Free Ten Days by Janet Gilsdorf Page A

clamped on the back of his neck and the other would hold his knees as close to his chin as she could bend him. Would he wiggle? Was he well enough to fight her grasp? Another nurse would paint his lower back with Betadyne, drawing concentric brown circles with the sponge. Then she would cover him with a sterile green sheet, placing the eyehole over the brown antiseptic.
    He knew the drill—doctor pulls on sterile latex gloves, snaps the fingers until they fit evenly, palpates the iliac crest with one forefinger to orient herself to Eddie’s anatomy and, with the forefinger on the other hand, locates the L3–4 lumbar space on Eddie’s backbone. Like a well-rehearsed dance.
    He wiped his forehead with his palm. Would it go well? Would the ER doc hit it right? She would advance the needle slowly into Eddie’s back until she felt the pop, the signal the needle’s tip had stabbed the dura. Then she would remove the stylet from the needle.
    The details of the spinal tap played over and over through his head. In one version, fluid clear as water dripped from the hub of the needle—normal spinal fluid. In another, the fluid was cloudy, looked like diluted skim milk. That would be bad, would mean meningitis. In a third version, the fluid was bright red because the doctor had hit a blood vessel with the needle tip. The blood in the specimen would obscure the lab results; they might not be able to tell if he had meningitis or not.
    He wanted to be in the cubicle, to watch the tap, to send mental telepathic instructions that would guide that needle into the right place. No blood. No complications. Quick.
    No, that wouldn’t be a good idea. He didn’t want to be there if the sample was cloudy or even bloody. Didn’t want to be in the room if things didn’t go well, if the doc had to stick Eddie’s back several times, if she grew frustrated and impatient and sloppy, if the needle couldn’t be coaxed smoothly into the subdural space.
    Anna seemed to be still asleep, tucked into the corner of the green chair. What had happened last night? Yesterday, when he left for the hospital, he had kissed Eddie’s head as it lay propped against her arm, her nipple in the baby’s mouth. His son’s skin hadn’t seemed feverish. But his nose was stuffy, and clear snot had bubbled out one nostril. Eddie had a cold. Same cold as Anna, which she probably caught from Chris. She had called him last evening, said something about Eddie having a fever. From what she told him, the baby didn’t seem very sick. She said he was still nursing, hadn’t said anything about vomiting. What happened?
    The questions hammered inside his head. What had she done? Or not done? Why hadn’t she recognized he was so ill?
    Had he missed a clue when she called? It didn’t sound too bad, baby with a fever and a cold. Happened all the time. Why hadn’t he questioned her more carefully? If he had understood how ill Eddie was, he would have told Anna to get the baby to the ER last night. How could this be happening to them?

Chapter 9
    Anna
     
     
     
     
     
    “W hat was going on with Eddie last night, Anna?”
    She heard Jake’s voice over the drone of the ER waiting room. Then a woman’s cry rose above the noise, replaced by a man’s grunt. A phone rang, a baby screamed, wheels rolled over linoleum, something metallic fell with a clang.
    She stared at his pale, whiskery face, at his tired eyes. “He was sick.”
    “Honey, what happened after we talked on the phone?”
    It was chilly in the waiting room. She wrapped her arms around her chest, folded them under her breasts—her achy breasts. “I rocked him for a little while.”
    “Was he nursing?”
    “Not very well. But he took a little bit. Jake, I’m so scared. Is he going to be all right?”
    “I don’t know.” He wiped his forehead. “Was he crying? Or whimpering?”
    “He was fussy, eventually he fell asleep.”
    Then she remembered. She had begged Eddie not to wake up when she laid him in