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Chapter 14

"Oh, baby," I whimper, on the verge of tears, my voice tired and full of pain. Distorted. I can barely recognize it myself. "Baby, please stop crying, everything's going to be okay," I take my crying son out of his bed. His face is red from screaming, his hair and pajamas soaked in sweat. When his skin comes in contact with mine, I flinch from the burning sensation. His temperature is off the roof, and his screams are so loud that I'm pretty sure the whole street can hear him.

My mother called me at work today, several hours ago, to inform me that Will is ill. 'He has a small fever, he's sleeping it off, nothing to worry about,' she had said, trying to calm me down, knowing very well how dramatic I can get when it comes to my child. How protective I am when it comes to him, often making a big deal out of nothing. An hour or two later, she had called me again, saying that he's burning up, sweating a lot, and that he won't stop crying. I came home right away.

He was so small when he was born. He still is, a lot smaller than the other children. He is short and thin, his hair light, like an angels, his skin fair - he's like a bread crumb. He reminds me of Stefan when he was a boy. He's been struggling to learn how to walk for a long time, and even after he did, we still had to carry him everywhere. He wouldn't talk for a long time either. He gets scared easily. I have a feeling he's always one step behind the other children, and that feeling is urging me to protect him from everything, at all costs. So whenever he gets sick, whenever he falls and skins his knees, whenever anything remotely dangerous happens, time stops for me. In the time that he's hurting the Earth stops spinning, I stop breathing, taking a big intake of air that I don't let out until he get better, no matter how much my lungs start hurting.

"You're going to be okay," I kiss his cheek, and his warmth melts my lips off. I can feel my shirt getting wet when I pull his little body closer to my torso. A wave of pain and worry and fear surges through me.

"Where's your father?" I ask rhetorically, glancing at the clock one more time. 6:30 pm - he should have been home half an hour ago. The money is still a bit tight, we spent a whole bunch of it on the house, and babies are expensive. A lot more expensive than we had initially thought. I got my diploma three months ago, but I still haven't got a chance to put it to good use. I'm still working at the store, so Stefan's been taking double shifts. His shift ended an hour ago, he should have been home by now. I've called him at least five times, but he's not picking up his cell. I swallow. I can't be worrying about him as well.

"Mamma!" Will screams into my ear, swinging his tiny arms around my neck, pulling at my hair. He's clutching at me tightly.

"What's wrong?" I cry out silently, helplessly, as I watch him struggle with something he can't explain, and something I can't even begin to understand. "Please tell me what's wrong and I'll help you. I'll do anything."

I should be able to help him, I'm his mother. But I don't know how. I don't know what's wrong with him, I don't know what to do anymore. I've tried to lower his temperature every way I know how, but no such luck. I've tried to calm him down, to put him back to sleep, I've tried singing and cuddling and playing with him. He won't eat or drink anything.

He just keeps screaming, his voice turning muffled and dry by now. He's cramping in my arms, buckling and kicking, and all I can do is hug him tightly so he can't move.

I start pacing around the house with my screaming baby boy trashing in my arms. "Mamma, mamma, mamma!" he keeps yelling, asking for my help. I close my eyes shut so that the tears don't start pouring down my cheeks. Staying strong is the only thing I know how to do for him.

"Okay, okay," I exhale, talking to myself more than to him. I place him down on the sofa while I run off to the other room to grab his jacket - I feel extremely bad for putting more layers of clothes on him when he's already too hot to handle, but it's pouring outside, which is rare. This day can't be any worse than it already is.