I pull my phone from my back pocket. When I seethe name on the caller ID, my heart immediately plummets into my belly.
“Tera?” I don’t even say hello. Tera is babysitting my son. After all these years watching Jax on Saturdays, Tera would only call me at work if there was a problem. The question comes tumbling out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Is everything okay?”
“Poppy, I’m so glad I caught you. I know you’ve got to be swamped, but Jax spiked a fever. I think he’s caught this bug that’s going around. I gave him some cold juice, but he’s just been lying on the couch for the last hour looking miserable.”
“Oh my God, Tera. I’m so sorry and so glad you called.”
Tera and I chat for a minute about the boys’ sleepover, and I promise to get there as soon as I can. The second we hang up, I run back to the lounge.
“Cynthia,” I blurt out.
She whirls on her stacked black heels.
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to calm my voice.
“What is it, Poppy?” Cynthia almost drops the boxes of supplies she was organizing. “You need me?”
I explain the situation and ask her if she can lock up the salon. “Just throw the food that’s up front in the trash, but leave everything else for me. I’ll handle it tomorrow.”
I regret the words as soon as I say them. Normally on Sundays, I bring Jax into the salon with me. While he gets one morning of unlimited screen time to play video games and watch YouTube videos, I clean the salon from top to bottom. Water the plants. Rearrange andstock the stations. It’s a day we spend together, but it doesn’t feel like work. I love this place, and usually, Jax is more than happy to come along and even help—as long as I add a little extra to his allowance for the chores.
If he’s sick, I’m going to have to hire someone to come in and clean. On short notice, that’s not going to be cheap. Even worse, if he must miss the first week of school, I am going to have to hire a sitter or stay home with him. I’m doubly grateful to Phantom now. I’m going to need every penny—including the tip—that he left me.
I grab a bottle of shampoo, conditioner, and a heat treatment spray for Tera as a thank you for watching my sick kid. I just hope Jax doesn’t spread this through her whole house.
Once I get to Tera’s, I feel even more devastated. Jax is so weak and sweaty, he can hardly walk himself out of the house. He’s a tall kid, like Michael was, and so skinny for his age. He’s had to mature faster, being an only child with only one parent, but at times like this when he’s sick, it’s not hard to remember that he may be ten, but he’s still a little boy.
“Baby.” I hold him close once we’re safely back inside our house. I feel his forehead, which doesn’t feel too hot, and I hope the fever’s broken. “I’m going to get the thermometer and some meds to help the fever. I’ll make you any dinner you want. What are you craving?”
Jax rubs his eyes and peers up at me, looking far younger than his ten years right now. It breaks myheart. “Soup?” he says miserably. “I know it takes a long time to make, but…”
“Soup,” I assure him. “Go climb in bed and put on a movie. I’ll be up to check your temp as soon as I change.”
Our house is small but cozy. Jax has an attic bedroom with a bathroom upstairs, while I have the primary bedroom with an en suite bath down on the first floor. Michael used to have the attic as an office. When Jax was a baby, he slept in a bassinet in our room and later a toddler bed.
We were in the process of looking for our next home, someplace bigger we could grow into. But we were struggling to afford more house when life—or, I should say, death—derailed all our plans.
So now Jax uses his father’s office for a bedroom, and I have a room on a totally separate floor where I can cry myself to sleep at night without my son overhearing. Thankfully, I cry a lot less than I used to. Not never, but less.
My feet are throbbing from standing all day. Just because my body is used to working long days doesn’t mean I don’t feel broken down by the end of a long week. But I change into my yummiest sweats and a slouchy, loose T-shirt and move into Mom mode.
I bring Jax a thermometer and take his temp.
“It’s 103,” I tell him. “No wonder you feel like shit.”
I use the word I don’t allow him to say just to get a reaction out of him.
“Mom,” he chuckles. “Don’t you mean crap?”
“You tell me,” I tease, sitting on the edge of his bed and ruffling his hair. “Do you feel like crap or like shit?”
“The second one,” he groans, closing his eyes. “Do you think you could hand me my headphones? I want to listen to a movie, but I don’t think I can keep my eyes open. The light really hurts my head.”
“Don’t be surprised if listening hurts your head too. It should get better once the medicine kicks in.” I get up, grab the headphones from his desk, and slide them over his ears. “I’ll be back with soup,” I promise. “Rest if you can, baby.”
I turn off his lights and close his bedroom door, then pad down the stairs.
I dig in the freezer for some chicken and start a pot of water to boil. I’m going to use store-bought chicken broth, but the chicken and veggies will be hand-cut by Mama. Just like my baby likes it.
