Sustained (11 page)

Stanton gives the go-ahead and Chelsea says it’s fine. And then there’s
more
screeching—
yay
—before they charge up the stairs to get Riley’s stuff.

“Where are the other kids?” I ask Chelsea.

“They’re asleep,” she gladly informs me. “Brent tired them all out with flashlight manhunt.”

Brent pats his own back. “I’m the reigning champion.”

When the girls come back down carrying a sleeping bag, pillows, and a duffel bag, Riley stands in front of me, looking genuinely, sparkling happy.

“Thank you, Jake. This was like . . . the best night of my life.”

I could say it was my pleasure . . . but that wouldn’t be true. “Don’t mention it.”

Sofia hands Ronan to Chelsea and she gently lays him down in the small dark green portable crib in the corner. As they get ready to leave, I decide to hang around a little longer. Or a
lot
longer. Chelsea and I won’t exactly be alone, but minus one child is better than nothing.

Until Brent shoots my plan to shit. “Stanton’s car only seats four, so I need a lift home, Jake.”

Fuckin’ A.

I glance at Chelsea and it’s like she can read my mind. Because she’s smirking at me with humorous disappointment. “Thanks again, Jake. Good night.”

I reach out my hand, brushing her hair back from her face. “Good night.”

Then Brent slips in front of me. He bows slightly, takes Chelsea’s hand, and lifts it to his lips, kissing the back. “Thank you for a lovely evening—you were the hostess with the mostest.”

She giggles, while in the back of my throat, I snarl.

And the idea of breaking his jaw seems even more attractive than it did a few weeks ago.

Chelsea closes the door behind us and we walk toward my car, Brent skipping as best he can. It’s fucking annoying.

“Well . . . ,” he breathes slowly, suggestion strong in his tone, “Chelsea seems
nice
.”

I say nothing.

“And that ass,” he goes on admiringly, “
mmm, mmm, good
—I could bounce quarters off that tight—”

My hand lashes out, twisting the front of his shirt, dragging him forward till we’re nose to nose. “Shut
up
.”

He searches my eyes, his smile slow and knowing. “You like her.”

I drop him like a Hot Pocket straight out of the microwave and brush past him to my car. “Of course I like her. She’s a nice girl.”

Brent sticks close to my side, wagging his finger. “Nooo, you
like
her—not just in the sense that you want her riding reverse cowgirl on your dick. You
like
her, like her.”

“What, are you twelve?”

“Age is just a number. Or at least that’s what my uncle said when he married lucky, nineteen-year-old wife number three.” He nudges my shoulder. “But seriously, you’ve got this whole knight-in-shining-armor vibe going on.”

I shake my head. “My armor was tarnished a long time ago, Brent.”

“A knight in tarnished armor is still a knight.”

When I don’t respond, he pushes—because he actually believes I won’t punch his pretty face. “Then let me know when you’re done. I’d like to see if I can hit that.”

I step toward him. “She’s off-fucking-limits to you. Now, during, and after. Don’t even think about it.”

And the son of a bitch looks pleased with himself. He smiles wider. “Yeah—you definitely like her.”

•  •  •

On Tuesday night I’m working late at the office, finishing up a motion for Senator Holten’s domestic abuse trial. I loosen my tie, rub my eyes, and crack my neck. Just as I’m about to dive back in, my cell phone rings.

And Chelsea’s name lights up the screen.

I smile just seeing her name. It’s fucking weird and completely unlike me. I barely smiled when I graduated law school.

I wipe it off my face as soon as I realize I’m doing it. I tap the accept button and bring the phone to my ear. I start to ask the age-old question
What are you wearing?
But I don’t—thank Christ—because a high-pitched voice pipes up from the speaker.

Rosaleen’s voice.

“Hi, Jake!”

I lean back in my chair. “Hi, Rosaleen.”

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Working. What are you doing?”

“I’m making chicken soup.” There’s pride in her voice.

“That’s nice. Is your aunt around?” I ask, because I have a sneaking suspicion Chelsea doesn’t have a clue about what her niece is up to.

“She’s in the bathroom. She’s sick.”

I frown. “What do you mean, she’s sick?”

“She’s throwing up
everywhere
. They all are, except me. And Ronan—but he spits up all the time anyway, so he doesn’t count.”

Faintly, the sound of Ronan’s wailing comes through in the background.

I sit up and press the phone harder against my ear. “Is that your brother crying?”

“Yeah. He’s hungry. I’m going to heat up his bottle as soon as I’m done with the soup.”

I’m about to ask her if she’s using the stove or the microwave for the soup . . . but the loud, piercing shriek of the fire alarm, which wipes out any other sound from her end, pretty much answers that question before it’s asked.

“Whoops!” Rosaleen shouts into the phone. “Gotta go. Bye!”

“Rosaleen, wait—”

But she’s already hung up.

Shit.

I call back. It rings and rings, then goes to voice mail.

“Fuck!”

I
t’s not my problem. It’s none of my business. I have my own shit to worry about.

That’s what I tell myself as I put my phone aside, push my chair forward, and refocus on the document in front of me. On the hours of work I still have to finish tonight.

Be smart. Prioritize.

They’re fine. People get sick all the time . . .

And then they die.

Fire alarms go off every day . . .

As houses burn to the ground.

“God
damn
it!”

I pick up my phone and dial again. Still nothing.

I shake my head and put my fingers on the keyboard . . . but the only thing I can picture is Chelsea passed out on the bathroom floor.

“Son of a bitch!”

I throw in the towel and pack my briefcase with my laptop and files. I make it to my car in record time and wonder if calling 911 would be an overreaction. It’s touch-and-go for a while, but I hold back—I’ll be there in ten minutes.

Seven minutes later, I tear up the driveway, throw my car in park, and stomp to the front door. My mouth is dry and my palms are wet with concern. I bang on the door, but the only answer is Cousin It’s yap from the other side. I cup my hands and peer through the window, but I don’t see anyone.

“Chelsea! Rosaleen!” I try knocking again. “It’s Jake.”

When there’s no response, I contemplate busting the door down. But then I remember to check under the mat—and lo and behold, there’s a shiny silver key. And I’m in.

•  •  •

Cousin It dances around my legs as I walk into the foyer—just as Rosaleen is coming down the stairs, carrying a tray that’s bigger than she is. She smiles when she sees me.

“Hi, Jake. When’d you get here?”

Placing the key on the front table, I take the tray from her hands. “Where’s your aunt?”

“She’s upstairs in the bathroom. She told me to get Ronan’s bottle from the refrigerator.”

My eyes cut to the upper landing. “Okay. You go do that, I’m going to check on your aunt.”

I walk up the stairs and down the hall, following the sound of someone barfing up their stomach lining the way Hansel and Gretel followed bread crumbs. I stand in the bathroom doorway, casting a shadow on Chelsea’s crumpled form as she hunches over the toilet, holding on to the sides of the bowl like her life depends on it. She’s in a loose-fitting black T-shirt and sweatpants. Her hair is pulled back, a few strands damp with perspiration clinging to the back of her neck.

I crouch down next to her, my hand on her back.

Once her heaves subside, she wipes her mouth with a tissue and groans at me. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

“Rosaleen called. I used the key that was under the mat. You shouldn’t keep it there.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whimpers. “Run. Save yourself.”

“When the hell did this start?”

She closes her eyes, panting. “Monday—in the middle of the night. It started with Raymond, and the rest of us fell like dominoes.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I called the neighbor—Walter’s mother. She said she couldn’t risk one of her kids catching it. Her daughter has a pageant this weekend. She said she was sorry.”

Nice. Because
sorry
is so fucking helpful.

Chelsea drags herself to the sink and splashes water on her face and in her mouth. “I have to check on the kids.” She moves toward the door and almost cracks her head on the sink as her knees give out.

But I catch her, scooping her up into my arms. “Whoa—easy.” My voice turns firm. Kind of pissed off. “You’re not checking on anyone. You’re going to bed. Where’s your room?”

“No, I have to—”

“Don’t fucking argue with me. Where’s your room?”

She seems to give in—or she just can’t keep her head up anymore. It rests against my arm. “My room’s downstairs, but I want to stay up here—in case they need me. Can you take me to the guest room? Last door on the right.”

I follow her directions to a plain room with yellow walls and a white bedspread. I lay her in the middle of the bed gently. Her eyes crack open, shiny and miserable, gazing up at me.

“I can’t be sick,” she whispers.

“It’s a little late for that.”

“Aunt Chelsea!” one of the boys calls.

And it’s like she’s been electrified. Her eyes spring open and her head jerks as she tries to pull herself up into a sitting position.

“Lie down,” I tell her, guiding her back.

“I have to—”

“Chelsea, I’m here. Let me help you,” I bark, ready to shake her at this point. I brush her hair back from her stark-white—but still fucking beautiful—face. “I’ll make sure the kids are okay.”

She stares at me for a moment, like I’m an apparition. Or a dream. And then slowly, her eyes well with tears. They trickle silently out of the corners of her eyes and down her cheeks.

And every one fucking destroys me.

“Don’t cry. Why are you crying?”

She breathes out a shaky breath and wipes her cheeks. “I’m just . . . I’m so tired, Jake. I’m so tired.”

For the first time, I think about what it must’ve been like for her . . . after she got that phone call. How she probably raced around, throwing necessities in a bag, figuring she’d send for the rest of her things later. How she had to withdraw from school, probably break the lease on her apartment—upend her entire fucking existence.

And then she was here—so needed, all the time. Having to make a hundred different arrangements, care for six kids who couldn’t possibly care for themselves. And not just feeding them, homework, getting them to school, but helping them navigate an unimaginable grief. She had to keep them from falling apart.

And she had to do it completely on her own.

And I know, without a doubt, that she hasn’t taken a second for herself. To process her own pain, get a handle on her own sorrow and loss. There couldn’t have been any time. She’s been running on that hamster wheel for so long—it was only a matter of time before she completely crashed.

“Then sleep, Chelsea. I swear everything will be okay.”

She smiles even as more tears come. She grasps my hand, holding it tight.

“Thank you.”

•  •  •

After that, I do triage. War-zone mode. I check the bedrooms—Rory and Raymond are smooshed together in the bottom bunk of their bed with matching wretched faces, each with his own barf bucket beside him. Riley and Regan are in Riley’s bed, with a wastebasket next to them, on the verge of sleep. I pay close attention to the two-year-old, who gazes at me with glassy eyes.

“Hiii,” she rasps exhaustedly.

I run my hand through her baby-fine hair. “Hey, kiddo.”

Then I head down to the kitchen, where Rosaleen is perched on the counter beside her baby brother, holding a bottle for him. She says she knows how to do it—that she’s watched her mother and Chelsea do it a thousand times. Thank fuck for observant kids.

“But you’re gonna have to burp him,” she tells me, and then explains how it’s done. Carefully, I lift him from the seat, holding him with straight arms like a bomb that could detonate at any moment. I follow Rosaleen’s instructions and bring him to my shoulder, patting and rubbing his back.

“Like this?” I ask the seven-year-old.

She nods encouragingly.

“You are officially my second in command,” I tell her. “You and me together are gonna kick this virus’s ass.”

She giggles. “Okay.”

I feel a ridiculous amount of pride when Ronan lets out a deep, rumbling belch that any grown man would be impressed to produce. I’m not going to tell the others, but I think he’s my favorite.

As I congratulate him, I notice his ass feels heavy.

Wet.

I look at his sister. “I think he needs to be changed.”

Her face turns wary and she raises her little hands. “Don’t look at me. I’m just a kid.”

“
Now
you play the kid card?” I ask her.

She shrugs without pity.

Okay. I can do this.

I’ve been arrested—spent time in lockup with genuinely dangerous guys. I’ve been in street fights without rules where no one was coming to break it up—and I’ve won. I’ve conquered the insurmountable challenge of earning a law degree and dealing with the self-centered jackasses who are my clients without committing aggravated assault.

It’s a diaper. How hard could it be?

I carry Ronan to his room, lay him on the pad on his dresser, and look him in the eyes. “Work with me, buddy, okay?”

Then, with one hand on his chest so he doesn’t roll away, I Google it.

Gotta love modern technology. Bomb-making and baby-changing diagrams at your fingertips. I get the diaper off, get him cleaned up with the wipes. I squeeze some white pasty shit out of a tube onto his ass, because I’m not sure if he’s red, but it’s there, so I’ll use it. I lift his kicking legs and slide a fresh diaper underneath him.