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“I don’t understand it,” I said. “He never cries like this, Emory.”
“Here, let me try.”
I frowned. “Okay. Worth a try.”
I handed Mason over to him.
Mason just kept right on screaming.
Emory bounced him, talked to him, walked around with him, but nothing. He made faces and spoke in baby talk, but Mason wasn’t having it. Emory was adorable trying to help, and maybe if I weren’t so stressed and upset I would be able to appreciate it, but Mason’s crying had me on edge.
Finally, Emory handed Mason back. I rocked him, staring down at him.
“Does he feel warm to you?” I asked Emory, cocking my head to one side.
Emory pressed his cheek against Mason’s forehead. “Maybe.”
“Maybe? He either does or he doesn’t.”
“I don’t exactly have experience with this, Tara.”
“Okay. Sorry. Just, maybe he’s sick? He does feel warm to me.”
I felt Mason’s forehead with my cheek again, and sure enough he felt warmer than usual.
“You’re just upset,” Emory said. “For good reason. But Mason is fine. Don’t worry.”
“Of course I’m worried,” I said, annoyed with him. He couldn’t understand. How could he?
Emory didn’t have to raise Mason. He didn’t push Mason out of his vagina, didn’t feed him, change his diapers, didn’t do everything for Mason like I did.
I couldn’t just sit back and watch Mason suffer. If he had a fever, something was seriously wrong.
I left the room, bouncing Mason, trying to calm him down. I went upstairs and read to him for another hour, going through every book I had and then moving on to random things on my phone. By the end of the hour, I was getting desperate, and Mason was definitely warmer than he had been before.
I went back downstairs and found Emory sitting on the couch, his feet kicked up, watching a crappy TV.
“I want to take Mason to a hospital,” I said to Emory.
He looked at me. “No.”
“Emory, he has a fever.” I carried Mason over to him. “Feel.”
He reluctantly felt him again and made a grunting sound. “He’s warm,” Emory admitted.
“Hospital. Please. A fever is bad. Mason doesn’t normally cry like this.”
“No,” he said again. “We can’t go to a hospital. It’s too dangerous. We have to let him pass this on his own.”
“Emory, he’s a baby. He can’t just fight off infections on his own.”
“He has to,” Emory said. “I’m sorry. He’s my son too.”
“No, he isn’t,” I snapped. “You weren’t there. You didn’t raise him. You don’t know what it means to be a father, clearly.”
He stared at me for a second, his face hard. “I’m sorry. No hospital.”
“I’m going. You can’t stop me.” I stormed off toward the front door.
I didn’t even hear him come up behind me. One second I was reaching for the door, and the next Emory was in front of me, blocking my way.
“Move,” I said.
“No. Go back.”
“Move or I’ll make you move.”
He grinned at me. “Let’s see you.”
I clenched my jaw, ready to lash out at him. I wanted to hurt him, to hit and kick him. How dare he keep me from bringing my baby to a hospital? Mason was hurting and he was my child, and I had to do everything possible to get him there.
But then I took a deep breath and let it out.
“You can stop me now, but I’m not giving up,” I said. “I’m going to get to a hospital. I’m not going to let my son suffer, no matter what.”
“You realize we have terrorists chasing after us, don’t you?”
“I know, but you can lose them. We can make it to a hospital.”
“It’s not safe, Tara.”
“None of this is safe,” I said. “Mason isn’t safe out there and he isn’t safe if we don’t go.”
Emory sighed, looking away. “I don’t want either of you to suffer.”
“Then let’s go.”
He looked back at me and then touched Mason’s forehead. “Another hour. If he’s still bad in an hour, we’ll go.”
I stared back at him. “Fine. One hour.”
I turned and walked back upstairs.
Maybe I shouldn’t have snapped like that. Maybe this was the wrong decision to make. But I couldn’t live with myself if Mason had something really wrong with him and I’d done nothing to help. I understood that men were after us. I’d seen their dead bodies. I’d seen the violence and the blood. I was absolutely terrified to leave this safe house.
