I kiss the top of his warm head and feel him settle, his hiccupping breaths finally slowing. My heart only hammers harder.
“You gave me a scare, little man,” I whisper against his curls.
He looks up at me, his chubby fingers pat my cheek, like he’s the one comforting me.
When the resident steps away to order antibiotics, I sink into a chair in the exam room and slowly start to cry, using my son’s onesie to wipe my eyes.
Maya arrives to check on us a few minutes later with Sophie in tow. “Sorry, sir. She wants to see her little brother.”
“No problem.” I pat the seat next to me. “Come here, Soph.”
“Is he okay?” She scoots close and leans into my arm.
“He sure is.”
“I was so scared,” she whispers.
“You were sick like this when you were his age,” I tell her, not sure if Darragh ever told her the story.
“I was?” She looks up.
“It’s common. Your dad called me before 911, just like you, can you believe that?”
She shrugs. “Daddy says you always know what to do.”
The fact that he still thinks that is astonishing. And that while we’d spent years treating kids, the minute it’s your own, all your training goes out the window.
“I can stay, Dr. O’Rourke,” Maya says. “Now that his fever is coming down. You don’t have to?—”
“No. I’ve got him.” I shake my head. “Take Sophiehome, please.”
“I want to stay,” she whines.
“I know. But you need sleep.” I kiss her forehead again. “It’s okay. I’ve got this.”
“Okay, Uncle Cormac,” she drones. “I love you.”
No matter how many times she says that to me, it busts a seam in my heart. “Love you, too, munchkin.”
They leave, and I just sit with my son on my chest. Hating myself that I’m glad Darragh and Ana are out of town, and that I got to be here for this. This is one more complete stitch in my second chance.
I rock J.P. softly until his eyelids droop. He’s fever-drunk and on meds, but it’s coming down. My pulse finally starts retreating from the cliff’s edge.
He’s okay.
Every mistake I made feels washed away under the weight of this tiny, sick boy on the mend, asleep against my chest.
“You’re all right now,” I murmur. “Dada’s here.”
A nurse shows up to put in his I.V., which I hold him through. Soon after, a staffer wheels in a crib, and the nurse suggests I let him lie on his side. Nodding, I agree and put him down. The monitor ticks softly as fluids drip down the I.V. line and into his tiny arm. His breathing is steady now. No more tremors. No more terror.
With him settled comfortably, I step outside the room to call Darragh.
He answers on the first ring, sounding groggy and alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t freak. I’m at the hospital with J.P. He’s fine. But his fever spiked.”
“Jesus,” my brother blurts.