nice. Because sorry is so fucking helpful.
Chelsea drags herself to the sink and splashes water on her face and in her mouth. “I have to check on the kids.” She moves toward the door and almost cracks her head on the sink as her knees give out.
But I catch her, scooping her up into my arms. “Whoa—easy.” My voice turns firm. Kind of pissed off. “You’re not checking on anyone. You’re going to bed. Where’s your room?”
“No, I have to—”
“Don’t fucking argue with me. Where’s your room?”
She seems to give in—or she just can’t keep her head up anymore. It rests against my arm. “My room’s downstairs, but I want to stay up here—in case they need me. Can you take me to the guest room? Last door on the right.”
I follow her directions to a plain room with yellow walls and a white bedspread. I lay her in the middle of the bed gently. Her eyes crack open, shiny and miserable, gazing up at me.
“I can’t be sick,” she whispers.
“It’s a little late for that.”
“Aunt Chelsea!” one of the boys calls.
And it’s like she’s been electrified. Her eyes spring open and her head jerks as she tries to pull herself up into a sitting position.
“Lie down,” I tell her, guiding her back.