There was still no message from Cam by the time I returned late that afternoon by taxi, with a car seat, a portable crib, a high chair, a stroller, and two plastic bags of baby clothes. Once inside, I made up the crib, fed Paris and settled her in the crib for nap. Then I stripped off my jeans and fell into bed without bothering to shower.
My cell phone sounded just as I was drifting off to sleep. I snatched it up and carried it into the bathroom, grateful that Paris was now in a crib and couldn’t fall off the bed. It was Karin, asking innumerable questions about the baby until I realized that she was stalling.
“So,” I interrupted. “How was the beach?”
Karin waxed poetic about surf and fog, seals and barbequed oysters. Then, unexpectedly, she began to cry. “I feel sick,” she said.
“Why? Bad oysters?”
“No! I hardly ate or drank anything!”
I frowned, studying my bare feet against the tiled bathroom floor, then said, “You’re probably just feeling guilty because you and Ed slept together and you don’t know how to tell me.” I opened the medicine chest and rummaged for my moisturizer. When I found it, I began rubbing it into my face.
“Would you hate me if I did?”
Bingo. I wiped the excess face cream off my eyelids so that I wouldn’t look so much like I’d contracted a terrible, oozing eye infection. “There’s nothing you could do that would make me hate you, Karin.”
“Well, Ed and I didn’t have sex,” she said.
“You didn’t?” I squinted disbelievingly at the rust stain on the sink, which was shaped like Italy. “Why not? Was it the sand in your suit or high tide?” I teased.
“I suppose it was the tide. The tides of time, the way people come and go in my life. Except you.” She caught her breath. “I didn’t want to hurt you, so I didn’t have sex with him.”
“How would you being with Ed hurt me?” I was truly puzzled.
“Don’t you like him? Even a little?”
I considered this. “Well, I like him better than Wally,” I said. “But, honey, I like Ed for you, not for me. What does Ed want?”
Karin blew her nose, honking on the other end of the phone like a bus in traffic. “Oh, he’s Mr. Romance, says we should give love a chance. But he doesn’t want to do anything that might screw up my friendship with you, or take the risk that I’ll bust him up with a hammer again.”
“Is there that risk?”
“Of course. I’m completely unreliable as a lover,” Karin pointed out. “Look at my track record!”
“Maybe you should think of Ed as a friend,” I suggested. “You might be unreliable as a lover, but as a friend, you’re a Hall-of-Famer.”
“Oh, Jordan.” Karin honked again. “Thanks for that. I owe you.”
“I owe you back. Go for it.”
P
aris hated the car. More precisely, she hated the baby seat in the car. When I tried strapping her into the seat to drive to the grocery store the next morning, she fought and hissed like a cornered wolverine. I had to pin her into the seat with my forearm while I pulled the strap over her head.
We suffered a repeat performance of this as we left the market’s parking lot, with the added challenge of Paris’s glass-shattering shrieks of fury. I’d been to rock concerts quieter than this. To make matters worse, a dozen onlookers gathered, probably ready to demand that I hand Paris over to someone more competent, like that woman in the minivan next to us whose three children remained placidly strapped into place while Mommy, not a hair out of place, packed the van with enough groceries for Armageddon.
Paris’s howls escalated as I pulled out of the parking lot, white-knuckled and sweating. I spotted a pet shop across the street and toyed with the idea of stopping there to buy an animal crate. I could put the baby in that instead of the car seat and give her a few toys to maul.
Later, I decided that a dog crate might come in handy at home, too. While I unloaded groceries, Paris pulled the maple syrup out of the cupboard and poured herself a sticky skating rink. As I mopped that up, she hauled herself to a standing position on a counter stool, then wailed in horror when the stool toppled onto its side. Moments later, I discovered my niece ingesting half a tube of lipstick she’d managed to fish out of my purse.
“She probably ate $7 worth of my favorite lipstick,” I complained when Karin telephoned. “This kid is a cross between Houdini and a chimpanzee.”
“Don’t look to me for sympathy. Caretakers like you keep us nurses employed,” Karin reminded me. “Are you going to Berkeley today to see Cam? I can come over and help you wrestle Paris into the car. We’ll just throw a towel over her head, the way my mom used to do to our cat when we took her to the vet’s.”
I declined, since I still hadn’t heard from Cam. “I’d rather invite him to come over here, anyway.”
“Oh, I get it. You’re thinking turf wars. Like, if Cam’s on this side of the bridge, he’s more likely to own up to the fact that it takes two to make a baby?”
“He might.”
“Dream on.”
Things went better once I got the baby outside. Paris loved riding in her stroller and giving everyone the Queen’s wave. We hung out in Dolores Park, watching the druggies, the other children, the ants on the sidewalk, the martial artists, and the wind through the leaves. I’d even thought to bring along a juice box and crackers.
When the afternoon sun began to lick the tops of the palm trees, Paris fell asleep and I walked back to the apartment.
Still no message or text from Cam. I couldn’t wait any longer. I’d have to drive over to Berkeley the next morning with Paris.
I imagined surprising Cam at the falafel cart, the two of us embracing with the baby between us in one of those happy cinematic endings where onlookers applaud. But, no, Cam would be more likely to flee the scene as we approached, his Falafel Man apron flapping around his legs as I chased him down with the baby stroller.
The sky darkened and a late fog drenched the clothes I’d hand washed and hung on a line I’d strung from the back of the house to the garden fence. Why wasn’t Cam returning my calls? He couldn’t possibly be making falafel 24 hours a day. I had telephoned him before dinner, and again every hour after that, but nobody answered. I left more messages, brief but urgent. “Call me now. I need you.” “Don’t wait. Call me.”
Finally, I bathed Paris in the sink, sparing us both the ordeal of the bathtub, and sang her to sleep. I tried Cam once more at 9 o’clock, gazing down at the baby as I left yet another cryptic message for my brother. The baby lay on her back across my lap, her mouth slightly open, a single blonde wisp over her forehead. I could drive to Cam’s place right now, I decided; I could probably transfer the baby to her car seat without waking her.
I rose and reached for my purse, but Paris immediately squirmed into the tight crook of my arm and grabbed a handful of my hair, whimpering. Get her into the car without a struggle? Ha. Fat chance. And I was too tired to cope with anything more tonight. I’d let her sleep and track Cam down in the morning.
I was awakened later that night by the sound of a terrifying bark. The sound turned out to be the baby wheezing for breath.
I sat up and snapped on the bedside lamp, my heart pounding, remembering what Nadine had said about Paris’s strange cough. Surely this was it. The baby was sitting up in her crib, gasping for air, her narrow chest concave with the effort of sucking in oxygen.
Paris saw me and struggled to stand, but the effort made her hiccup and bark and gasp until her lips turned blue. She didn’t have enough breath in her to cry.
“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” I murmured, but it wasn’t. Paris managed a faint, raspy howl, broken by that inhuman seal’s cough at the back of her throat.
I was terrified to pick up the baby, afraid she’d turn even bluer and die in my arms. Had I fed her something wrong? I rapidly catalogued what she’d eaten. Could she be allergic to milk, apples, cheese?
But I hadn’t given her anything new to eat today. And this wasn’t an allergic reaction; it was some sort of respiratory failure. I’d seen enough of those as a teacher to recognize them. But from what? Cystic fibrosis? That might explain why she was so skinny. Pneumonia? Had I kept Paris outside too long in the fog?
Did she have some horrible side effect from her mother taking drugs during pregnancy? No, no. I would have seen signs before. What, then, could cause her such distress in the middle of the damn night? I could go online and look up symptoms, but that would be even more terrifying. I couldn’t do any of this alone.
I scooped Paris up and dialed Karin’s number. “Pick up, pick up,” I muttered, but there was no answer. Of course there was no answer. It was 3 o’clock in the morning, and Karin turned the phone off at night. Or maybe Ed had come around with another bouquet.
I couldn’t risk taking Paris over there. I’d be better off driving to the ER, which was the same distance as Karin’s house—except that I was afraid Paris would carry on about the car seat like she did before and somehow choke in panic. Or I’d have a car accident listening to Paris in the back seat while I drove.
By now, Paris had gone limp against my shoulder, except when her tiny body was in the throes of a coughing spasm. Then she flopped about like a rag doll. I pressed my ear against her ribcage and heard bubbling through her lungs. When I lifted my head again, I spotted David’s business card, the one Karin had given me, on the counter where I’d left it. I had meant to make an appointment at his clinic for the baby’s checkup, but I’d forgotten.
I flipped the card over, found the cell phone number Karin had scribbled there for me, and punched in the numbers. He was a doctor. He was Karin’s friend and a pediatrician; he must be used to dealing with emergencies and panicked parents.
David answered on the second ring. He seemed not the least surprised to hear from me. Karin must have seen him at work and told him about the baby. David asked me to describe the baby’s symptoms in detail, then told me to sit in the bathroom with her.
“Run the shower,” he said. “Crank up the hot water. Hot as you can get it. Keep the shower curtain open and the bathroom door shut. You want steam, lots of steam. Wait! Tell me how to get to your house. Leave your apartment door unlocked and give me fifteen minutes.”
He was with me in ten, carrying a comforting looking black medical bag. David slipped into the bathroom so quietly that Paris didn’t startle, and perched on the tub. I was sitting on the toilet seat with Paris on my lap, the shower going full force. David’s flannel shirt gaped open over his red t-shirt and his curly hair was matted flat on one side. I’d definitely gotten him out of bed, yet he seemed fully alert. So was I, high on adrenaline.
“Her lips are blue,” I said desperately.
“What’s her name?” he asked softly, taking a stethoscope out of his bag.
“Paris.”
“Hi there, Paris,” he greeted her solemnly. “I’m Dr. David.” Then, to me, “Can you turn her on your lap, please, so that her left side is to me?”
I did as he asked. David’s fingers were gentle as he listened to the baby’s heart and lungs, took her temperature, checked her pulse, and peered into her throat and ears. I relaxed slightly as David took charge. He talked not to me, but to Paris, who watched him warily and, for one split second, smiled when David said, “You’ve got a birdie in your ear, I think, Miss Paris. No, wait, it’s only a kitty!”
Her breathing eased gradually, and Paris pressed her head against my shoulder, moving her head slightly as she tracked David’s movements. When he was finished examining her, David pulled a final magic trick out of his bag: an orange Popsicle. It had already started to melt, but he pushed the frozen end between the baby’s lips and coaxed her to taste it.
“What’s wrong with her?” I asked finally, as Paris tentatively tongued the frozen orange.
“Croup,” he said. “Fairly common in infants, but scary as hell, isn’t it?”
I burst into tears and blubbered something about how I’d been certain she was dying.
David’s glasses had fogged over. He removed them and wiped the lenses on the tail of his flannel shirt. “Everyone thinks that when their kids have croup. And sometimes it can be very serious, if there’s a complete obstruction of the airway. Most of the time, though, croup is something that a little hot steam can fix at home.”
“But what is croup, exactly?”
An infection, he explained, of the voice box, windpipe, and bronchial tubes, usually viral, though there was a bacterial croup, too. Very rare.
“Typically, a child has a cold first, but not always, and the first night of croup is always the worst,” he said. “She’ll wheeze for a few more hours, maybe, but it’ll ease up. See? She’s already breathing better. You did a great job of keeping her calm.”
“Are you kidding? I didn’t do anything but panic! It’s just dumb luck that you’re a neighbor and Karin gave me your home phone. And I’m not her mother,” I added, blowing my nose on a scrap of toilet paper.
David raised a bushy eyebrow above his glasses, but his lenses had fogged up again and I couldn’t read his expression. “Really? She looks just like you.”
“She’s my niece. My brother’s child. A long story,” I apologized. “I didn’t even know I had a niece in San Francisco, or anywhere else, for that matter. This is a recent development.”
“A nice surprise, I hope?”
“An ongoing saga. Look, aren’t you on call, or something? I feel awful now, getting you out of bed for nothing.”
“Don’t. It’s my night off. I don’t have anywhere I need to be.”
“Oh, God. I got you out of bed on the one night you could have slept? I’m so sorry! I just didn’t know who else to call. I don’t know anyone here except Karin and my brother, and neither of them answered their phones.”
“It’s really okay.” David grinned, his foggy lenses glinting in the flourescent light. His hair had curled into tight ringlets in the steam. “I’m glad you called. I wanted to see you again. I tried to say goodbye to you at Karin’s party, but you’d left the porch and I couldn’t find you. I was planning to call Karin to find out your status.”
“You make it sound like I’m a plane about to leave and you’re a late check-in.”
He rolled his eyes. “The story of my life.”
I smiled and stroked Paris’s hair, which clung to her head in damp yellow threads. The baby was really getting into the Popsicle, and the Popsicle was getting all over me. I pulled a washcloth off the rack and started swabbing the sticky orange goo off one thigh. That’s when I realized what I was wearing: a tattered blue t-shirt and faded red bikini underwear. When would this guy ever see me in normal clothes?
“Oh, no,” I moaned. “I forgot to get dressed!”
David laughed. “Where’s the rule that says you’ve got to be dressed in your own bathroom? Besides, it’s a hundred degrees in here. You’re the smart one. It’s time I joined you.”
He stood up and pulled off his sandals, jeans, and flannel shirt, dropping each item into an untidy heap at my feet. I couldn’t help but compare his hasty, comic performance to Ed’s carefully choreographed striptease, and David’s slim, wiry frame to Ed’s muscular bulk. I grinned.