“Your name?”
I close my eyes.Myname isn’t on the birth certificate. “Cormac O’Rourke. I show my identification, which includes my medical license and my teaching ID for Hamilton.”
J.P. was born in Seattle, but I’m banking that neither Sophie nor the nanny was able to give this clerk his social security number to look him up and see that I’mnotthe father on record. That Darragh is.
“Oh geez, Dr. O’Rourke, I’m so sorry.” She hits a buzzer, and the door opens. “Go on through to Bay 4.”
“Thank you.”
I rush in and eye the signs for the bays. I turn the corner and see Sophie sitting in a chair, clutching a stuffed flamingo to her chest, trying not to look scared. My brave girl.
The moment she sees me, she stands up and runs into my arms. “Uncle Cormac.”
“I’m here.” I pick her up and hug her. “Where’s Maya and J.P.?”
“Dr. O’Rourke!” A stout, capable-looking woman steps outside the bay.
“Maya?” When she nods, I put my niece down. “Please bring Sophie into the waiting room. I got this.”
“Yes, sir.” She doesn’t argue.
“Will he be okay?” Sophie asks, crying.
“Yeah, munchkin.” I kiss her on the forehead. “I promise.”
Behind the curtain, J.P. is cradled against a nurse’s shoulder, fussing weakly, cheeks flushed a furious pink. His dark blonde curls are plastered damp against his forehead. His little fists keep rubbing at his eyes.
“I’m his…father,” I say, claiming him, like that will make them work harder for him. “Dr. Cormac O’Rourke. Pediatrics, and I’m a professor at Hamilton Medical College. I was on an emergency. The babysitter called 911 at my instructions.”
The nurse gives the kind of soft smile they reserve for scared parents. “We’ve given him ibuprofen for the fever and diazepam to help stop the shaking. He’s responding well to both. His temp is coming down.”
My knees nearly buckle in relief.
“Can I hold him?” My voice drops low.
“Of course,” she says, handing him over.
“Come here, big guy.”
J.P. melts against my chest like he knows me.
His tiny hand fists my shirt as he lets out a small, broken cry, “Mama.”
I give a soft laugh. Moms always get top billing.
“He’s a little dehydrated,” the nurse continues. “We’re running labs and viral panels. Could be the start of an ear infection or a respiratory virus.”
“Any meningismus? Neck stiffness?” I ask automatically.
“No concerning signs at the moment,” she says. “If labs look clean and his fever stays controlled, he can go home in a couple of hours.”
Home. Not my home. My wife doesn’t know I have a son. She’ll get back to the condo tonight, and I won’t be there. Holding my son, I feel the phone vibrating in my pocket, and I think about the excuse I’ll make for not being there. But before I make a decision, a woman in maroon scrubs steps in holding a tablet.
“Good evening. I’m Dr. Sanchez. I’d like to take a quick look at his ears and lungs,” the resident says, uncurling the stethoscope from around her neck.
“Dr. O’Rourke.” I nod and shift J.P. on my hip, protective and wired. “Go ahead. Just tell me what you’re doing before you do it. Sorry, I was a pediatric resident for many years. Kind of a control freak.”
“Understood.” She listens to his chest first. “The lungs are a little tight but clear.” She uses an otoscope to checkhis ears. J.P. whines at the intrusion of the cold tool but doesn’t fight. “Right ear looks inflamed. That could’ve triggered the fever jump. Someone will be in shortly to set up an I.V., and I’ll call for a crib.”