By the time the sun comes up on Monday, his eyes look wrong. I tell myself I’m imagining it. I’m exhausted and stressed, so of course I’m seeing things that aren’t there. But when I carry him to the bathroom to try to get him to drink some water, the light catches his face, and I freeze.
The whites of his eyes aren’t white anymore.
They’re tinged with yellow.
“Leon, baby, look at Mama.”
He blinks up at me, and his amber eyes are surrounded by a faint but unmistakable yellow.
My hands start to shake.
I call in sick to work, leaving a message for Gloria because it’s too early for anyone to be at the spa. Then I bundle Leon into his car seat and drive to the urgent care clinic on Maple Street because it’s cheaper than the emergency room, and I can’t afford an ER bill right now.
The waiting room is packed. Everyone who was waiting out the weekend to see a doctor is here. All the plastic chairs are taken, mostly by parents with coughing, sniffling children. A toddler is having a full meltdown in the corner while his mother scrolls through her phone, ignoring him. Someone is hacking up a lung near the reception desk. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, one of them flickering in a way that makes my head pound.
I sign in and they tell me the wait is approximately two hours.
Two hours.
Leon is heavy in my arms, his head lolling against my shoulder. He’s too tired to even ask to watch videos on my phone. I find a spot on the floor against the wall, and I sit there with my sick son in my lap, watching the minutes tick by.
One hour.
Ninety minutes.
Two hours.
Two and a half.
“Santoro? Leon Santoro?”
I struggle to my feet, my legs cramped and aching, and carry Leon into the exam room.
The doctor is a middle-aged man with a distracted expression and a stain on his white coat that looks like coffee. He glances at Leon, glances at his chart, glances at me.
“So what seems to be the problem?”
I explain everything. The fever since Saturday night. The fatigue, the loss of appetite, the dark urine. And then, my voice shaking: “His eyes. They look yellow. The whites of his eyes are yellow.”
The doctor leans in and shines a penlight into Leon’s eyes. Leon whimpers and turns his face away.
“Hmm.” The doctor straightens up. “Could be a mild case of jaundice. Usually clears up on its own. Is he breastfed?”
“He’s four years old.”
“Right, right.” He’s already typing something into the computer, not looking at me. “Probably just a stomach bug. Kids pick up all kinds of things. Push fluids, rest, give him Tylenol for the fever. He should be fine in a few days.”
“But hiseyes—”
“I’ll order some blood tests if it’ll make you feel better.” There’s a condescension in his voice that makes me want to scream. “But I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. First-time mom?”
“I’ve been his mother for four years.”
He doesn’t seem to hear me. “The nurse will come do the blood draw. Results should be back in a few hours. Any other questions?”
A thousand. But he’s already halfway to the door.
“Someone will call you with the results,” he says over his shoulder. “If there’s anything concerning.”
