Phoebe is miserable,and no one is sleeping much at this offensive hour of the morning. Which is exactly why I went and got her.
Her cough has evolved into the blessed croupy cough that makes my stomach twist, and nothing ever seems to resolve.
A couple of days ago, I discovered by accident that our shower also functions as a steam shower. With faux confidence, I turn the program on and set the water temperature to the level the internet recommended. It’s quieter than a regular shower, and I can sit in the stall with my legs crossed, steam billowing around us.
An order of shower steamers mysteriously appeared in the bathroom yesterday afternoon—a blend of peppermint and eucalyptus. I’m not sure which Wheeler left them, but I don’t have the heart to tell them it would probably agitate her airways even more.
If she weren’t so exhausted, she probably would’ve begged for one anyway. And I would’ve caved, because I hate when she’s sick.
She finally went to sleep, her head propped on a folded towel on my lap, her damp hair curling against my thigh. Absently, I comb my hair through her fingers, trying to calm my racing mind.
I rest my head against the glass and count her breaths, tension easing in my chest as they lengthen.
“Hey, Chloe?” Aiden’s voice is low at the door. “You two in here?”
“Enjoying a steam shower,” I call, only loud enough for him to hear.
The bathroom door creaks open, and he peeks around the edge. My heart squeezes as he crosses the room, then lowers himself on the bathmat right outside the glass.
“How is she?” he asks.
I squeeze my eyes closed and think. “Still hovering between 100°F and 101°F?”
“That’s better,” he murmurs.
I nod. “She’s okay. This part just takes me back.”
He adjusts, tucking his knees up so he can brace his forearms.
“Tell me about it.”
It won’t really make a difference, but I never even told my mom back then. We hadn’t moved in with her yet, and I was still trying to carry it all alone.
“When she was four months old,” I say softly, “she got a terrible respiratory virus. They always affect babies the worst. She already struggled with reflux?—”
“The milk protein thing?”
I nod, a little floored that he remembered. “She’d cough so hard she threw up whatever she ate, and I was terrified I wasgoing to have to take her in for fluids. I was by myself in an awful, tiny apartment with thin walls. She screamed all night, so then I was terrified they would kick us out. It wasn’t her fault, but people don’t always care about that part. I spent at least two weeks on a bathroom floor, just like this—not nearly as nice though—and crossed my fingers the steam would help. The pediatrician's office sent a nebulizer home with us, so I’d alternate with that, but it’s hard to watch your baby be so sick.”
He doesn’t say anything, but my words won’t stop coming. I pause just enough to glance down at her, her lashes dark from the steam.
“I learned how to sleep sitting up and gave her breathing treatments while we watched Disney movies. Maybe it’s actually my fault she loves Frozen.” I chuckle. “Did you know breastmilk changes color to help fight immunity? I was terrified I was going to make her sicker; I thought there was something wrong. Until I called an urgent care, crying because I didn’t know what to feed her.” I take a deep breath, then let it out again. “We survived it all. But you don’t forget.”
He meets my eyes through the glass. “Wouldn’t imagine so. I still hate that you went through that. Alone.”
“At least I’m not now.” I lean forward and push the door toward him, just a little as an invitation.
Wordlessly, he steps into the shower and drops beside me. I shift so I can lean on his shoulder instead of the glass.
“Better?” he asks.
“So much better.”
“Mom used to sit in here with me,” he says after a beat, his voice gravelly. “I always caught something in December, every year. She treated it like our holiday sauna, humming a Christmas song the whole time. We didn’t have the steam shower back then; she’d just run both the shower and the bath. But she always added a cap of vanilla so it would smell like cookies.” Hesmiles at the memory. “Dad pretended to hate it, but then fell asleep on the floor with a folded-up towel.”
“I should try harder to make being sick fun. But it’s the last thing on my mind when I’m so worried about her.”
He leans his head onto mine. “It’s not a competition, Chloe. My fever didn’t skyrocket like Phoebe’s. Mom was just doing her best, same as you.”
