Page 14 of Man Flu

Chapter Four

Still Tuesday. Can I call Tuesday a “See You Next Tuesday?”

LIKE I DO EVERY TIME I’m going to or leaving from somewhere, I run, in heels because a lady wears freaking heels.

I should start wearing running shoes with my skirts and dresses, oh, and maybe lose the stockings and forget to shave. I wonder how long it would take for one of the clowns I work with to say something. It’s tempting, but I’m not sure Logan needs to see how far I’d take something with those asshats. Not yet, anyway.

I’m buzzed into the school and jog into the office, then the nurse’s office. Cora is asleep on one of the cots, and she’s more than a little pale. “Hi, Mrs. Pierce,” the nurse greets me. “The poor little thing came in here looking awful. I’m surprised she didn’t have a fever before she left home this morning.”

Is she accusing me of sending my daughter to school with a fever? She better not be.

“Cora insisted on coming to school today,” I reply, “and she did not have a fever this morning.”

“And you took her temperature?” the nurse asks.

Those are fighting words. “How dare you accuse me of lying!” I say, keeping my voice low.

“I’m not accusing you, Mrs. Pierce, I’m simply asking.”

“Well, let me ask you something. Do you have children?”

“No, I do not.”

“Then, do not judge my parenting. Are we clear?”

“I was not judging, but clearly, Cora is quite sick. I suggest making a visit to her pediatrician.” I’m going to lose my shit in about two-seconds if I don’t get us out of this place.

I lift Cora up, cradling her in my arms as I grab her backpack that’s leaning against the cot.

“You’ll need to sign her out,” the nurse says, obviously waiting until after I’ve lifted my child up to remind me.

I sling her Shopkins backpack over my shoulder, grab the pen tied down to the clipboard and fill out the necessary information.

“Thanks a lot,” I tell the nurse.

“Hopefully, Cora feels better soon,” she says with a fake grin. What is her issue with me?

I carry Cora out to the car, shocked she hasn’t woken up yet considering she has never been the type to stay asleep while I’m transitioning her from one place to another. Once she’s strapped into her car seat, I dump her backpack below her feet and quietly close the door before falling into it and exhaling the exhaustion and pain in my chest. This seems like it’s never going to get easier. I swear, some days I feel like I’m not strong enough to make it to the end of the day.

As I lug Cora into the office, I begin to question if she does need to be seen by a doctor. She hasn’t woken up yet, but I can’t miss this meeting. I check my watch for the thirtieth time in the past hour, knowing I now have less than fifteen minutes until the meeting starts.

“Just hang in there, kiddo,” I tell her as we enter the elevator. While heaving against the wall and holding my forty-pound child like a baby, I can’t help wondering what Rick is doing at this moment. I can imagine him sitting in his office chair with his feet up on his desk, shooting the shit with someone about golf.

For every minute longer this stupid elevator takes, my arms threaten to give out entirely.

The door opens, and I hobble into my department and down the corridor to my office. However, I have no idea what I’m going to do with her now that we’re here. Spinning around, I kick one of the two chairs out from the wall and pin it against the other to make a bed, but I can’t seem to make them straight.

Logan turns the corner and doesn’t say a word before straightening out the chairs and peeling Cora out of my arms.

The release on my shoulders is pretty much the most incredible thing I’ve felt in forever, but I must look like a sweaty rat right now after running all over while carrying her.

“You have five minutes to freshen up and another five to prepare,” Logan says. “I’ve got her.”

I touch the back of my hand to her forehead, feeling the heat that wasn’t there this morning. The fever is radiating from her now. “I need to get her some Tylenol.”

Logan stares through me for a minute. “Okay, you’ll only have like three minutes to freshen up, but hold on.”

He jogs out of the department, disappearing without a mention of where he’s going or what he’s doing. I probably should have told him she can’t take adult Tylenol. It’s something only parents probably think about.