“You okay, Rosaleen?”
She opens her mouth to answer—but what comes out is a burst of chunky yellow vomit, like lumpy pancake mix gone sour.
Man down.
She coughs and stares, horrified, at the disaster on the floor, splattered on her shoes and on her sparkly T-shirt. Then she starts to cry. “I’m sorry, Jake.”
Something in my chest swells at her tears, making everything feel too tight. I kneel down beside her, my hand rubbing circles on her back. “It’s okay. Rosaleen—it’s just puke. It’s not a big deal.”
The dog scurries in like Mighty Mouse coming to save the day. Then he starts to chow down on Rosaleen’s vomit.
Robustly.
I gag in the back of my throat but manage to hold it together. “See?” I tell her, trying to sound cheery. “You did me a favor—now I won’t have to feed the dog.”
? ? ?
Rosaleen changes into pajamas and climbs into bed next to her sleeping aunt. I do a second check of the wounded and take advantage of the momentary quiet to call my reservists.
“They all have it?” Stanton asks with shock—and a lilt of humor.
“They all have it,” I declare grumpily. I rub my eyes. “I’m not ashamed to say I’m out of my league here.”
“Do they have fevers, too, or just the upchucks?”
“How do I tell if they have fevers?”
“Do they feel hot?”
I think about it for a second helplessly. “They don’t feel cold.”
“All right. Call the grocery store—they’ll deliver. Tell them you need an ear thermometer—the directions will be in the box. You also need Tylenol, saltine crackers, ginger ale, chicken broth, and Pedialyte.”
I furiously write down everything he’s saying, like it’s gospel. “What’s Pedialyte?”
“It’s like Gatorade for babies. Keep an eye on the infant. If he starts puking, don’t mess around—call the pediatrician. The number is probably on the fridge. Babies can get dehydrated really fast. Same goes for the two-year-old—watch her. If she can’t hold down a tablespoon of the Pedialyte an hour, you may have to take her in.”
“Got it. Anything else?”
“Just keep them comfortable. Little sips when they can drink. Crackers and broth when their stomachs settle. Call us if you need backup.”
I sigh. “All right, thanks, man.”
? ? ?
By the next morning, I’m waist-deep in laundry. Sheets, soiled pajamas, cloths for foreheads. I know my way around a washing machine—my mother made sure of it. And since I like things organized and clean, I know how to load a dishwasher and fold a towel, too.
By Wednesday afternoon, the troops are getting restless. They’re on the mend but not yet back to full capacity. Because they’re getting antsy, they start to argue with each other. He smells, she’s hogging the covers, he’s fucking looking at me wrong.
I transport them all downstairs and corral them in the den. Every couch, recliner, and love seat, and certain sections of the floor, is covered with blankets, pillows, and kids. Chelsea lies on the couch and I sit on the floor, leaning back against it. Ronan lies on his stomach on a blanket beside me. I flick on the television.
And the arguing starts up again.
“Let’s watch SpongeBob.”
“SpongeBob is stupid. Put on MTV—16 and Pregnant is on.”
Remember when MTV used to actually play music videos?
“We’re not watching 16 and Pregnant,” Chelsea tells her niece.
“How about the Discovery Channel?” Raymond suggests. “There’s a marathon on the hunting habits of lions. They eat a ton of gazelles.”
“Poor gazelles!” Rosaleen laments.
There’s a nightmare in the making.
“Listen up!” I holler. “I have the remote. That makes me master of the universe. And the master says we’re watching basketball.”
There are complaints and agreements in equal measure.
A little while later, Rosaleen crawls off the recliner, dragging her pillow with her. She plops it down next to me and rests her head on it, regarding me. Her forehead is sickly damp, her eyes glazed. “Will you sing me a song?”
I look back at her. “No.”
“Please?” she rasps.
I shake my head definitively. I will not be broken. “Not happening.”
Her clammy hand touches my wrist. “It will help me fall asleep.”
And just like that, the resolve begins to fissure.
“I don’t sing,” I explain with a dash of desperation.
Her lip trembles, and the fissure widens. “But it will make me feel better. And I feel terrible, Jake.”
I cling to my man-card with straining fingers. “I don’t know any songs.”
It’s doubtful Iron Maiden would be helpful in this situation.
She blinks up at me slowly. “Pretty please?”
And the fissure has now become the Grand fucking Canyon. Damn it.
I clear my throat and softly sing the One Direction lyrics that have been buzzing in my head for days like overcaffeinated insects.
“Everyone else in the room can see it . . .”