This Is Only a Test by B.J. Hollars Page B

away, Henry continues his ear-splitting vibrato. My blood pressure rises as he moves up the scale, until at last he hits a pitch I never knew possible. In that moment—as he holds his note—what I want most in the world is to take cover beneath the cool side of my pillow. But since I’m the father and this banshee is allegedly my son, I know my role is to provide protection, not take it.
    Washcloth in hand, I bypass my pillow and start the walk toward his crib.
    Why can’t this be something simple?
I wonder.
A bee sting or a bear attack? Something we know how to fix
.
    103.1
    The following morning, Meredith taps her hand to the glass of a Walgreens as the employee unlocks the door.
    â€œGood morning,” the employee says.
    It isn’t. Our boy is feverish, after all, and we are in need of a thermometer.
    Meanwhile, in my own attempt to keep his body cool, Henry and I search for deer in the windblown field directly behind the cabin.
    â€œWe’re looking for
deer
,” I say, waiting for him to parrot it back.
    â€œDeya,” he says.
    â€œDeer,” I correct.
    â€œDeya,” he says again.
    This goes on for quite some time.
    My parents exit their own cabin, and suddenly half the resort knows of Henry’s condition.
    â€œHe’ll be fine,” I assure every well-wishing stranger. “Just a fever, nothing more.”
    By the time Meredith returns, we have seen no deer, though I have undergone any number of religious conversions, promising everything but my firstborn in exchange for my firstborn. I cash in my karma, then pray to all the smiting gods that they might take their smiting elsewhere. I barter, I bargain, I beg. I swear off every last vice that I know.
    As I carry Henry back into the cabin, as we insert the thermometer into his rectum, it becomes clear that my prayers have missed their mark.
    Our hearts sink as the numbers continue to climb.
    99 . . . 100 . . . 101 . . . 102 . . . 103.1 . . .
    Henry laughs as the thermometer beeps, while Meredith and I look to one another.
    And then, the afterthought amid all of this:
    â€œHey,” I say, “happy five-year anniversary.”
    99.3
    Suddenly, like an Old Testament miracle, our prayers are answered. By mid-afternoon the fever has broken, his temperature dropping to near normal. There is no explanation for the change. I have sacrificed no rams upon any altars. In fact, we have done nothing but wet washcloths and search for deer and hurl our prayers to the sky. Thankfully, one of the prayers seemed to have stuck, though it prompted a new fear: Which promise to God do I now need to make good on?
    During Henry’s afternoon nap we grow bold, Meredith and I charging my mother with babysitting duty while we slip off to a nearby waterfall we’d discovered in the woods.
    The previous night, as I searched on hands and knees for the thermometer, I’d considered carrying Henry to those falls. At 3:00 AM it seemed logical, imperative even—no better way to break the fever than by drowning it in a stream. Thankfully, sounder minds prevailed, and rather than a nighttime hike down a ravine with my son, we made do with the washcloth instead.
    Now Meredith and I take that walk without him, slipping down the slope until our sandals return to flat ground. I unpackthe wine and cheese and chocolate atop a mossy rock and we clink plastic cups to our marriage.
    â€œLet’s make a wish,” Meredith says, “for anything in the world.”
    We close our eyes, take a sip, and wish for 98.6.
    99.5
    Thanks to my white-knuckled driving (not to mention my high tolerance for backseat screeching), we make it to every last stop on the itinerary. In Hartford, Henry’s screaming gets him kicked out of the Mark Twain house (“A regular Huck Finn,” I joke). He fares better in Salem, where we remove ourselves on our own accord from the good