Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
If she survives this, I’ll move out to Hampstead and buy a house with a garden, with room for a playroom and her friends to come and stay.
If the universe gives me another chance, I’ll be the best dad. I’ll take her to the park. Sing to her, even.
If the doctors can just make her well again, I will do everything I can to make sure she’s safe.
Eira sucks in a shuddering breath. “Yes,” she says. “I think so.”
I fumble for her hand. I don’t know if it’s our version of a prayer, or maybe I’m just taking comfort where I can get it, but it makes me feel slightly better that I can feel her beside me.
Guinevere is finally asleep, but I can’t take my eyes off her. I’m holding her hand between my thumb and forefinger. I want her to know she’s being cared for, that she’s not alone.
That she’s loved.
I don’t know when I started to love her. It didn’t happen right away. I just know that right now, I’d stand in front of a train for her.
The swish of the curtains gets my attention and I turn. It’s Jacob. His expression is blank. I can’t read him. What’s he going to say?
“It’s viral meningitis.”
I deflate like a balloon without a knot. “Thank god. So she’s going to be fine? No kidney damage or swelling?”
“There’s unlikely to be any permanent damage. You caught it very quickly.”
“Eira did,” I say.
I’d been a fool. Asleep at the wheel. I make a mental note to book her in for some tests. I should have done it anyway. Check-ups. Maybe monthly. Just to make sure I’m not missing anything. I’ll get Jacob to tell me who’s the best pediatrician in the UK. Besides him. I don’t want him missing something either because he’s too close to her.
I’m vaguely aware of Jacob talking to Eira. “As you know, much better than bacterial meningitis. Just need to keep her hydrated.”
“Does she need anti-viral meds?” I ask. I pull out my phone to check the protocol for infant viral meningitis.
Jacob puts his hand on my shoulder. “She’s fine. Now she’s hydrated, she’s happy. But she’d be happier at home where she can sleep without the noise and the lights of a hospital.”
I’m not sure I want her to leave the hospital yet. “Is it safe to take her back home?” I ask.
“Mate, she’s safer at home than here. You know this.”
“And you’re sure it’s viral?” I ask. “One hundred percent?”
“One hundred percent. The blood test and the lumbar test both confirmed it.”
“I’ve looked after children with viral meningitis before,” Eira says. “Rest and cuddles and a bit of Calpol. We can try her with water if she doesn’t want her milk.”
I glance back at Guinevere, her little arm covered in bandages holding the cannula in place. She’s so vulnerable. “I don’t know,” I say. I’m clearly not able to look after Guinevere. I’m not focused on her enough. I don’t notice things.
“I’ll take the bags and the pram to the car and come back,” Eira says.
“No,” I call after her. “We’ll all go together.” Eira was the one who noticed Guinevere’s symptoms. She shouldn’t be away from her. I catch her eye. I want to know if she really thinks it’s a good idea to leave.
“Okay,” she says. She nods at me as if she knows the silent question I’m asking. “This is good, Dax. She’s going to be fine.”
“I’m going to take her cannula out,” Jacob says. “And then you can go.”
In a few minutes we’re back at the car and Jacob is helping us put the pram in the boot.
“Did you strap her in?” I ask Eira as she shuts the back door.
A small smile curves around the edges of her lips that says no, the baby is hanging out the window. “Yes. She’s all strapped in safely. I’m going to sit next to her. You’re going to drive us home.” She holds up my car keys. “You are fine. Your daughter is fine.”
“Thanks to you,” I say.
By the time we’re home, my shoulders have relaxed a little and my breathing has returned to normal. I didn’t realize how tense I was until I had some time to think in the car.
We bundle Guinevere inside. Eira manages to give her some Calpol and even gets her to have some milk. She’s a fucking miracle. Thank god for her.
“You need to sleep,” Eira says, coming into the kitchen. “You look exhausted.”
“I’m a lot better than I would have been if you hadn’t been here.”
“But I was here. And if I hadn’t been, you’d have caught it, because you would have taken her temperature and checked her for spots and—”
“But what if I didn’t?” I ask. “What else am I going to miss as she grows up? And not just the physical stuff. What if she’s getting bullied at school and doesn’t tell me or she gets depressed or—”