Stones in the Road

Chapter 7: It’s Probably Nothing

I don’t want to wear that, Noah signed with a scowl, looking at the black suit I’d placed on his bed and the shiny dress shoes on the floor next to it. He had just taken a shower and seemed rather pale and tired. Our trip to Memphis that morning must have worn him out.

I want you to look nice, I said, trying to justify this change in dress plans. Having met the angels of darkness that passed themselves off as Jackson’s parents, I realized that casual was not going to cut it. We were going to have to put on our Sunday best and pretend we had manners, even if we didn’t. We were not going to Union Heights Restaurant in downtown Tupelo wearing shorts and tanks.

I only wear that stuff on Sunday! he complained.

Do it for Daddy?

It’s too hot!

We’re going to a nice restaurant. We don’t want to look like homeless people, do we?

He made a face.

Let me help you, I said, trying to take the sting out of it.

There was a pained, distant expression on his face.

What’s wrong? I asked.

I don’t feel good.

For the past month or so, Noah had been feeling poorly, with frequent headaches that appeared out of nowhere, an unexplained listlessness, other various and sundry vague complaints. Migraines, perhaps. Or allergies. Or…

I did not want to think about that.

He moved robotically to the dresser in search of socks. When he well and truly did not feel good, he simply announced the fact and went about his business, which was not at all how he acted on mornings when he didn’t want to go to school and was desperately earnest for me to believe he was sick.

I picked my way through the mess on his floor and put a hand on his forehead. He was hot.

You have a fever, I said, turning him around so he would look at me.

He shrugged.

Are you sick? I asked.

I’m tired, Daddy.

Do you want to go to bed?

He nodded.

It was just after five in the evening.

All right, I said.

He crawled into bed. I felt his forehead, his chest. I couldn’t remember the last time he had willingly gone to bed so early in the evening.

Jackson came into the room. “Why aren’t you getting ready? We’re supposed to meet my parents at the restaurant at six!”

“Noah doesn’t feel good.”

“That’s convenient,” he retorted.

“It’s true,” I said.

“Why did you make him go to bed?”

“I didn’t make him do anything, Jack. He went to bed himself.”

“So he is sick…”

“That’s what I said.”

“He’s sick…again.”

“Yes.”

“He’s got an appointment to see Doctor Kemmer next week.”

I did not reply.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Jackson said, feeling Noah’s forehead and chest as I had. Jackson Ledbetter was a pediatric nurse and knew his way around sick kids.

“They’ll run some tests,” he assured me.

I put a hand to my mouth.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Jackson said again, concern in his voice.

I shook my head.

“It’s nothing,” Jackson said forcefully.

We both knew that probably wasn’t true.

“Don’t go looking for trouble, Wiley. He’s going to be fine.”

“They warned me,” I said, intending to say more, but I fell silent instead. There was no need to finish the thought. Noah, his back to me, did not see me wipe at my eyes.

“You’ll upset him,” Jackson warned.

“And we can’t have anyone in this house getting upset about something, can we?” I asked, too angrily, my voice full of bitterness and frustration.

“I’ll watch him. Get a thermometer.”

I went to the bathroom and shut the door.