being trusting, she must’ve known better. Did I tell you I used to look up to your sister? She always knew what to say when you were having a bad day. Such a kind, good person. I guess everyone changes, huh?”
I reach my hand across the table and weave my fingers into hers. “She’s still good, Molly. She’s just having a crisis of faith. She hasn’t come to church for over a year. And even though she won’t admit it, I think she’s ashamed.”
***
I wake at three-thirty the next morning with Elijah squirming on my chest. At first I don’t think anything of it. But when I put my hand on his back, he coughs and a seal’s bark comes out.
“Elijah?” I ask, sitting up on the couch with the little guy on my shoulder. I twist to flip on the lamp, cradle his head in the palm of my hand and pat his back as he lets out another seal-like cough.
His diaper is full, his eyes are watering, his nose is swollen shut with snot. None of this alarms me, though. What scares me is that when he inhales, I hear a whistle. This is bad. This is very, very bad! Frantically, I open the snaps at the bottom of his yellow onesy, pull it over his head and stare at the skin of his chest as it gets sucked into the outline of his ribs.
Crap! The boy can’t breathe.
Holding him over my left shoulder, I jump from the couch and run up to my father’s room. Instead of knocking, I barge in and turn on the light.
My dad sits up. “Quinn?” he says in a groggy voice.
“I need your car. I’m taking Elijah to the ER. Oh … and would you call Amy and let her know?”
I run to my room before he can answer, put the boy on my bed and slip on my shoes and coat. Elijah needs to be bundled, so I wrap him in blankets before grabbing his insurance card off my dresser.
It will take me half an hour to get to Fairfax Hospital, six segments of five minutes that pass much too fast when I’m eating a good meal, but seem like an eternity as I glance at my nephew’s slightly blue lips. Please God, help me get there fast enough.
The numbers on the insurance card dig into my fingers as I run down the stairs with my nephew on my shoulder.
“Quinn?”
I turn. My dad is standing at the top of the stairs with the cordless phone in his hand.
“Amy wants to talk to you.”
I shake my head. “She’s gonna have to trust me.”
“Elijah’s her kid.” He holds the phone out over the top step.
I want to yell at him to bring his lazy butt down the stairs, but I know better than to talk to my father that way. So with the insurance card in one hand and Elijah clasped to my shoulder, I take the stairs two at a time. Then I trade the phone for the baby.
“What’s wrong?” my sister asks.
“Elijah can’t breathe,” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
“So he has a little cold—”
“I said he can’t breathe!” I scream, surprised by my own outburst. My knees have started knocking together. Swallowing my worry, I hold the receiver up to Elijah’s mouth, letting her hear his whistling breath, his seal-like cough, his shaking cries.
When I put the phone back to my ear, I don’t even wait for her to speak. “I’m taking him to the ER, Amy. That’s final.”
16
Katarina
I‘ve been standing in front of the Johnson Center for forty-five minutes. Fine, I admit it’s been closer to an hour. At a quarter to eleven, I strolled into George Mason’s gift shop and pretended to be interested in baseball hats and a couple ugly sweatshirts. At eleven I went back outside, leaned against the giant bronze statue of George Mason, and pulled out a nail file to keep my hands busy. I didn’t want Quinn to see me looking over-eager. At eleven-thirty, I started walking in circles between the buildings while keeping my eyes open for any sign of my lab partner.
I glance at my watch. It’s eleven-forty nine. Why isn’t he here?
John wanted me to hang out with him this morning. He’d wanted to play his latest song for me, to see if I wanted it
I reach my hand across the table and weave my fingers into hers. “She’s still good, Molly. She’s just having a crisis of faith. She hasn’t come to church for over a year. And even though she won’t admit it, I think she’s ashamed.”
***
I wake at three-thirty the next morning with Elijah squirming on my chest. At first I don’t think anything of it. But when I put my hand on his back, he coughs and a seal’s bark comes out.
“Elijah?” I ask, sitting up on the couch with the little guy on my shoulder. I twist to flip on the lamp, cradle his head in the palm of my hand and pat his back as he lets out another seal-like cough.
His diaper is full, his eyes are watering, his nose is swollen shut with snot. None of this alarms me, though. What scares me is that when he inhales, I hear a whistle. This is bad. This is very, very bad! Frantically, I open the snaps at the bottom of his yellow onesy, pull it over his head and stare at the skin of his chest as it gets sucked into the outline of his ribs.
Crap! The boy can’t breathe.
Holding him over my left shoulder, I jump from the couch and run up to my father’s room. Instead of knocking, I barge in and turn on the light.
My dad sits up. “Quinn?” he says in a groggy voice.
“I need your car. I’m taking Elijah to the ER. Oh … and would you call Amy and let her know?”
I run to my room before he can answer, put the boy on my bed and slip on my shoes and coat. Elijah needs to be bundled, so I wrap him in blankets before grabbing his insurance card off my dresser.
It will take me half an hour to get to Fairfax Hospital, six segments of five minutes that pass much too fast when I’m eating a good meal, but seem like an eternity as I glance at my nephew’s slightly blue lips. Please God, help me get there fast enough.
The numbers on the insurance card dig into my fingers as I run down the stairs with my nephew on my shoulder.
“Quinn?”
I turn. My dad is standing at the top of the stairs with the cordless phone in his hand.
“Amy wants to talk to you.”
I shake my head. “She’s gonna have to trust me.”
“Elijah’s her kid.” He holds the phone out over the top step.
I want to yell at him to bring his lazy butt down the stairs, but I know better than to talk to my father that way. So with the insurance card in one hand and Elijah clasped to my shoulder, I take the stairs two at a time. Then I trade the phone for the baby.
“What’s wrong?” my sister asks.
“Elijah can’t breathe,” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
“So he has a little cold—”
“I said he can’t breathe!” I scream, surprised by my own outburst. My knees have started knocking together. Swallowing my worry, I hold the receiver up to Elijah’s mouth, letting her hear his whistling breath, his seal-like cough, his shaking cries.
When I put the phone back to my ear, I don’t even wait for her to speak. “I’m taking him to the ER, Amy. That’s final.”
16
Katarina
I‘ve been standing in front of the Johnson Center for forty-five minutes. Fine, I admit it’s been closer to an hour. At a quarter to eleven, I strolled into George Mason’s gift shop and pretended to be interested in baseball hats and a couple ugly sweatshirts. At eleven I went back outside, leaned against the giant bronze statue of George Mason, and pulled out a nail file to keep my hands busy. I didn’t want Quinn to see me looking over-eager. At eleven-thirty, I started walking in circles between the buildings while keeping my eyes open for any sign of my lab partner.
I glance at my watch. It’s eleven-forty nine. Why isn’t he here?
John wanted me to hang out with him this morning. He’d wanted to play his latest song for me, to see if I wanted it
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