Page 88 of Hush, Little Baby

As though exhaustion severe enough to derail entire weeks of his life is normal.

As though being twenty-five years old and struggling to carry groceries is something he should learn to live with.

The doctor clears his throat. “There are still several avenues I’d like to pursue.”

My attention snaps back immediately. “Such as?”

He flips through another page. “I’d like to repeat a few autoimmune panels. Not because I think previous physicians were wrong, but because some conditions evolve over time. I’d also like to investigate several things that don’t appear to have been explored extensively.”

He glances up at Charlie. “The most promising is a category of periodic fever syndromes—rare, primarily genetic conditions which can cause the sort of inflammatory spikes and systemic symptoms you’ve been experiencing. The hereditary forms are especially rare.”

I look at Charlie to gauge his reaction, but his face is expressionless. There’s a defensive slackness to his mouth that makes me want to shake him.

“So, what’s the timeline?” I say.

“I’d like to get the next round of labs as soon as possible. Some of the genetic panels require insurance pre-authorization, but given your situation—” He glances at me. “We can run them privately.”

I nod.

He closes the file. “I’ll call when we have approval. In the meantime—” He holds up his hand, preempting more questions. “We’re keeping pain control and nutrition as priorities. You have my cell. Please call if you notice any changes, especially in fever patterns.”

We thank him, and he leaves. The room is suddenly too quiet.

Charlie tucks his knees up and hugs them to his chest. The flames throw shifting shadows up the wall.

“You’re unhappy,” he says after a long time, without a question mark. “Don’t try to hide it.”

I have never been good at hiding it. “I’m just—” I clap my lips shut. The anger is pointless. “This isn’t a solution. I want a solution.”

Charlie gives a one-shouldered shrug.

I sigh, running my fingers through my hair. “Well, he did say the genetic fever ones were promising. And he mentioned mast cell disorders during the last appointment, so maybe he’s thinking it might be that.”

“Yeah…”

“What is it, baby?” I ask.

Charlie looks up at me, cheek pressed against his knee. “It’s just best not to get too excited. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been told that I probably have something. The doctors will listen to my symptoms and connect the dots, and I leave the appointment feeling like I’ve finally found it. That I finally fit somewhere. I look up the treatment options for whatever it is, and start daydreaming about how I might finally feel better. But then I get results back, they don’t find what they were sure was there, and I get passed off to another doctor.”

He picks at a loose thread on his pants. The colors make a little rainbow at the hem. He doesn’t look at me, but the way his ankle is bouncing says he’s trying not to cry.

I want to tell him that I won’t let that happen. That the endless shuffle will end here, with this doctor, or the next specialist, or with me personally flying a team of researchers in if that’s what it takes. But I know him well enough to know that promises are useless right now—he’s lived too many years in that loop to believe me.

“I know.” I keep my voice level, gentler than I feel. “But this time…” I trail off, because what comes next is just wishful thinking, and we’ve both outgrown that.

He looks up at me, eyes glassy but unblinking. “What if there is no answer?”

“There is,” I say, softer, because he’s close enough now that I can see the tiny pink stretch marks on his upper arms. There is always an answer. Maybe not the one you want, or maybe not one you even recognize when it arrives. “There has to be. And I’m not going to stop until I get it for you.”

The fire crackles beside us. We sit in the orange warmth, two castaways in a storm with nothing left to throw overboard.

Charlie whispers, “What if it takes years, Niko?”

I pull him to my side, guiding his head to my shoulder. “Then it takes years.”

He sags into me, a slow collapse of resistance I feel as the transfer of his inertia into my own ribs. It’s somehow more heartbreaking than his fear—this unresisting, practiced disappointment. I curve an arm around him and let us drift sideways, until the heat from the fireplace soaks into the soles of my feet and the side of my face. I can’t tell if the wet patch beneath my clavicle is from his eye or mine.

We stay that way long enough for the fire to die back to orange embers. My phone vibrates on the coffee table, skittering in a little circle. After it starts up again, I groan and reach over to grab it.