“What’s happening, Sophie?”
“Maya told me he’s fine, but he’s screaming, Uncle Cormac,” she chokes up.
Screaming?
Having worked in pediatrics, I know the high-pitched wail of a child. There are a plethora of simple things it could be, but that kind of screaming could also mean something is very wrong. And when it’s your own child,it’s hard not to think the worst.
“Soph, it’s going to be okay,” I say calmly despite my rising panic. “I need you to put Maya on the phone, right now.”
“Okay,” she says, sounding like she’s been crying.
After a few seconds, I hear Sophie talk to someone.
“I called my uncle, Maya. He’s a doctor like Daddy.”
“Dr. O’Rourke?” she calls to me in a Spanish accent. “I’m sorry to bother you. The boy, your nephew, has a fever. It’s high. I’m trying a cool bath.”
I think of the fever he had a few months ago. Kids that age get sick on and off all the time, especially if they have an older sibling in school. It’s a good thing. It builds a healthy immune system.
When it’s not scaring the fuck out of the parents.
The boy. She didn’t refer to him as my son. Maybe she doesn’t know. That’s not important now.
This woman sounds competent, but a one-year-old with a high fever is scary. Unless you’re old-school Irish like my mother, who told her first five sons to walk off knife wounds when they worked for my father.
“Is he nonresponsive?” I ask, my heart pounding.
“He’s breathing, trying to cry, but only on and off. His eyes, they’re… They’re…”
Rolling in the back of his head.
“Oh, fuck,” I mutter, getting my shoes on. I shake my head, hating what I’m about to do. “Put Sophie back on the phone.”
“Uncle Cormac!” Sophie’s voice is wobbly. “Please help us.”
“Soph. Take a breath. I need you. J.P. needs you. You’re going to end this call, and you are going to call 911. Got it? Nine-one-one.” I know Darragh went through this drill with her, like they had a drill for their safe room in Seattle. “Soph, tell the person who answers that your one-year-old brother has a very high fever and he is convulsing.”
“Okay,” she cries. “Please come, Uncle Cormac. Please.”
“I’ll meet you at the hospital, Soph. Donotwait for me. Call them right now.”
“Okay. Hurry.”
The line goes silent, and it’s the most helpless I’ve ever felt. There’s no point in calling Ana or Darragh in Chicago. They’ll freak out being so far away. There’s also nothing any of my brothers in Astoria can do either. Dispatchers hear one-year-old, fever, and convulsing, and skip the follow-up questions.
I finish getting dressed and rush out the door. Not taking the extra time to get my car out of the garage, I hail a cab.
“My son is in a hospital in Queens,” is all I say, and this guy goes light speed for the bridge to that borough. “I’ll get you the name in a minute.”
I use a police scanner app to monitor the 9-1-1 call going to Darragh and Ana’s Tudor mansion. When I find out which hospital they are taking James Patrick to, I give the driver the address. With a free moment to think, I shoot a text to Scarlett that I had an emergency.
When I get to the hospital, I’m relievednotto see my son in the waiting room. Rarely does an admin leave a sick, wailing toddler to rot for hours.
“Hi,” I say to the receptionist, sharp and focused. “James Patrick O’Rourke. One year old. He was just brought in with his nanny.”
The woman looks up at me, eyes narrowing a bit. “Are you the father?”
“Yes,” I say.