Page 14 of First Comes Marriage
And for someone who hasn’t had too many of them since Grampy died, I’ll take it, aching leg and all. After making sure the tub is cleaned out, I walk back into the bedroom and see a bottle of water on my nightstand, along with some Tylenol. As I sink gratefully onto the mattress, he says, “I figured those might help.”
“Thanks, they will,” I reply as I quickly swallow two pills. “What are we going to watch?”
“We can start a new series I heard about calledGhostsif you’d like,” he replies.
“I think I’ve heard of that one. Sounds like the perfect end to a perfect day, don’t you think?” I question as Prissy hops onto the bed, walks over and sniffs Dex, then moves back to me before she curls up at the top of my pillow. “Guess I’m laying down to watch it,” I muse, giggling. “Because the queen has taken to her throne.”
Chapter Nine
Dex
Our days have settled into somewhat of a routine of sorts since I’ve been home, and we’re now married. Today, the home inspector is coming by to go through the house and let us know what needs to be reworked for the betterment of our home, but I’m at the pediatrician with Arya, who woke up complaining of a sore throat. Since she was also running a low-grade fever, after discussing it with Abuela and Nonna, I made the appointment. In fact, I passed a truck coming down the driveway as I was leaving. I hate that Arya feels so crummy; she’s usually so boisterous and precocious that seeing her leaned back in the booster seat she still uses because she’s not quite at the height or weight needed to legally ride without one hurts my heart.
“We’ll get you all fixed up,” I promise looking at her in the rearview mirror.
“I know,” she whispers. “I just want to cuddle with my kitties and sleep, Dex.”
Yeah, she’s sick, because she’s the only one of the three that we don’t have to pry out of bed every morning. She jumps up, raring and ready to go, while the two preteens grumble and fuss. Jolie’s good for them, though, because she doesn’t get angry or sharp with them. No, she uses logic, especially since Anni and Thad tend to try and push the envelope as far as how late they can stay up. Now, they have their own alarm clocks and she’s told them thattheyare responsible for getting themselves up. She’s teaching them time management and it’s something they’ve been lacking since they are used to the grands and our parents doing it for them. We’ll knock on their doors with a one-time warning and call out to them to get it in gear, but it’ll be up to them to get moving themselves and ready for the day.
Yesterday, they both ended up being tardy for school because they weren’t up and ready when Jolie had to leave to get there since she got called on to substitute for a teacher who phoned in sick. Seeing their faces after I signed them in, and they got the slips of paper to hand to their teachers showed them that we were serious. Today, they were up, dressed, and eating breakfast by the time I walked into the kitchen with Arya on my hip.
Jolie says that natural consequences are a good way for kids to learn acceptable behaviors. However, we did push their bedtimes back thirty minutes as well, because they were both cranky as hell yesterday. I briefly wonder if we did too much this weekend and wore them out, then decide that they’re growing kids and need more sleep.
“Alright, Arya, we’re here,” I say as I pull my truck into a spot then park. “Need me to help you?” I ask.
“Yes, please,” she whispers, gripping her throat as though it pains her to say those two words.
Hopping out after pocketing my fob, I make my way to the backseat and unbuckle her then help her down. She looks so pitiful that I pick her up and after making sure the truck is locked, stride toward the door where a mother is waiting with her child to hold the door for me.
“I just love it when a father is involved with his child’s care,” she gushes, causing me to roll my eyes.
“He’s my brother,” Arya angrily says. She whimpers because of the way her throat feels but still manages to glare at the woman. “My daddy’s dead.”
I swipe away the tears that have started falling down her little face. While I haven’t forgotten that they’re all grieving still, I’m sure being sick has her feeling some kind of sullen way since Mom and Dad aren’t here to take care of her.
“Oh, I’m… I’m so sorry,” the woman says, stumbling over her words, a light blush now covering her face.
I wave her off as I walk to the receptionist desk and sign Arya in on the check-in sheet. “I have new insurance for the kids,” I tell the receptionist, whose name tag reads Nancy. “Do you want it now or when we check out?”
“Now, if it’s possible,” Nancy says. “That way we can update their files and call to find out what the copay will be.”
Without letting go of Arya, I manage to slip my wallet from my back pocket, then pull out the insurance card. I haven’t gotten the new ones in the mail yet with all of their names on it, but the person at the insurance company I spoke to said that all the pertinent information was the same as far as the member identification number and group insurance number goes. As I hand it to Nancy, I say, “The new cards are enroute to me, butthe person I talked to said the member and group information were the same and the kids have been added to their database.”
“Makes sense,” she murmurs. “We’ll give this back to you at check out.”
“Thanks,” I reply. Looking around, I see that the rooms are split to ‘Well’ and ‘Sick’, so I head to the sick side of the waiting area and settle Arya in a chair before sitting next to her. “They’ll get you all fixed up, peanut.”
“I know, I just don’t like being sick,” she grumbles while looking up at me, her eyes heavy lidded from her fever.
With our heritage, all four of us have lightly tanned skin. During the summer, we all darken significantly and with the days we’ve spent outside, Arya’s face is sporting some freckles across the bridge of her nose and across her cheeks. It dawns on me that the reason the woman said what she did is because outside of the fact that I’m a man and Arya’s a little girl, she’s a carbon copy of me. It’s like looking in the mirror with the exception of the freckles.
Even though we called ahead of time for an appointment, we still end up waiting about thirty minutes before we’re called back by a charge nurse. I suspect it’s because they had to verify the insurance coverage, but I dutifully scoop Arya up in my arms and follow the nurse to a cheerful room painted in a kid’s theme with a mural after she’s been weighed, of course.
After she takes Arya’s temperature and blood pressure she says, “Based on the fact her chief complaint is a sore throat and fever, I’m going to run a strep test on her so it’s ready for when the doctor comes in.”
“We thought it might be that,” I admit. “While I’ve not been around until recently, my grandmothers told me that Arya tends to frequently get strep throat.”
“I see that in her charts. I’ll be right back with the swab,” the nurse promises.
