After that, I do triage. War-zone mode. I check the bedrooms—Rory and Raymond are smooshed together in the bottom bunk of their bed with matching wretched faces, each with his own barf bucket beside him. Riley and Regan are in Riley’s bed, with a wastebasket next to them, on the verge of sleep. I pay close attention to the two-year-old, who gazes at me with glassy eyes.
“Hiii,” she rasps exhaustedly.
I run my hand through her baby-fine hair. “Hey, kiddo.”
Then I head down to the kitchen, where Rosaleen is perched on the counter beside her baby brother, holding a bottle for him. She says she knows how to do it—that she’s watched her mother and Chelsea do it a thousand times. Thank fuck for observant kids.
“But you’re gonna have to burp him,” she tells me, and then explains how it’s done. Carefully, I lift him from the seat, holding him with straight arms like a bomb that could detonate at any moment. I follow Rosaleen’s instructions and bring him to my shoulder, patting and rubbing his back.
“Like this?” I ask the seven-year-old.
She nods encouragingly.
“You are officially my second in command,” I tell her. “You and me together are gonna kick this virus’s ass.”
She giggles. “Okay.”
I feel a ridiculous amount of pride when Ronan lets out a deep, rumbling belch that any grown man would be impressed to produce. I’m not going to tell the others, but I think he’s my favorite.
As I congratulate him, I notice his ass feels heavy.
Wet.
I look at his sister. “I think he needs to be changed.”
Her face turns wary and she raises her little hands. “Don’t look at me. I’m just a kid.”
“Now you play the kid card?” I ask her.
She shrugs without pity.
Okay. I can do this.
I’ve been arrested—spent time in lockup with genuinely dangerous guys. I’ve been in street fights without rules where no one was coming to break it up—and I’ve won. I’ve conquered the insurmountable challenge of earning a law degree and dealing with the self-centered jackasses who are my clients without committing aggravated assault.
It’s a diaper. How hard could it be?
I carry Ronan to his room, lay him on the pad on his dresser, and look him in the eyes. “Work with me, buddy, okay?”
Then, with one hand on his chest so he doesn’t roll away, I Google it.
Gotta love modern technology. Bomb-making and baby-changing diagrams at your fingertips. I get the diaper off, get him cleaned up with the wipes. I squeeze some white pasty shit out of a tube onto his ass, because I’m not sure if he’s red, but it’s there, so I’ll use it. I lift his kicking legs and slide a fresh diaper underneath him.
And then—without warning—a hot stream of piss, like a fireman’s hose, arches in the air, coating my shirt with expert aim.
I glare down at the baby. “Seriously, man?”
He just smiles around the hand he’s chewing on.
Fucking Google didn’t mention this.
• • •
Once I get Ronan settled in his swing, I find Rosaleen in the living room. We walk to the kitchen to check out our supplies, but she stops just inside the kitchen door. Her face goes blank and frighteningly ashen.
“You okay, Rosaleen?”
She opens her mouth to answer—but what comes out is a burst of chunky yellow vomit, like lumpy pancake mix gone sour.
Man down.
She coughs and stares, horrified, at the disaster on the floor, splattered on her shoes and on her sparkly T-shirt. Then she starts to cry. “I’m sorry, Jake.”
Something in my chest swells at her tears, making everything feel too tight. I kneel down beside her, my hand rubbing circles on her back. “It’s okay. Rosaleen—it’s just puke. It’s not a big deal.”
The dog scurries in like Mighty Mouse coming to save the day. Then he starts to chow down on Rosaleen’s vomit.
Robustly.
I gag in the back of my throat but manage to hold it together. “See?” I tell her, trying to sound cheery. “You did me a favor—now I won’t have to feed the dog.”
• • •
Rosaleen changes into pajamas and climbs into bed next to her sleeping aunt. I do a second check of the wounded and take advantage of the momentary quiet to call my reservists.
“They all have it?” Stanton asks with shock—and a lilt of humor.
“They all have it,” I declare grumpily. I rub my eyes. “I’m not ashamed to say I’m out of my league here.”
“Do they have fevers, too, or just the upchucks?”
“How do I tell if they have fevers?”
“Do they feel hot?”
I think about it for a second helplessly. “They don’t feel cold.”
“All right. Call the grocery store—they’ll deliver. Tell them you need an ear thermometer—the directions will be in the box. You also need Tylenol, saltine crackers, ginger ale, chicken broth, and Pedialyte.”
I furiously write down everything he’s saying, like it’s gospel. “What’s Pedialyte?”
“It’s like Gatorade for babies. Keep an eye on the infant. If he starts puking, don’t mess around—call the pediatrician. The number is probably on the fridge. Babies can get dehydrated really fast. Same goes for the two-year-old—watch her. If she can’t hold down a tablespoon of the Pedialyte an hour, you may have to take her in.”
“Got it. Anything else?”
“Just keep them comfortable. Little sips when they can drink. Crackers and broth when their stomachs settle. Call us if you need backup.”
I sigh. “All right, thanks, man.”
• • •
By the next morning, I’m waist-deep in laundry. Sheets, soiled pajamas, cloths for foreheads. I know my way around a washing machine—my mother made sure of it. And since I like things organized and clean, I know how to load a dishwasher and fold a towel, too.
By Wednesday afternoon, the troops are getting restless. They’re on the mend but not yet back to full capacity. Because they’re getting antsy, they start to argue with each other. He smells, she’s hogging the covers, he’s fucking looking at me wrong.
I transport them all downstairs and corral them in the den. Every couch, recliner, and love seat, and certain sections of the floor, is covered with blankets, pillows, and kids. Chelsea lies on the couch and I sit on the floor, leaning back against it. Ronan lies on his stomach on a blanket beside me. I flick on the television.
And the arguing starts up again.
“Let’s watch SpongeBob.”
“SpongeBob is stupid. Put on MTV—16 and Pregnant is on.”
Remember when MTV used to actually play music videos?
“We’re not watching 16 and Pregnant,” Chelsea tells her niece.
“How about the Discovery Channel?” Raymond suggests. “There’s a marathon on the hunting habits of lions. They eat a ton of gazelles.”
“Poor gazelles!” Rosaleen laments.
There’s a nightmare in the making.
“Listen up!” I holler. “I have the remote. That makes me master of the universe. And the master says we’re watching basketball.”
There are complaints and agreements in equal measure.
A little while later, Rosaleen crawls off the recliner, dragging her pillow with her. She plops it down next to me and rests her head on it, r
egarding me. Her forehead is sickly damp, her eyes glazed. “Will you sing me a song?”
I look back at her. “No.”
“Please?” she rasps.
I shake my head definitively. I will not be broken. “Not happening.”
Her clammy hand touches my wrist. “It will help me fall asleep.”
And just like that, the resolve begins to fissure.
“I don’t sing,” I explain with a dash of desperation.
Her lip trembles, and the fissure widens. “But it will make me feel better. And I feel terrible, Jake.”
I cling to my man-card with straining fingers. “I don’t know any songs.”
It’s doubtful Iron Maiden would be helpful in this situation.
She blinks up at me slowly. “Pretty please?”
And the fissure has now become the Grand fucking Canyon. Damn it.
I clear my throat and softly sing the One Direction lyrics that have been buzzing in my head for days like overcaffeinated insects.
“Everyone else in the room can see it . . .”
My voice is too deep and haltingly awful.
The boys groan in tortured unison. Riley perks up from the recliner and turns