She answered on the second ring, the background noise of her television low and familiar.
“Martha,” I said, keeping my voice down so Tommy would not hear.
“Andrew, is everything alright?” she asked.
“Tommy is here,” I said, looking through the doorway at my son’s stiff profile. “He cannot sit down. He is holding his middle and flinching if I get within two feet of him.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my keys, sliding my thumb over the heavy silver keychain I had carried since college. The cool metal usually helped me focus when a drafting project went wrong.
“It is probably just a stomach bug, Andrew,” she said. “The schools are full of them this time of year. Did he eat his lunch?”
“He has not eaten anything,” I said. “He is trembling.”
“Give him some ginger ale,” she said. “If he is still sick tomorrow, you can call the pediatrician. Do not overreact, honey.”
“This does not feel like a stomach bug,” I said.
“You always expect the worst,” she said. “Kids get sore muscles from gym class, or they eat something sour. Just let him rest.”
