She was at the office gym at 6:30 one morning because she slept badly and the gym was the only place where physical exertion the scanup gave her a justification for not thinking when her phone lit up with Caleb's name. She answered immediately breathing hard. It's 6:30. I know Ava's sick. She stopped walking.
How sick. Fever 102. She's been up since 4:00 and she's asking for you. Natalie stood on a treadmill in a gym on the 14th floor. She's asking for me.
She knows you've been a doctor. She says doctors know things. I'm a child psychologist, not a pediatrician. I know. I tried explaining that.
She said, and I'm quoting directly, "She'll still know more than you, Dad." Natalie had her jacket on before she reached the elevator. She was at his apartment in 22 minutes. He opened the door looking like a man who'd been up since 4:00, which he had in a worn gray shirt, shadows under his eyes, the specific dishment of someone managing competently while running on empty. You didn't have to come, he said, but he stepped back to let her in.
"Where is she?" "Her room," she went. Ava was in her lavender room under two blankets, hair flattened, eyes glassy, with the particular misery of a sick child. She looked up when Natalie appeared. I knew you'd come.
Natalie sat on the edge of the bed and pressed the back of her hand to Ava's forehead. She checked her pulse with the automatic competency of who'd spent enough time in clinical settings to know the basics. She looked at her eyes, her color, the quality of her breathing. Sore throat? No.
Ears? No. Just my head feels heavy. That's the fever. Your body is working on something.
That's good. It means it's doing its job. Is it doing a good job? It seems very committed. Ava almost smiled.
I don't like being sick. Nobody does. Dad sits outside the door when I'm sick. He thinks I don't know, but I can hear him. Natalie glanced back through the open door.
Caleb was standing in the hallway, arms crossed, watching. She looked back at Ava. That sounds like something he'd do. He doesn't like when I'm not okay. No, he doesn't.