Читать книгу Keep You Safe: A tear-jerking and compelling story that will make you think from the international multi-million bestselling author - Melissa Hill, Melissa Hill - Страница 11

Rosie turned over in bed and pulled the covers up over her head. Shoving her face into the pillow, she tried her hardest to stifle the sound of her cough. She rolled over onto her back, then sniffled and pulled her leg up to her chest, so she could scratch her knee.

She didn’t feel well.

And she was very itchy.

Rosie had noticed when she got home from ballet and started undressing to put her pyjamas on that she had some little red dots on her arms. And there were a few on her chest, too. She was sure that if she turned on the light and looked at her knee, she would probably find some spots there too.

But her mum said that you couldn’t get chicken pox twice.

Rosie felt worry build in her chest. She really didn’t want chicken pox again. It had been miserable the last time. She couldn’t stand the thought of being cooped up in bed, not being allowed to play with her friends or her dinosaurs, and having to take long, warm baths just to try to ease the itch that came with those yucky blisters.

She shuddered, thinking about it.

Maybe she was just tired. That had to be it. It had been a long week and maybe she was just feeling a bit worried because her friend Ellie wasn’t well and then Clara had gone home sick the other day too.

Kevin hadn’t looked like he was sick though – and he said he’d never had chicken pox before – so how could she get them twice?

She swallowed hard and took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. That was what Mum had told her to do any time she was feeling overwhelmed. Of course, she had told her that because of what she had seen with her dad, but Rosie supposed that trick could be used in this situation as well.

Taking one, two, three deep breaths, she closed her eyes in the darkness and willed herself to go to sleep. In the morning, everything would be fine. She would feel better.

But then her eyes sprang open as it felt like something had bitten her on the back. She cranked her arm around awkwardly to shove her hand up the back of her pyjama top to reach the area. Once the itch was scratched, she ran her fingers over her skin and felt a few flat bumps. There were more of them all over her too, she just knew it.

Breathing hard again, she whispered to herself like her mum told her to do when she needed to calm herself down. ‘You’re fine, just go to sleep. Everything is OK. You don’t have chicken pox. Everyone knows kids can’t get them twice.’

Debating on whether or not to get up and tell her mum about this, she decided against it. Mum worried about things. And Rosie knew she’d be even more worried if she had to take time off work to take care of her, when there was no need.

She was a big girl now.

‘Just go to sleep,’ she told herself quietly in the darkness, trying to count sheep like her dad had once told her. But that had never worked, so instead Rosie decided to try counting the names of all the different dinosaurs she knew – especially all the new ones she’d learned from the exhibition she’d been to over Easter. And after tossing and turning for an hour or more, she finally fell asleep, achieving a fitful slumber.

Several hours later she woke, realising that she had kicked all of her covers off. She felt hot and cold at the same time and her pyjamas felt wet and her skin clammy. She was covered in sweat!

At once, the problem of the previous night came rushing back to her and Rosie realised that she didn’t feel better – at all. Instead she felt much, much worse.

‘No, no, no,’ she said, feeling a fresh wave of panic. She was so warm – she had to have a fever, like that time she’d had a bad flu and her mum had explained all about how fever was the body’s way of getting rid of bad germs.

Bad germs like chicken pox?

And as much as she wanted to jump out of bed to look at herself in the mirror to confirm that the spots were still there, she just couldn’t. She felt exhausted.

Rosie wanted her mum, but when she opened her mouth to call out, she found she could barely manage a squeak.

‘Mum…’ she croaked. When she didn’t hear any footsteps on the stairs, she tried again, this time a bit louder. Her mum had to hear her – mums just knew, somehow, when their kids needed them. Particularly her mum.

Sure enough, a moment later, Rosie heard, ‘Coming, honey,’ and she felt some of her panic subside.

Mum would make this OK, she thought. In just a second, Mum would tell her that everything was fine – that this was just a flu and she would be right as rain in no time.

*

On Friday morning, I pushed the button on the Nespresso coffee-maker Greg had bought the year he died, and waited for my morning dose of caffeine to be dispensed.

Looking quickly at the clock on the microwave, I guessed that I needed to get Rosie up this morning. Usually she was very good about getting herself out of bed and ready for school. No worries, still plenty of time, I told myself as I grabbed my coffee cup and took a tentative first sip, savouring the warmth.

Then, picking up my phone to check for any messages from work, I heard a small whine coming from upstairs.

Rosie was calling for me, and something about her voice wasn’t right.

Immediately, my brain defaulted to panic mode, as it did so often.

How would I shuffle my day around if she needed to stay at home because she wasn’t feeling well? Trying to summon just how many days of annual leave from work I had left, I called out back to her.

In fairness, I’d been lucky – Rosie hadn’t missed a single day since starting school last September. Quite the feat considering most of her classmates seemed to have perma-sniffles, and I chalked it down to my insistence on her eating Vitamin C-rich fruit and veg as well as a regular multi-vitamin for us both to heighten our immune system – especially given my own exposure to various bugs at the hospital.

But it was impossible to fight everything all of the time.

I placed my coffee cup on the counter and raced upstairs, mentally reorganising my day as I opened my daughter’s bedroom door to make the inevitable diagnosis: Yup, you’re staying home today. My thoughts drifted to Madeleine Cooper who had evidently faced that self-same scenario earlier in the week.

But nothing could have prepared me for what I actually saw when I entered Rosie’s room.

My little girl lay uncovered, her dark hair limp and damp and sticking to the sides of her face. Her skin was flushed and her pyjamas had patches of wet here and there, as if she had been sweating throughout the night.

And on the surface of her skin that wasn’t covered by clothes there were spots. Lots and lots of small red spots on her face, her neck, her hands, even her feet.

My mouth dropped open in shock, and my mind automatically jumped to the thought: Of course she had to be the kid who gets chicken pox twice.

But then my professional training sprang into action and cautioned me against being too hasty with my diagnosis. I saw Rosie looking at me, studying me, and a small crease appeared on her forehead, while her expression changed from worry to fear and finally… panic.

I quickly tried to rearrange the look on my face, willing myself to appear calm and in control.

When I was feeling anything but.

‘Mummy, I don’t feel well,’ she whimpered.

I picked up my pace, closing the distance to her bed. I sank to my knees and reached out, placing my hand on her forehead.

She was burning up.

‘Do I have chicken pox again?’ she asked weakly. ‘How could I have it again?’

‘Shush, honey, I don’t know. Let me take a look at you,’ I said, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice as I peered at the spots on her skin. ‘Let me unbutton your top, sweetheart, I want to see your chest.’

Rosie allowed me to unbutton her pyjama shirt while my fingers trembled. Somehow I just knew what I was going to find next.

Her chest was covered with a rash. Small, red clusters. Everywhere.

My mouth was suddenly dry and I licked my lips, willing myself to say something to comfort my daughter.

‘I’m so itchy, Mummy. And so hot.’ She was still watching me closely, and then she coughed violently, spittle lining the corners of her mouth.

My mind raced as I placed a hand on her forehead again and my heart pounded with fear. ‘I know, sweetheart, I’m sorry. I’ll take you to the doctor. We’ll get you sorted.’

The rash, the clusters. This is different, the nurse inside me protested. This isn’t chicken pox. Chicken pox don’t cluster. And they aren’t flat either. This was something different…

And with a sudden terrifying realisation, I knew. But I couldn’t allow myself to even think the word.

No, it simply wasn’t possible. Where would Rosie have picked it up? It was chicken pox that was going around the school. Not…

Unless…

My thoughts turned then to the other sick child, Clara Cooper. Who, according to Christine, wasn’t vaccinated against serious childhood illnesses.

Just like Rosie.

Clara – who had been sent home from school three days ago with suspected chicken pox.

Except she hadn’t. This wasn’t chicken pox.

This was out and out measles.