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Anna states quietly, “I spoke with the nurse practitioner at our doctor’s office in Ft. Lauderdale.” She brings me up to speed on what was advised. “So, do they think there’s a good chance it could be pneumonia?” I ask as a knot of worry starts to tighten in my gut.
“Only if the rattle in his chest worsens,” she states matter-of-factly, with only a slight concern. I get the sense that she’s been through this before.
“I understand. Um… Would you like to eat? I ordered Italian, Connor’s favorite.” I manage to ask her as she turns around, a few of the bottles of medicine in her hands. “Yes, but later.” Then she’s gone.
I hear hushed voices, so I move to his bedroom and stand in the doorway.
Connor lies snuggled up in bed. He’s awake. His cheeks are flushed a feverish red, and his normally bright eyes are dull.
Anna rubs ointment on his chest, which has a strong medicinal spell. She tucks in the covers as he rests against the pillows.
Anna leans in closer, her voice dropping to a soft murmur, a soothing melody meant only for Connor’s ears. She tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear, a gesture filled with tenderness. I watch as she carefully measures out the medicine and helps him raise the cup to his lips.
“Make sure you swallow all of it, Baby. It’s cherry flavored, and you like cherries,” she advises gently.
As Connor hesitates, she states, “It will make you feel better.” He swallows all of it, but he still grimaces once it’s gone. “That’s it,” she says.
The silence is broken only by Connor’s labored breathing and Anna’s hushed reassurances. I linger in the doorway, a silent observer of this intimate scene.
A lump forms in my throat as I watch Anna care for our son. My presence feels almost like an intrusion, yet a part of me wants to be closer, to offer comfort to Connor, and to help lift the burden of responsibility off Anna. I shift my weight as I stand hovering in the doorway.
Anna glances behind her and sees me. She then looks down at Connor and asks gently, “Do you feel like eating something? Your dad brought dinner. I have a feeling it’s spaghetti and meatballs.”
For the first time, Conner’s eyes brighten, “My favorite? Okay,” a rasp to his voice.
I step forward, “Hey, Son. Heard you aren’t feeling well.” Connor offers a weak nod, his usual endless energy dampened. I walk over to him and ruffle his hair, and he doesn’t even try to duck his head. “I’ll get your dinner.”
I come back with all three containers. We all sit on the bed and eat together—a temporary truce between Anna and me.
A flicker of his usual grin returns as he eats his spaghetti. Connor doesn’t eat that much. Yet, every bite that he finishes is a small victory against how lousy he feels.
Once we’ve finished the meal, Connor yawns, and his eyes start to droop. Anna and I pick up the containers and quietly exit his room. We leave his door open.
Her shoulders are tense, and her back ramrods straight as she carries the dinner trays into the kitchen. She glanced at me briefly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her features.
She finally turns and walks over to the medicine again. “I’ll need to find a local doctor,” she turns slightly toward me, “Then I’ll have Connor’s medical records transferred.”
“If you’d like, I can ask around for references—“ I begin, but Anna quickly shakes her head. “No, I’d rather ask a few of the other parents from his school.”
“Fine. Whatever you think is best,” I say quietly, unsure how to bridge the chasm my earlier words created. I reach out a hand to gently touch her arm. “Anna…” I start, but she turns away, and my hand falls to my side.
She crosses her arms and turns her back to me, clearly a dismissal.
Shit. Now, what do I do? I probably deserve her cold shoulder treatment, but I don’t like it. Not one bit. And I won’t put up with it for long. But I know I hurt her. So, for now, I’ll give her some space.
“I have some errands to run. I probably won’t be back until late,” I say in a chipped voice. “If you or Connor need anything, just let me know.”
She again nods without turning around. With a frustrated frown and anger at myself for causing this tension between us, I head for the door.
When I get to the parking garage, I take one look at my SUV and decide I’m in the mood for something faster—a ride that matches my reckless mood. I throw the cover off my motorcycle, revealing the gleaming chrome of my Harley. Without a second thought, I hop on and gun the engine. The deep rumble is a welcome sound that helps to dispel the turmoil within me.
As I pull out onto the city street, the amplified roar of the engine seems to mirror my emotions. When I reach the open highway, I increase my speed. The rush of the wind in my hair feels good, and I feel my black mood start to lift.
When I pull into Wild Riders, I look around in surprise that I chose this destination, as I hadn’t consciously planned on stopping anywhere.
I nod to the regulars that congregate in the front but don’t stop to talk. I walk through the heavy oak doors. The place is usually bustling, but tonight is a weeknight, and it doesn’t look that busy. I glance at the booths but then head straight for the bar. As I slide onto a stool, Spitfire, with his red bandana around his biceps, approaches. “Draft?”
“Yes, thanks.” As he sets an icy mug down in front of me, “My uncle around?”
