“Aaron,” I call out.
The only sound I get in response is more heaving. I find him in the bathroom hunched over the toilet, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. His cheeks are ruddy, his eyes are watering and bloodshot, and every time he moves he wretches again.
“Have you taken any meds?” I ask him.
“Can’t keep them down,” he says on a moan, his voice cracking. He lays his face on top of his hand, which rests flat on the toilet seat. At least his face isn’t directly on the porcelain. I get a washcloth from the cabinet, fold it, and place it between his hand and the seat.
“Did you try the suppository?”
He lifts his head. “The what?” But moving his head makes him sick again.
“I picked it up yesterday. It was supposed to be for emergencies.” I go to his medicine cabinet and retrieve all the bottles, looking for the ones that I picked up after chemo. “This one,” I say and show him.
“I can’t keep them down, Bess,” he croaks.
“This one goes up your butt, dummy.”
His eyebrows raise, but nothing more. He doesn’t move his head. “Up where?”
“Up your butt.” I mime sticking it up my rear end. Then I peel the wrapper off and hold it up. “Do you want to do it, or do you want me to?”
He holds out his palm. “I love you dearly, but I’m not letting you shove anything up my ass, Bess.”
I place it in his palm, usher Kerry-Anne out of the room, close the bathroom door, and then I walk toward the source of all the noise in the house. Miles is wailing his guts out. I look into his crib to find him red-faced and squalling, his little arms and legs kicking in frustration. “What does your dad do when this happens?” I ask Kerry-Anne.
“He picks him up,” she says.
“Oh.” I reach into the crib and lift his squirmy little body into my arms. The wailing doesn’t stop, though. “What next?” I ask Kerry-Anne as I gently bounce him from side to side.
She points to the dresser, where a makeshift changing station has been set up.
“Okay. We got this,” I say, more to myself than to her.
“It doesn’t look like you got this,” she replies.
That’s because I don’t. I lay Miles down and remove his sodden diaper, wipe him gently, and put on a new one. I wash my hands with an extra wipe. I don’t even bother to put his pants back on. I pick him up and look at Kerry-Anne. “Now what?”
“Feed him,” she says. I can barely hear her over his crying.
“Does he eat real food yet?”
She shakes her head.
“Just a bottle?”
She nods and sticks her fingers in her ears. I’m with her. If this sound was muffled, it would be a lot more tolerable.
“Do you know how much of this stuff to mix?” I ask her, looking at the bottle of water on the counter and the can of baby formula next to it. I say it loudly so she can hear me over the screaming. Miles is even pushing away from me with his arms and legs, he’s so mad.
She shakes her head.
I very quickly read the back of the can, and then mix it up, give it a good shake, tilt him back, and stick the bottle into his mouth. He immediately latches on to it, whimpering around the nipple as he calms himself down. Tiny little sobs leak out every few breaths, but now I can at least hear myself think. “I thought he never cries,” I say dryly to Kerry-Anne.
“He does sometimes,” she says softly.
“How long has your dad been throwing up?”
“A while.”