He nods, satisfied, and asks if he can watch the truck show on my phone. I let him, and I cry silent tears into my sleeve where he can’t see.
The blood tests come back midafternoon. The nurse smiles when she tells me his liver enzymes are dropping.
“That’s a good sign. It means the steroids are working.”
I text Rosa and Mom:I think he’s going to be okay.
She sends back a string of heart emojis. Mom replies with prayer hands.
Mom:I can come to the hospital tonight so you can go home and rest. You must be exhausted.
Mina:I’m okay. We’ll probably be going home soon.
Mom:If you’re sure?
I’m terrified that if Mom comes to the hospital, Cristiano will find out where I am, and the next thing I know he’ll be at Leon’sbedside. The last thing I want to do is force brown contact lenses into Leon’s eyes while he’s sick. Besides, with any luck, we’ll be discharged tomorrow.
For the first time since Monday, I let myself breathe.
Meanwhile, the other parents in the ward are driving me insane. The couple with the seven-year-old have been joined by grandparents, aunts, and cousins, a rotating cast of family members who talk too loud and laugh too much and fill their corner of the room with balloons and stuffed animals. They take turns sitting with their son. They go home to shower and sleep in real beds. They bring each other food from actual restaurants, not the sad cafeteria sandwiches I’ve been choking down.
The toddler’s parents are a professional couple who seem annoyed to be here, like their child’s illness is an inconvenience in their busy schedules. They snap at the nurses. They complain about the food and the noise. Their nanny comes so they can go back to work.
And then there’s me. Alone. Unwashed. Dark circles under my eyes, hair scraped back in a greasy ponytail, surviving on vending machine coffee and pure terror.
That evening, the father from the big family catches me in the hallway.
“Rough week, huh?” he says sympathetically.
I nod, too tired for small talk.
“Where’s your husband? Working?”
“I don’t have a husband.”
“Oh.” His expression flickers with something like pity, but also something like judgment. “That must be hard. Doing this alone.”
I want to say something sharp, but I don’t have the energy.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, and walk away.
I don’t sleep that night, though I try. I curl up in the plastic chair, close my eyes, and beg my body to rest. But every timeI start to drift off, a sound jerks me awake. The baby crying. A nurse’s shoes squeaking on linoleum. The beep of a monitor.
By Thursday morning, I’ve been awake for something like sixty hours straight, with only a few stretches of accidental unconsciousness. My hands shake when I try to hold the coffee cup. My vision blurs if I stare at anything too long. I feel like I’m moving through water, everything slow and distant and not quite real.
Leon is still asleep.
He was restless and whimpering in the early hours of the morning, not quite himself despite the improvement in his test results. I told myself he was just tired and adjusting to the steroids. But now it’s nearly eight o’clock in the morning, and he hasn’t stirred.
“Leon? Baby, wake up.”
He mumbles something. His eyes flutter open, then close again.
“Leon. It’s morning. Time to wake up.”
“Tired, Mama.” He opens his eyes again, and for a moment, he looks at me like he doesn’t recognize me. “Auntie Rosa?”
“Rosa’s not here. It’s Mama. I’m right here.”
