“Why don’t you get back to sleep?” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
She hoped so. She couldn’t imagine feeling any worse. And before she could lodge another protest, he was gone. She was so weak, following him wasn’t even an option. So she fell right back to sleep instead. She roused once in the middle of the night and could swear she saw the outline of a body lying in bed next to her, and though she meant to reach over and feel the mattress, she must have fallen back to sleep before she had the chance. When she woke up again the room was bright. She heard morning sounds coming from the kitchen and Dylan’s infectious giggle. Had Colin really been in bed with her, or had it been some fever-induced, vivid dream? The covers were so disheveled from all of her tossing and turning, it was hard to say.
She pushed herself up into a sitting position, relieved to discover that although she still felt weak, nothing seemed to be hurting today. Not even her head. Her tummy rumbled and the aroma of fresh coffee coaxed her out of bed, but when she saw her reflection in the bathroom mirror, she gasped. Her hair was so matted it looked dreadlocked. No way she wanted Colin to see her looking this bad.
Shower, then coffee.
*
Colin got Dylan dressed, fed and medicated, then settled in front of the television watching Saturday-morning kids’ shows. For a two-and-a-half-year-old special-needs child, Dylan was independent and extremely capable—or so it seemed to Colin—and pretty darned easy to care for. He had expected Dylan to be upset that his mother wasn’t around, but he seemed to understand that she was sick and needed rest. Maybe because it was something with which he had personal experience. Too much personal experience.
When Colin had rolled out of bed an hour ago, Rowena was sleeping peacefully, but when he stepped into her room to check on her now, the bed was empty and he could hear the shower running in the bathroom. He hoped that meant she was feeling better today. She had been so out of it yesterday that he’d begun to worry about her, and if she hadn’t improved by this morning he was going to insist she see a doctor. The fact that she had the energy to make it to the shower unaided was a good sign.
“Cowin!” Dylan called from the living room. When Colin stepped into the room, Dylan held out his cup—or sippy, as he called it—and said, “Duce peez?” Which Colin had learned meant juice please. He was getting quite adept at translating Dylan’s speech. There were still questionable words, but usually he could figure out what the boy meant.
“Apple juice?” Colin said.
Dylan smiled and nodded vigorously.
Colin got his juice, then put the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher and wiped down the counters. He had just finished when Rowena emerged from her bedroom. She was dressed in flannel pajama bottoms and a Lakers sweatshirt, she wore no makeup and her hair was wet, but she looked to be on the way to recovery.
“Good morning,” he said. “Feeling better today, I see.”
“Still a little weak, but I feel human again.”
Dylan heard her voice and screeched, “Mommy!”
She smiled. “Hey, honey.”
He got up from the rug where he’d been sitting and hobbled over to Rowena. Colin had realized that although Dylan looked unsteady on his feet, he actually had fairly good balance, all things considered, and maybe if Rowena let him spread his wings a little, he would walk even better.
Rowena picked him up and gave him a big hug. Dylan launched into a long explanation of everything he and Colin had done while she was sick, everything they had eaten, what books they had read before bed last night. The kid didn’t miss a thing. And though some of it was still a little hard to understand, the last thing he said was crystal clear. When Rowena said, “It sounds like you had fun with Colin,” Dylan nodded and said, “He be my daddy?”
Whoa. His daddy?
Colin hadn’t been expecting that, and clearly neither had Rowena. Stunned, she looked over to Colin, then back to Dylan as if she didn’t know what to say. But one thing Colin had learned was that toddlers—even ones as smart as Dylan—were easily distracted.
“Hey, Dylan, did you want to show Mummy what you made her in art class yesterday?”
Dylan’s face lit up and he shifted to get out of her arms. “I geddit!”
She put him down and he scurried off to his room, not exactly running, but moving pretty fast.
“I’m so sorry about that,” she told Colin, looking utterly horrified.
“It’s okay.”
“I have absolutely no idea where that came from. He’s never done it before with anyone.”