Page 95 of Coming Up Roses

She groans, louder this time and rolls over, curling into a ball. “Hurts,” she whimpers.

I stand, scooping her up into my arms and cradling her against me as I scurry down the hall towards the bathroom.

Her forehead falls against my neck and I pause. She feels hot.

When I reach the bathroom I place her on the edge of the bath, making sure she can hold herself up before pulling a small towel out of the cupboard and wetting it with cold water. I press it to her face and she winces.

Is that normal? Or is that bad?

“It’s bright in here,” she mumbles, closing her eyes.

She sways, whimpers again, then lets out a low moan that tears at my heart.

That’s when the vomiting begins.

Sadie issick over and over, until there’s nothing left to bring up, but that doesn’t stop her tiny body trying.

She cries, and moans, then falls asleep between bouts of dry retching.

She’s hot to the touch, but I don’t own a thermometer so I can’t take her temperature. I’ve been frantically searching the internet for what to do, and what’s normal when a child is sick.

Could it be that she just ate too much junk food and her body is rebelling? But when I think back over what she ate today, it doesn’t feel like it was that bad.

Is she sick? She must be sick. But is it something that will pass on its own? Or does she need medical care?

Sadie lets out another cry from where I have her laid out on my bed, surrounded by towels to try and protect the bedding. I clamber off the floor where I’ve been resting with my back up against the side of the bed while she’s been resting somewhat peacefully.

I gather Sadie to me as she thrashes. I smooth her hair back and hold her while violent heaves rock her body.

After what feels like an eternity, she goes limp in my arms and I lay her carefully back down.

I slide off the bed and head into the bathroom to wash my hands. I’ve been doing it every time I touch Sadie, because the last thing I need is for me to get sick too, especially before Dallas gets home.

The cool water trickles over my hands as I stare at myself in the mirror.

Dark hair, tired green eyes, pale skin.

My image fuzzes in and out.

I can do this, I remind myself. I’m her mother and I can do this.

Except I can’t, because I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t know if keeping her here is the right idea.

I could be doing it all wrong.

I must be, because she’s getting worse.

She’s limp now, barely with the energy to lift her head. She’s barely reaching consciousness when the bouts of dry retching hit.

Oh, god. I’m making it all worse.

My breathing stutters. I can’t be trusted with her. I can’t make the right decisions.

I can’t even figure out what went wrong with Flynn. I shouldn’t be trusted with a child.

I can’t draw breath. There’s a weight crushing my chest and it’s stopping me breathing. My vision goes dark around the edges.

Panic attack, I think somewhere in the depths of my fog-affected brain.

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