Page 101 of A Manny for Christmas

Molly talks me through where to find the first aid kit, how to put a fresh filter on the ear thermometer, and which button to press to get a reading. She sounds a million times calmer than I feel. My movements are jerky. Clumsy.

I race back upstairs with the thermometer in one hand and a bottle of Calpol and a syringe in another, my phone wedged between my ear and my shoulder. As Molly’s soothing voice talks me through my steps, I carefully stick the thermometer into Daisy’s ear and press the button. She doesn’t even stir.

It beeps, and I pull it away. ‘Thirty-eight-point-five,’ I tell Molly.

‘Okay,’ she says on a sigh, and I hear the relief in her voice. ‘So she’s got a fever, but it’s not a total disaster.’

‘Seriously? She feels boiling hot to me.’

‘I know. It often feels worse than it is. Hopefully it’s just a bug. Do me a favour and try and get a syringe of Calpol into her? Then you can just let her sleep it off.’

I eye the bottle of bright pink liquid warily. This could backfire all over me. ‘Won’t she go ballistic?’

‘Hopefully she’ll drink it down while she’s half asleep. She loves that stuff.’

I fill the syringe, the revolting smell of synthetic strawberries hitting my nostrils, and slide a hand under Daisy’s back so I can pull her up. Once I have her wedged into the crook of my arm, floppy but upright, I put the syringe to her mouth.

‘Here you go, sweetheart,’ I croon. ‘Just get this down for me, and we’ll have you feeling better in no time.’

To my delight and amazement, she sucks on the syringe and I despatch the meds down her throat as evenly as I can. As far as I can tell, she’s still fast asleep. What a little superstar.

I lay her back down again and have another feel of her forehead. She’s still bloody hot. I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.

I sneak out of the room. ‘All done,’ I whisper to Molly.

She sighs. ‘Amazing. See? You’re a natural.’

‘I don’t feel like a natural. I feel like a total imposter, like you shouldn’t be leaving me alone with your sick little girl. Honestly, Mol, I have no clue what I’m doing. What if she gets worse?’

‘If she gets worse, you call me, and I’ll come home. Okay? But it doesn’t sound too serious.’

‘Tell me you’ve done this before. Tell me you know what you’re talking about.’

She laughs. ‘A million times. Do me a favour and take her temperature again in twenty minutes, half an hour? Hopefully it’ll have improved.’

‘Of course.’ I will check that little girl’s temperature every five minutes until I get some peace of mind. There’s no way I can relax for a second, knowing she’s sick. How does Molly bear the stress?

I realise she’s still talking. ‘I’m going to call Cassandra, see if she can swing by and pick up Toby. Do you think you can stay home today with Daze?’

‘Of course. I’m on it. But—what do I do? Can I feed her? Do I need to wake her up, or should I let her sleep?’

‘All I can tell you is to play it by ear, and use your judgement.’

Use your judgement.A more inane phrase was never uttered. I have no fucking judgement, because I have no fucking clue.

‘You need to do better than that,’ I growl, and she laughs again. She seems tickled by my stress.

‘The best advice I’ve ever heard for when they’re ill istreat the child, not the symptoms. Let her sleep; just keep an eye on that fever. Once she’s awake, follow her lead. If she wants to eat, let her eat. If not, don’t stress. Just try and keep her fluids up. If she’s generally well within herself and on decent form, you’re all good. Kids get sick. They’re pretty resilient. She’ll be fine.’

‘She’ll be fine,’ I echo cynically as I hang up.

* * *

Would you know?Her mother was right. Daisy’s fine.

I get Toby off to school. Cassandra turns up at the front door with a full face of makeup and thoroughly eye-bangs my t-shirt-and-pyjama-bottom-clad body as I stand at the door and see Toby off.

Jesus Christ.

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