“Well, that’s good — the fact that she’s got a good attention span.”
Cindy nodded but she didn’t look reassured.
Stephanie drew an appointment book out of a coat pocket, ripped out a back page and handed it to Cindy. “Tell you what, next time you see this staring, make a record of the exact time and call in Vicki or whoever’s on duty to have a look, okay?”
“Okay. But it doesn’t last long, Dr. Eves. Just a few seconds.”
“Just do the best you can,” said Stephanie. “In the meantime, I’ll leave you and Dr. Delaware to get acquainted.”
Pausing for a moment to look at the sleeping child, she smiled at both of us and left.
When the door closed, Cindy looked down at the bed. “I’ll fold this up so you’ll have somewhere to sit.” There were delicate lavender veins under her skin, too. At the temples, throbbing.
“Let’s do it together,” I said.
That seemed to startle her. “No, that’s okay.”
Bending, she took hold of the mattress and lifted. I did likewise and the two of us turned the bed back into a sofa.
She smoothed the cushions, stood back, and said, “Please.”
Feeling as if I were in a geisha house, I complied.
She walked over to the green chair and removed the LuvBunnies. Placing them on the nightstand, she pulled the chair opposite the couch and sat, feet flat on the floor, a hand on each slender thigh.
I reached over, took one of the stuffed animals from the window ledge, and stroked it. Through the glass the treetops of Griffith Park were green-black and cloudlike.
“Cute,” I said. “Gifts?”
“Some of them are. Some we brought from home. We wanted Cassie to feel at home here.”
“The hospital’s become a second home, hasn’t it?”
She stared at me. Tears filled the brown eyes, magnifying them. A look of shame spread across her face.
Shame? Or guilt?
Her hands shot up quickly to conceal it.
She cried silently for a while.
I got a tissue from the box on the bed table and waited.
4
She uncovered her face. “Sorry.”
“No need to be,” I said. “There aren’t too many things more stressful than having a sick child.”
She nodded. “The worst thing is not knowing — watching her suffer and not knowing... If only someone could figure it out.”
“The other symptoms resolved. Maybe this will too.”
Looping her braid over one shoulder, she fingered the ends. “I sure hope so. But...”
I smiled but said nothing.
She said, “The other things were more... typical. Normal — if that makes any sense.”
“Normal childhood diseases,” I said.
“Yes — croup, diarrhea. Other kids have them. Maybe not as severe, but they have them, so you can understand those kinds of things. But seizures... that’s just not normal.”
“Sometimes,” I said, “kids have seizures after a high fever. One or two episodes and then it never recurs.”
“Yes, I know. Dr. Eves told me about that. But Cassie wasn’t spiking a temp when she had hers. The other times — when she had gastrointestinal problems — there were fevers. She was burning up, then. A hundred and six.” She tugged the braid. “And then that went away and I thought we were going to be okay, and then the seizures just came out of nowhere — it was really frightening. I heard something in her room — like a knocking. I went in and she was shaking so hard the crib was rattling.”
Her lips began to quiver. She stilled them with a hand. Crushed the tissue I’d given her with the other.
I said, “Scary.”
“Terrifying,” she said, looking me in the eye. “But the worst thing was watching her suffer and not being able to do anything. The helplessness — it’s the worst thing. I knew better than to pick her up, but still... Do you have children?”
“No.”
Her eyes left my face, as if she’d suddenly lost interest. Sighing, she got up and walked to the bed, still carrying the crumpled tissue. She bent, tucked the blanket higher around the little girl’s neck, and kissed Cassie’s cheek. Cassie’s breathing quickened for a second, then slowed. Cindy remained at the bedside, watching her sleep.
“She’s beautiful,” I said.
“She’s my pudding pie.”
She reached down, touched Cassie’s forehead, then drew back her arm and let it drop to her side. After gazing down for several more seconds, she returned to the chair.
I said, “In terms of her suffering, there’s no evidence seizures are painful.”
“That’s what Dr. Eves says,” she said doubtfully. “I sure hope so... but if you’d have seen her afterwards — she was just drained.”
She turned and stared out the window. I waited a while, then said, “Except for the headache, how’s she doing today?”
“Okay. For the little she’s been up.”
“And the headache occurred at five this morning?”
“Yes. She woke up with it.”
“Vicki was already on shift by then?”
Nod. “She’s pulling a double — came on last night for the eleven-to-seven and stayed for the seven-to-three.”
“Pretty dedicated.”
“She is. She’s a big help. We’re lucky to have her.”
“Does she ever come out to the house?”
That surprised her. “Just a couple of times — not to help, just to visit. She brought Cassie her first LuvBunny, and now Cassie’s in love with them.”
The look of surprise remained on her face. Rather than deal with it, I said, “How did Cassie let you know her head hurt?”
“By pointing to it and crying. She didn’t tell me, if that’s what you mean. She only has a few words. Daw for dog, bah-bah for bottle, and even with those, sometimes she still points. Dr. Eves says she’s a few months behind in her language development.”
“It’s not unusual for children who’ve been hospitalized a lot to lag a bit. It’s not permanent.”
“I try to work with her at home — talking to her as much as I can. I read to her when she’ll let me.”
“Good.”
“Sometimes she likes it but sometimes she’s really jumpy — especially after a bad night.”
“Are there a lot of bad nights?”
“Not a lot, but they’re hard on her.”
“What happens?”
“She wakes up as if she’s having a bad dream. Tossing and turning and crying. I hold her and sometimes she falls back to sleep. But sometimes she’s up for a long time — kind of weepy. The morning after, she’s usually jumpy.”
“Jumpy in what way?”
“Has trouble concentrating. Other times she can concentrate on something for a long time — an hour or more. I look for those times, try to read to her, talk to her. So that her speech will pick up. Any other suggestions?”
“Sounds like you’re on the right track,” I said.
“Sometimes I get the feeling she doesn’t talk because she doesn’t have to. I guess I can tell what she wants, and I give it to her before she has to talk.”
“Was that what happened with the headache?”
“Exactly. She woke up crying and tossing around. First thing I did was touch her forehead to see if she was warm. Cool as a cucumber. Which didn’t surprise me — it wasn’t a scared cry. More of a pain cry. By now I can tell the difference. So I started asking her what hurt and she finally touched her head. I know it doesn’t sound scientific, but you just kind of develop a feel for a child — almost like radar.”
Glance at the bed. “If her CAT scan hadn’t come back normal that same afternoon, I would have really been scared.”