A Shot at Normal Read online

  “Healthiest spaghetti in town.”

  “So I’m told.” My mom makes her noodles out of zucchini spirals.

  “Well, get to it. You know what to do.”

  I sort through the tomato bin, squeezing one plump fruit after the other to find the right amount of ripe while Mary handles the next customer, a woman with a baby tucked tight against her chest in a pale yellow sling with ladybugs on it.

  “She’s here!” Mary says, clapping her hands together and twisting her body across a bin of peaches to get a better look.

  I glance over and see the baby’s squishy pink face. She has a little white bow in her nonexistent hair. It looks vaguely ridiculous, and I feel bad that she’s too tiny and brand-new to have a say.

  The woman bends forward so Mary can peek inside the sling. “Four weeks today.”

  “Bless,” Mary says. “And look at you out and about. Supermom!”

  “It’s our first adventure. My husband went back to work this week, and the cabin fever was getting to me.”

  I quietly bag my tomatoes so I won’t disturb the schmoozing Mary’s up to with this mom and her baby.

  Another woman walks up. She stands out in stark contrast to the rest of the crowd because she’s wearing a way-too-professional navy-blue business suit. When Mary greets her, the woman offers a strained smile, like she’s physically incapable of banal niceties when she has important phone calls to make and big meetings to take. But I scrap that assessment when she heads to the bin of peaches and I see she’s wearing flip-flops. A suit and flip-flops. I like her. She buys one peach, bites into it immediately, and walks away.

  I swipe at my forehead. I’m still sweating in the shade. It’s collecting on my upper lip and behind my ears. I twist my hair into a knot on top of my head, but the fresh air against my neck doesn’t cool me off like I want. And I don’t have anything to keep my hair in place, so it falls back down immediately. I notice Mary isn’t sweating like me because her stand has shade.

  The woman with the baby looks at me. Smiles.

  I hold up my bag of tomatoes and hand Mary my money.

  “This here is Juniper Jade,” Mary says, counting out my change. “You might want to take down her info if you’re ever looking for a babysitter. She’s got littles in her own family, and I gotta say she’s a natural.”

  Poppy and Sequoia aren’t exactly littles anymore, but whatever Mary might be able to do to help me get a normal job makes me happy, so I nod enthusiastically.

  “Oh, thanks,” the woman says to me. “I’m not looking quite yet. New mommy nerves and all. But how do I find you when we’re ready?”

  “I’m over there at the herb bundles booth every Monday.”

  “Oh! I love that booth.”

  I smile as I shove the change into my pocket. “Thanks. That’s good to hear.” The baby stirs, lets out a tiny whimper. “What’s her name?”

  “Katherine. Kat with a K for short. When she stretches, she looks like a kitty in the sun, so the nickname has already stuck.” She smiles down at her baby. “Isn’t that right?”

  “She’s really cute.”

  Kat fusses, and her whimpers grow to a full-fledged angry-faced cry in five seconds.

  “Oh, shoot.” The woman does that same sway my mom always did with Sequoia. He needed to be held 24/7 due to my mom’s attachment-parenting philosophy. “I think I have to feed her.” Her eyes dart around the market in a panic. It’s a parking lot. No benches. No tables.

  “There will be no hungry babies on my watch. Have a seat,” Mary says, pointing to the folding chair in the shady corner of her booth.

  The woman blows her bangs from her face. “Oh, thank you, Mary. I’m still getting the hang of this.”

  She spins around in a flustered circle, trying to juggle all her bags and untangle a screaming baby from her sling all at the same time. I jump in to help, grabbing the woman’s diaper bag and a canvas sack filled with fruit as she sits down. Once she’s settled, I bend down to set the bags by the chair. The baby reaches out, and before I know it, she has a tangle of my curly brown hair in her tiny fist.

  “Oh no,” the woman says. “Whoops!”

  “It’s okay.” I push the baby’s fingers free, but she grabs hold of my index finger in the process. She has a fierce grip for a newborn. I let her give me one last tug before I pull myself free, and she instantly shoves her fist into her mouth. “It was nice to meet you. And when you’re ready for a babysitter, don’t forget the herb bundle booth. Every Monday.”

  “Thanks. I’m sure I’ll be in touch.” She has sunk into the chair now, prepping herself to nurse. Her eyes fill with the relief of having a calmer baby.

  “You say hi to your mom for me,” Mary calls out before I’m lost to the crowd.

  “Will do!”

  I get back to our booth, plop the tomatoes by my mom’s reusable BPA-free water bottle, and put my apron back on.

  My mom looks at me. Touches my cheek with the back of her hand. “You okay? You don’t look well. You’re all flushed. And warm.”

  “It’s from the sun,” I say. “It’s hot today.”

  I don’t mention the tickle in my throat. I’m probably just thirsty.

  THREE

  When we get home at five o’clock, Sequoia barrels into me, arms spread wide for a hug, as I get out of the van my dad rigged to run on vegetable oil and named Bessie. Thankfully, my reflexes are quick and I’m able to pull the bag of tomatoes up over my head before he smashes them against my chest.

  “Watch it. Jeez.”

  “Ew. You’re all sweaty,” he says, pulling away.

  “It was hot and we forgot the canopy. Be thankful you got to stay here with the shade and the lemonade.”

  “Phew.” He wipes his brow in relief as he trudges into the house in front of my mom and me.

  “Where’s Poppy?” my mom says.

  “Out back. Science stuff.”

  “And Daddy?”

  “He finished work early, so he’s reading another mystery. Dun dun dun.”

  Our dad taught us that. He always says, “I’m off to read a mystery. Dun dun dun.” And we’re all supposed to laugh like we’re hearing the joke for the first time.

  My mom pats my brother’s messy head of hair. “Well, then it looks like you get to help me make spaghetti sauce.”

  “Yes!” Sequoia says, pumping his fist in the air.

  I let out a hacking cough, and my mom turns to look at me again. She crinkles her eyebrows tight, making her forehead crease deep in the middle, then swipes her hand across my forehead. It comes back smeared with sweat. “You’re getting sick, June. Why don’t you go lie down, and Poppy’ll bring you some tea with honey when she’s done with her project.”

  “Fine.” I don’t want to be sick, but it’s probably time to admit I don’t feel completely well. Maybe all I need is a nap.

  In my room, I draw the shades because the bright sun is making my eyes water. The school day is over, so there’s nothing left to see across the street now anyway. I flip on the ceiling fan, kick off my sandals, and flop on the bed. My room is dark without the light from the window, but the breeze of the fan chills my too-hot skin, so I burrow under the covers. When I close my eyes, I realize how much my body aches. Every inch of me feels bruised, every muscle tender. I sink into the bed, hugged by the quilt my mom made for me two Christmases ago. I drift into the comfort of home and await fuzzy dreams.

  Dreams of boys and beaches and sunshine.

  Summer music.

  The slap of waves …

  I jolt awake to Poppy hovering above me like an ax murderer. She has turned on the light and made my room too bright again.

  “Tea,” she says, heaving up a mug so heavy it takes two hands to hold it. “With orange blossom honey from Fresh Hive.”

  “Thanks.” I prop myself up on my pillows and reach for the mug. The first sip feels good going down my scratchy throat.

  “Your eyes are red,” she says.

&nb
sp; “No kidding, Nancy Drew. I’m sick.”

  “No. Red red. Creepy red. And gooey.” She shudders.

  “Okay. You can go now.”

  “Mom said to tell you dinner’s in an hour.”

  I start to say thanks, but my body is suddenly overcome by a coughing fit. Hot tea splashes out over the sides of my mug, leaving teardrop stains on my shirt. Poppy grabs the mug from me and sets it on the nightstand before I spill it all.

  “That sounds bad,” she says. “Are you possessed or something?”

  “Can you go now? I just want to sleep.”

  It’s a miracle, but Poppy finally shuts off the light and leaves. I turn to my side, pulling my knees up and my arms in because I’m cold again.

  And soggy.

  A lump.

  Something’s not right, but I’m too exhausted to care.

  FOUR

  I stare at one red dot.

  It glares at me in the mirror as I use the edge of the sink to hold myself up. It’s Friday. I’ve been sick four days. My mom figured it was the flu and that it simply had to run its course. She’s kept track of my fever, plied me with herbal tonics, and insisted I needed sleep and liquids. I’ve barely found the energy to make it from my bed to the bathroom, but I had to pee bad enough to make my way here.

  The dot is on my hairline above my left eyebrow. I assume it’s a pimple at first. But then I notice another one by my right ear. Two more above that. I tug down my shirt. See more at the neckline, where my collar has been hiding them.

  “Mom!”

  Poppy cruises past the partially shut door of the bathroom, doubles back, and pushes it open all the way.

  “Whoa,” she says, looking at my face.

  “Where’s Mom?”

  “Kitchen.”

  “Go get her.”

  Poppy races down the hallway and down the stairs. I can hear the hurried thump of her feet as she goes. I’m impressed she actually listened to me. And then my mom is standing in the bathroom, looking at the same reflection in the mirror as I am.

  “Does it itch?” she asks. “Or burn?”

  “Maybe? I don’t know.”

  She presses her index finger to a red spot. The skin fades to white, then springs back to red when she pulls it away.

  “It’s probably only a rash. You’ve been pretty sick.” She lifts up my shirt to look at my back. “You have a few more right here.” She traces along the waistband of my pajama pants where they hit my lower back.

  “It looks weird.”

  “Maybe I can get someone to see you today.” My mom hasn’t found a local doctor who will take Poppy, Sequoia, and me. Many doctors refuse to see unvaccinated patients. “There’s always urgent care. But right now, let’s wait and see. Maybe they’ll clear up on their own.”

  There are more spots a few hours later.

  They’ve spread along my hairline. Around my ears. Down my face and into my shirt. They keep running and forming all the way to my feet, smearing together, turning me red.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” my dad says, studying my back.

  “Me either,” my mom says. “Do you think it’s an allergic reaction?”

  “I’d buy that if she hadn’t been so sick. You haven’t eaten anything store-bought or processed, have you, Junebug?”

  I shake my head.

  My mom forces me into a baking-soda bath and rubs a creamy oatmeal concoction all over me when I get out. None of it helps, and by five o’clock I’m one big red welt.

  “I need to take her to see someone,” my mom says. “I can treat her better if I know what it is.”

  “Probably a good idea,” my dad says.

  So an hour later, my mom and I climb into Bessie—me still wearing pajama pants and a sweatshirt because I don’t have the energy to put on real clothes—and drive to an urgent care clinic by the big grocery store in town.

  The parking lot is crowded, so we have to park in the back. The walk seems too far, and I have to lean on my mom for support.

  “Hang in there,” she says.

  The waiting room is filled with a few stuffy-nosed kids and their parents, a thirtysomething woman who coughs in fits, and a twentysomething guy in a soccer uniform holding an ice pack over his knee.

  My mom checks me in, hands over my insurance card, and pays cash for the visit while I slump down in a chair with my hood pulled up over my head.

  “You doing okay?” my mom asks when she sits down next to me.

  All I can manage is a grunt and a shrug.

  “We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  An elderly woman checks in after us and takes the seat on the other side of me. I recognize her as someone I’ve seen buying produce and flowers at the farmers market. I’ve noticed her because she kind of reminds me of my grandma Mimi, perfectly put together. But her look is more severe, her hair pulled back into a bun so tight it looks like it hurts. She glances my way. Flinches. Looks again. Studies me. I pull the drawstrings on my hoodie tighter to cover my face and keep the light from burning my eyes.

  By the time I’m called in to see the doctor, I can barely stand. My mom and I pass through the waiting room door that leads us into a hallway lined with additional doors to five different exam rooms. A nurse takes my vitals at a station in the hallway, clucks at my high fever, then leads me to an exam room about the size of my closet. I take off my hoodie, knowing the doctor will need to be able to see my rash, but I’m glad I remembered to wear a short sleeve T-shirt underneath. When I see the doctor walk by as he heads down the hallway, I decide he should be playing a doctor on one of Mimi’s soap operas instead of seeing patients here. He’s young, with slick black hair and cheekbones too sharp to be a real doctor.

  When he finally comes to my exam room, he looks at me for half a second and says, “Uh-uh. No. You have the measles. Up. Out. I can’t have you in here.”

  “What?” My mom’s voice is shocked. High. “It’s a rash. She couldn’t have measles.”

  “It’s the measles.”

  “How? Nobody gets the measles anymore.”

  “Not true,” he says. “Has she been immunized for the measles? An MMR shot?”

  “Well.” She tangles the thick strap of her recycled fabric purse in her hands. “Not exactly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “She hasn’t been vaccinated.”

  “For anything?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Why? Does she have a special medical condition?”

  “I don’t have to explain to you why I haven’t had my child vaccinated.”

  “Well, explain it to her,” he says, tipping his clipboard at me. “Because she’s the one sitting here with a case of the measles. You need to make sure you get her proper medical attention, but I’m not equipped to give it to you here.”

  “But, but—” My mom’s flustered in a way I’ve never seen before.

  The doctor turns to me. “You have to go. I can’t have you shedding measles in my office. I have babies with compromised immune systems coming in. Chemo patients arriving with complications. It’s not safe for them.”

  “What are we supposed to do?” my mom shouts loud enough for the people in the waiting room to hear. “You’re a medical professional! We are here for treatment. You can’t refuse us service!”

  “I can if it puts everyone else in my office at risk. You need to go somewhere with a more structured protocol in place. I can let the hospital ER know you’re on the way.”

  “Let’s go, Mom.” I grab my hoodie. I’m so cold. I pull it over my head as the doctor keeps lecturing my mom. He’s saying all kinds of things about why she didn’t recognize the measles and how we’ve exposed everyone at this clinic. I cringe as I listen.

  “You have some nerve,” my mom says.

  I pull on her sleeve like a three-year-old, but she wiggles free. My hands fall back to my sides and I drag my feet out of the exam room, down the hallway, and back through the waiting room. In th
e fog of my fevered mind, I can still hear her arguing with the doctor.

  Come on, Mom.

  He wants us to leave.

  He thinks I should be vaccinated.

  He says I’m highly contagious.

  People swarm in a hazy cloud in my head. My brother. My sister. Mary at her fruit and veggie stand. Everyone I sold herbs and oils to on Monday. Was I sick then? Like contagious sick? Because I touched a lot of money that I handed back to other people. And I touched almost every tomato in Mary’s bin. And now I’ve breathed and coughed and sneezed all over every person in this waiting room. I push through the door to the outside air. I don’t know if it’s the fever that makes me want to crawl out of my skin or the thought of exposing someone else to this. I keep hearing the doctor’s words. It’s not safe for them. Meaning I’m not safe.

  A guy my dad’s age, wearing a neck brace, comes to the door. He holds it open for me, thinking I’m going in. I stand there. And then I hear the nurse.

  “I regret to inform all of you that you have been exposed to the measles virus,” she says. “If any of you haven’t been immunized or have never had the measles, I need you to let me know immediately.”

  The elderly woman who had been studying me earlier stands up. Points at me. “I knew it!” she shouts.

  Inside, the room becomes a flurry of activity. Chatter erupts. Voices rise. Yes, people have been vaccinated, but they’re wondering if they’re totally immune as the nurse does her best to calm them. The man in the neck brace turns right around and walks back down the sidewalk.

  I make a move to go inside again. I want to apologize. But then I don’t. They already know it’s me. That’s bad enough.

  FIVE

  By ten p.m. I’m in a hospital bed with a quarantine sign on the door to my room because on top of the measles, my fever has spiked to 103.6. The doctor says I have pneumonia, a common complication of the measles, apparently. I’ve never had pneumonia. I heard the doctor tell my mom how serious it is. All I know is it’s hard to breathe, and I legitimately might throw up from all the coughing and the mucus.