I ignored him. He kicked my phone off the
table, laughing harder.
Some kids: born bad.
Helen, seeing my face, said, “It’s fine! Baby
pee is clean!”
“Drink it, then.
33
<
Helen’s smile froze. She retreated to the
kitchen, supposedly to help. Really, to
recreate those mommy–and–me photos
flooding her Facebook feed. Babies kneading
dough, making dumplings.
Mom was out. Helen whispered, “Peter never
wears shoes. His feet are clean. Can he
knead dough?”
I stared, then nodded slowly. “Sure. Babies
are clean.”
Helen plopped Peter into a bowl of dough. He
stomped happily.
く
Helen went for a bottle.
Peter grinned at me.
I grinned back.
Watched him…water…the dough.
The dough became dumplings. Served at
dinner.
Everyone loved Peter.
Let them enjoy his special dumplings.
New Year’s Day. Blisters. Everyone. Infected,
<
New Year’s Day. Blisters. Everyone. Infected,
oozing, painful, itchy. By day five, we couldn’t
eat. Hospital.
Diagnosis: foot fungus. In our mouths.
I gasped dramatically. “Foot fungus?
Contaminated food?”
“I had a stomach bug, couldn’t eat. What did everyone else have?”
Collective memory search. Helen mumbled, “Maybe…the dough Peter played with? But
his feet are clean…”
<
Mom, Dad, and Mark: faces drained of color.
Mom shrieked, “What do you mean?”
Helen, lip trembling, went silent.
I stepped in, explaining helpfully, adding,
“Seven–month–olds are pure! Dough kneaded
by his little manly feet must be extra
delicious! Helen was just trying to be nice!”
Dad bolted for a trash can. Mom, pale,
pointed at Helen. “Why didn’t you say
anything? Give us a…warning!”
“So…I’m unclean…my son is unclean…you all
hate us
く
……
hate us…”
TO UNDIVU… you UII
“Don’t be sarcastic! You just want me dead
so you can raise my grandson!”
“Mom! Helen doesn’t mean that!”
Old wounds reopened. Helen cried, Mark
comforted. Chaos in the exam room.
The doctor yelled for quiet.
“It might not be the dough. Maybe
contaminated utensils.”
“Seven–month–olds can get athlete’s foot.
Bring him in.”
L
Helen handed over Peter, tearfully. The doctor
examined him, face changing. He jumped up.
“Unresponsive! Grey! Code Blue!”
Peter: Code Blue. Six months earlier than last
time.
Family effort.
Helen and Mom: stunned, sobbing.
Mark, suddenly energized, berated them. “Mom, be more careful! It’s Helen’s first
baby, but not yours!”
<
“Helen! He was right there! How could you
not notice he was sick?”
Dad sighed, disappointed in his wife and
daughter–in–law.
I watched, detached. Women in patriarchal
families: so sad, so stupid.
Half an hour. The ER light went off.
I expected death. The doctor said, “He’s
stable.”
“Acute gastroenteritis, triggered intestinal
spasms. Very dangerous. Probably
く
contaminated food.”
Helen protested, “Impossible! 104° water for
formula! The internet says it’s perfect!”
Heads turned. The doctor frowned. “You
didn’t boil the water? You boil it, then cool it to 104°. It’s common sense!”
Helen stared blankly. Mom lunged, trying to
strangle her, screaming about her stupidity. They pulled her off.
Mom asked the doctor, “Is he okay? I said no formula! Good thing I’ve been breastfeeding him, or he’d be…”
<
The doctor’s voice rose several octaves.
“Ma’am, you’re 50, haven’t given birth
recently. You can’t breastfeed!”
Everyone stared.
Tests revealed Mom had a severe breast
infection.
The “breast milk“: pus.
Peter. Six months of tap water and pus.
Lucky to be alive.
ICU to a regular room. 24–hour monitoring,
NPO. Wait and see.
<
Mark, knowing Mom was useless, put on a
show of concern for Helen. Once she’d
volunteered for overnight duty, he took Dad
home.
“Honey, go home and rest. Amy can stay with me. Girls are more…attentive.”
The men left, guilt–free.
4 PM. I got Mom’s test results. Peter was awake, reaching for another kid’s Jell–O.
Helen peeled it open. “He wants Jell–O. Is that okay?”
L
“The doctor said NPO, no food or water. Jell-
O isn’t…food.”
Déjà vu. I nodded slowly. “You’re right, Helen.
He wants it. Give it to him.”
Helen, beaming, squeezed Jell–O into Peter’s
mouth. He gobbled it down, then choked,
convulsed, turning blue.
Doctors, nurses, rushing in. Too late.
Half an hour later. Peter: deceased.
Looking at Helen’s pale face, I exhaled,
walked away.
<
In my hand: Mom’s breast cancer diagnosis.
This time, everything would be different. They
would all pay.
The news aged Dad and Mark ten years. After
Peter’s funeral, a family meeting. Mom:
palliative care.
“Mom, we’re not rich. Helen and I are
planning for another baby. Lots of expenses.
The doctor said someone lived to 70 with
palliative care.”
