My First Book--Scene Eleven (a)

This particular scene runs quite long, so I've divided into two different posts.

As before, instead of giving a long list of links for you to read the previous scenes in my book, might I point you to the "Categories" at the left? Mosey down to "my first book--scenes", click there and scroll down to wherever you have to start.

Go on. We'll wait for you.

Back? Okay. Without further ado, I give you Scene Eleven, part one.

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I woke with a start sometime in the predawn hours. Ruth was coughing, but what woke me was a far more disturbing, foreign accompaniment: a high-pitched whoop. I threw back my blanket and sprinted to her bedroom.

Ruth sat up in bed, coughing violently and struggling unsuccessfully to breathe. I flipped the light switch as I raced into her room, and the look of terror in my daughter’s eyes as she wrapped her arms around herself, struggling unsuccessfully to breath between coughs, broke my heart. As her lungs completely emptied, Ruth sucked in a large volume of air with a whistling whoop.

She breathed several shallow times before coughing again and crying, “Mama, Mama.”

I rushed to her side and scooped her into my arms. “Mama’s here, precious. Mama’s right here. It’s okay. Don’t worry.” I cradled her, frightened and fevered as she was, and rocked back and forth on the bed as more spasmodic coughing again racked her tiny body. The characteristic whoop of the cough paralyzed me with fear.

Unsure what was happening, Ruth tried to cry, and tears coursed down her face, but sobs only started the coughing afresh. I struggled to calm her. She strained against my arms, needing desperately to control her little lungs. After more than ten minutes of coughing, Ruth vomited all over herself and me.

As she always had, Ruth cried at this, apologetic for making such a mess. My poor baby was exhausted, and twin rivers of snot ran down her lip.

I kissed the top of her head. “Honey, it’s okay. You don’t worry about any of this, sweetie. Mommy’s gonna get all this taken care of.” I wiped her face with the small spot still dry on my gown and picked her up, gingerly balancing a precarious hold on my gown with one hand and my grip on her with the other.

We made our way to the bathroom, where I stripped us both to our bloomers and planted Ruth on the toilet lid. Wide-necked gowns with generous, buttoned necks made the task considerably less hazardous with a minimum of mess. I wet a bath rag with cool water, squeezed the excess from it, and laid it on Ruth’s face. “Take some deep breaths, baby,” I said as I wiped her face.
I dug a thermometer out from the back of the medicine cabinet, praying silently that Ruth would hold it in her mouth without a fuss. I had no idea where the other thermometer was, and her face, hot to the touch, told me the fever was high.

Shaken by the entire episode, Ruth accepted the thermometer without question, and I went to retrieve clean gowns for both of us while she sat meekly on the side of the tub. I re-dressed quickly and checked her temperature—one hundred three degrees—before slipping her gown over her head.

“Come on, Ruthie. Come with Mommy,” I said, picking her up.

“I’m scared, Mommy,” she said, her voice a ragged whisper. “I don’t wanna throw up again. I’m scared to cough, and my throat tickles.”

I patted her back. “Ruthie, it’s okay if you do. Don’t get too scared. That’ll just make it worse,” I said.

She leaned limply against my chest and was almost asleep again before I laid her next to me in bed. Ruth woke three more times before sunrise with her coughing fits, not to mention the coughing while she slept; I barely even dozed.

By seven that morning, one touch of her forehead told me her temperature had raised since the previous night. Ruth sat sleepily in my lap as I took down her pin curls and brushed her hair. Even so, convincing her to lay on the couch with Herman while I cooked our oatmeal took no effort on my part. She endured several more coughing fits, but her breakfast’s heat seemed to soothe her, at least for the time being.

I opened the front curtain, the usual signal to Lela for our morning coffee, and waited by the door. She arrived minutes later, and I met her on the porch. “Ruthie’s sick,” I said without prelude.

She stopped on the first step. “What is it?” she asked.

“I think she’s got the whooping cough. It started last night, and she just had another fit. She couldn’t hardly catch her breath.” I crossed my arms, tucking my hands in my armpits, though it offered no help against the biting cold.

Lela backed away. “I’ll have Waylon go fetch the doctor for her. It may be a bit before he can get here, though. What can I do to help?” she asked.

“Thank you. We’re fine for now. I’ll keep an eye out for the doctor.” I sniffed, my nose running from the cold. My eyelids throbbed from exhaustion, but the cold roused me.

“Give Ruthie a kiss for me,” she said, calling over her shoulder as she scurried back across the street.

I nodded and hurried back into the sheltering warmth of the house. After settling Ruth in bed again, I took our gowns to wash. A knock at the door as I wrung the last of the water from my gown brought some small measure of relief. Drying my hands on a towel, I hurried past Ruth’s bedroom and opened the door.

Dr. Cosgrove stood on the porch, and his nurse, who had accompanied him, stood behind him. He removed his hat and said, “Mrs. Turner? I’m Dr. Daniel Cosgrove, and this is my nurse, Minerva. I’ve been told you believe your daughter to have whooping cough. May we come in?”