Because (Seven Year Itch #4) Read online

  Okay, I know you’re probably rolling your eyes at my assumption. If I knew now what I knew then I would have run as far away from love as humanly possible. I’d never wish this kind of pain and struggle on anyone else, certainly not someone trying to raise a child.

  It’s not like I was giving a rundown of how true love works. I thought if we were sexually compatible everything else would fall into place. We didn’t have to be friends to fall in love, so I assumed.

  Speaking of intimacy with my husband…

  I no longer expect goodbye kisses or any at all. I’m lucky if we screw while facing one another. Usually he’d get an urge and bend me over, lasting about forty five seconds and then leave me filled with a dripping mess for the rest of the day. Our sex life isn’t spontaneous. It’s more premeditated.

  We don’t mutually come together to ravage one another. I often wondered if it means anything to him at all. On most occasions we have sex because he wants to do something I don’t agree with. Apparently he thinks if he gives me sex I’ll give in and let him do whatever his cold-heart desires.

  This time isn’t much different from the one before. Brandon has been getting on me about going out with his friends for the past two weeks. When it was originally mentioned he’d been vague about the details. He’d said they were meeting after work and going to happy hour at a nearby bar. The last time he’d done something like this he didn’t come home until early morning, claiming they all got too drunk to drive home. The thing is, I’d called and talked to him, offering to drive out in the middle of the night and pick him and his friends up instead of them having to pay for a room. The mere mention of it set him off. He didn’t speak to me for days afterwards, blaming me for being more overbearing than his own mother.

  I was raised that a woman is an equal in the relationship, but also appreciated taking care of her man. I enjoyed doing things to make him happy. I felt as if our marriage would strive if I kept my man at a close arm’s length. In my heart I wanted to be resolved to the fact that him being content would ensure us a future without the worries of infidelity and regrets.

  Not a single day goes by where I don’t wonder what goes on in his mind. It’s obvious he doesn’t tell me how he’s feeling. I’ve become accustomed to assuming the worst, because anything else wouldn’t allow for me to recover.

  Aside from my everyday concerns, I still strive to satisfy him. If he wants sex, I give it to him. I still take pleasure in pleasing him. While he’s away I’d read about being a better lover, and even explore my body to ensure we’re both getting the pleasure we desire.

  Brandon has his own ways of studying our sexuality.

  He’d rather watch porn on his cell phone than together with me, and I’m not sure any other scenario will work for me anyway. Not that I’m a selfish person, but I feel like he’s cheating when he does that. I’m jealous those girls are everything I’m not. I’m insecure to a fault. I can’t help it. I want my man to devote his heart and soul to me completely. The idea of him getting turned on by another person irritates me to no end. I’m a hypocrite, because many times I’ve used my bullet to bring myself pleasure while imagining being with other people. Sometimes it’s the only way I can get off.

  I’m damaged and he’s to blame.

  So damaged I see a shrink once a week, because he says I’m mental. For the most part, I talk my head off and cry for about fifty-five minutes and then she tells me we’ll talk more during our next session. All she’s helping me to see is how much money I’m wasting going to her. She did offer me one piece of advice. She told me if I wasn’t happy I should end my marriage.

  Why don’t I leave, you ask?

  It’s simple.

  He’s everything to me. He’s the father of my child. He’s the future I want to have. I still believe there is hope for us, I just don’t know the first thing about being able to achieve it. I’ve never been one to quit. When the going gets tough, I manage to find a solution.

  This too shall pass.

  I think.

  When I look into my daughter’s eyes I know I can’t give up. There has to be some way to resolve this without tearing us apart. I’m at the end of my rope. This is going to kill me if I don’t do something about it.

  I can’t turn to my parents, or his for that matter. They’d never understand. They don’t believe he’s as bad as I say. This has to be something I do on my own.

  Later in the night Aberdeen is in bed with me. She always ends up here, and normally her father and I are against it unless he isn’t home to complain. She’s cuddled up against me, her little body full of sweat. I squirm away from her hold and readjust the covers, hoping it will cool her down. After further inspection I realize she’s burning up with fever. Worried something could be wrong, I lightly shake her awake. “Honey, wake up for Mommy.”

  Her little eyes are heavy as they open. She’s lethargic, unlike her normal energetic demeanor.

  “Sweetie, stay here. I’m going to get you some Tylenol. You have a fever.”

  “I don’t feel good,” she mumbles.

  As soon as I stand up to retrieve medication I hear her hurl. She’s projectile vomiting all over my bed linens and there’s nothing I can do but watch it happening.

  I rush into the bathroom to grab a towel and the thermometer I keep in the open toothbrush holder slot. When I return she’s still throwing up. I slide on the mattress behind her and pull back her hair. There’s no point trying to contain the mess. She needs to finish first and then I’ll worry about the aftermath. “It’s okay. Just get it out, honey.”

  It takes her a few minutes to stop heaving. That’s when I start wiping her face. She basically falls against my chest, so fragile and exhausted. “Open your mouth so I can take your temperature.” I’m trying the oral way first, but if she can’t manage I’ll go downstairs and fetch the ear thermometer. I don’t know why I prefer the old fashioned kind over the other.

  We’re able to keep it under her tongue long enough for me to get a reading of one hundred and four.

  Immediately I begin to panic. This is serious.

  I start stripping off her soiled clothes so I can cool her body. Her light weight is easy to pick up and carry into the bathroom. “It’s going to be okay,” I say when she starts to whine. “I’m going to make you better. I promise.”

  “My tummy hurts again,” she manages to get out before another bought of puke ejects from her mouth.

  I’m halfway to the bathroom when I see it happening, so I begin to run. Once I have her in the empty tub I grab the wastebasket and hold it in front of her, while turning on the spigot to a temperature cool enough to lower her fever without shocking her. She’s helpless, and I’m desperate to alleviate as much of this as I’m able to.

  I begin taking off her clothes, careful to keep her from sudden extreme movements. I’m full of worry, because I’ve never seen my daughter this sick before. Just hours ago she was fine, and now she can barely move. This can’t be a regular virus. Something is seriously wrong with her. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach, like I have some kind of motherly intuition.

  When I get her stripped down to her panties I noticed a rash on her stomach. This puts me in full blown panic mode.

  Covered in what she has thrown up, I begin to strip out of my pajamas, while keeping both eyes focused on my daughter. She’s resting her head against the cold porcelain wall of the old claw foot tub. I can’t believe how fast she’s declining.

  It’s imperative that I get her to a hospital as soon as possible. My cell phone is in my bedroom and I’m too concerned about leaving her to go grab it. While on my knees, I reach over and check her body with the back of my hand, feeling around to see if the water surrounding her is helping at all.

  She’s still burning up.

  I want to cry, but I have to hold myself together. Brandon isn’t home and I can’t scare her more than she probably already is. I pull the plug to allow the filled water to draw out and make a dash for the bed
room. I quickly dial the number to her doctor’s office and leave a message with the answering service for the doctor to get back to me. I don’t know when or if she’ll call, but I need to cover all bases.

  When I’m back in the bathroom I fetch a towel and lift her limp body out of the tub. She’s barely able to stand and crying out. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s scared or in pain. “Calm down, sweetie. I’m going to take you to the hospital and get you better. It’s going to be okay. Tell me what hurts. What’s wrong, Ab?”

  “I don’t know,” she screams. “Help me, Mommy. I’m cold.” Her body is shaking, her teeth chattering.

  With no regard for the mess I’m leaving behind, I pick her up and carry her into her room, quickly dressing her enough to take her to the hospital. Even though I know she’s cold, I can’t bring myself to cover her up. I have to keep her as cool as possible, so once I start the car I roll down the windows. She is going to hate it, but its only a short ride. I’d read about high fevers causing seizures and even comas. I can’t risk that. Easton Memorial Hospital is only a few miles from where we live on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. I’m thankful for that, because my heart can’t deal with something terrible happening to my daughter.

  Chapter 3

  While driving like a bat out of Hell, I wait for the ringing to stop at the sound of his voice. This is the sixth time I’ve dialed his number. The first five have been ignored, sending me right into is voicemail that I know he never checks. If he thinks I’m going to hang up and give it a rest he has another thing coming. Our daughter is too sick, not to mention the fact that he should be home with us instead of out with the guys at God only knows what bar or strip club this late.

  I begged him to stay. I pleaded.

  He probably thinks this was just me trying to ruin his good time. He has no idea there is a real emergency going on with his only child. Brandon may be a shit husband with minimal priorities when it comes to our marriage, but Aberdeen means the world to him. He loves her more than life itself. As mad as I am with him, I know I can’t stop trying to reach him.

  On top of my concerns for my child’s health, my mind is fixated on my earlier fight with Brandon, and it being the reason he won’t pick up my call. If he hates me it isn’t without reason. He was right. Sometimes I nag him too much. I can’t help it. I want him to be better, and I don’t know how else to make it happen.

  Maybe we shouldn’t have married so early. Getting pregnant at eighteen and eloping seemed like a good idea at the time. I swore he was the love of my life, and that no other man could ever possibly give me the kind of passion Brandon does. It only took me a few months of pregnancy to see just how much growing up my husband had to do. He wasn’t around much for doctor appointment or pivotal firsts, like feeling our daughter move. His priorities revolve around his friends. Nothing has changed since then. Nothing.

  Seven years.

  Seven years of ignored phone calls.

  Seven years of being his last priority.

  Seven years of waiting for him to come around and see how much we need him to put us before his own social life.

  I keep waiting, but it seems like it’s never going to happen.

  It doesn’t help that in the time we’ve been married I’ve heard enough opinions from other people to last a lifetime.

  “Give him time.” How much time is needed? Were they talking about weeks? Months? Years? A lifetime of being miserable?

  “Men mature later than women.” I have every reason to believe it never happens, at least not for my husband.

  “He will come around.” Maybe in the next century, when I’m dead in the ground with a lifetime of regret and despair. Surely, I can agree to disagree.

  “Maybe you’re smothering him.” Asking my husband to pitch in with family decisions, chores, and priorities is not smothering him, not in my book. Maybe my friends and family are smothering me with their ridiculous opinions. In the meantime, I’m drowning in depression. I’ve let myself go, mostly because I’m too damn upset to do anything. It’s a struggle to get out of bed, especially when the spot next to me is almost always empty.

  Arriving at the Emergency is a relief. I haven’t gotten ahold of Brandon, and I don’t have time to sit around and keep trying. I type in a quick text before shoving my phone in my purse and rushing to get my daughter inside.

  When medical workers see me carrying a seven year old, one that should be capable of walking in herself, they know something was terribly wrong. A triage nurse hurries to my side. “What happened?”

  “Her fever was over one-hundred and four. She’s vomiting, and has a rash on her stomach. She’s lethargic and…” I can’t keep talking. I’m breaking down, gripping to her body in order to keep from dropping her. “Please. She needs to see a doctor.”

  She takes us through the back and puts us in a room while calling for another nurse to help her prep Aberdeen. Once they have her in a bed, they lift her pajama top over her head and started taking her vitals.

  “When did she last have medication?”

  “She hasn’t. She kept vomiting and I didn’t get the chance.”

  “We’re going to get her temperature managed first, and then we’ll draw blood to figure out what’s going on.” She says to me before checking Aberdeen’s eyes with a small light. “Her pupils are dilated. Can you get the doctor?”

  “Is she going to be okay?” It was hard to ask with my voice cracking.

  “We’re going to figure out what’s causing this, ma’am. She’s in good hands, I assure you.”

  A man comes in the room followed by the other nurse that had been helping from before. She gets to work on an IV and inserts the medication directly into her veins. At the same time the doctor and triage nurse are looking Aberdeen over. By this point she’s out of it, appearing to be asleep, even though I worried she’s unconscious. “Please tell me what’s going on.”

  “How long have these symptoms been occurring?”

  I wipe my tears as I speak. “Maybe an hour. She was fine earlier.”

  “Besides the fever, vomiting and rash, can you think of any other symptoms?” He asks.

  I shake my head. “She’s lethargic. She seems like it’s hard to communicate.”

  “We’re running some blood work and working on getting her fever under control. We should see improvement soon, and by that time we’ll hopefully have it figured out why she’s fallen ill. It’s probably viral, but we’ll make sure we have the proper diagnosis.”

  He leaves the room with the nurse he came in with, calling out the names of certain tests he wants panels for, while I remain watching the triage nurse attach a drip to Aberdeen’s IV. “What’s that for?”

  “Fluids. We need to keep her hydrated, especially if she’s vomiting. Do you know if she’s had loose bowels?”

  I shake my head. “Not that I know of. She was fine all day.”

  The nurse hands me a little bowl shaped like a banana. “In case she needs to throw up keep this handy. If she has to go to the bathroom, hit the call button. I’ll want to try to get a sample, but it’s okay if we can’t.” She pulls out her thermometer and after putting a new cover on the end, sticks it in my daughter’s ear. “Good. We’re at one-o-three point six. It’s coming down slowly. Don’t be surprised if she wakes up. It’s normal.”

  “Is there some kind of wicked virus going around?”

  “There is always something, but we’re going to make sure that’s all it is. Rest assured, she’s going to recover.”

  It wasn’t until she leaves the room that I pull out my phone again. Just as I start to hit the button to call Brandon I hear the doctor and nurse talking outside the door. “We need to take precautions in case it’s meningitis. Tell the lab to page me with the results. I don’t want to wait on this one.”

  “I’ll make sure they’re aware, doctor.”

  I cover my mouth and look down at my sleeping child. This can’t be happening.

  Meningitis. People die
from it.

  I have to hold onto the bedrails to steady myself as I grasp what I’ve just overheard. My daughter could be suffering from a life threatening condition and there isn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

  I needed Brandon. She needed him.

  I close my eyes and pray for him to show up, and within twenty minutes he appears in the doorway. His eyes are fixed on our daughter as he steps inside. “What the hell happened?”

  I’m still in tears, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, so talking is a struggle. “She woke up with an extremely high fever. She threw up everywhere. I heard them say meningitis. I don’t know, Bran. I don’t know.”

  He rushes to my side, pulling me to fall against his chest. He smells like stale beer and cigarettes, but this is a dire situation and I’m not about to start on him again, not when he was the only type of support I need to be able to handle this. “Are you sure? She was fine.”

  “I know. I told them that. I overheard the doctor ordering tests. He mentioned it, but I don’t know if it’s the diagnosis.”

  “How long have you been here?” He inquires.

  “Not long. I was in the car when I tried to call you. She woke up next to me. I tried to put her in the tub, but it wasn’t helping. I didn’t know what to do. I’m so scared.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Shay. We don’t know that’s what this is. She’s a healthy little girl. She’ll be okay.” He rubs my back and kisses the top of my head. Like every time there was some major catastrophe, he becomes the man I need, even though I know it’s only temporary. I think that’s why I refused to give up. There was hope in him yet, I just had to give him a reason to want to change.

  “What if she isn’t? I can’t live without her, Bran. I can’t.” I hate being negative, but seeing her suffering is hard to handle. I’m losing hope, and falling victim to my deepest fears.

  “Shh, you have to stay strong.”

  He holds me for a couple more minutes before I pull away and sit down in one of the chairs next to the bed. Brandon stands at our daughter’s side. He is whispering in her ear that he has arrived and everything was going to be fine.