The tires of the station wagon slipped slightly on the wet oak leaves at the edge of the Elm Avenue driveway before the traction control took over. I did not look back at the grand stone entrance or the warm light glowing in the windows of the dining room where Thatcher and Beatrix were still hosting their guests.
Within twenty minutes, the blue sign for the Lake Forest Hospital emergency room appeared through the bare branches of the maples.
I left the car in the yellow-lined emergency zone and carried Sabina through the automatic sliding doors. The air inside the triage area was thick with the scent of rubbing alcohol and industrial lemon cleaner.
Dr. Marcus, the pediatrician on duty, had thin gray hair and wore a faded blue stethoscope around his neck. He guided us into an exam room with a examination table covered in crinkly white paper.
“Her temperature is forty point one,” the nurse announced, reading the digital thermometer.
Dr. Marcus gently pressed two fingers against the side of Sabina’s neck, then looked at the small dark circles under her eyes. “She is severely dehydrated, Vivian. The fever has been running too high for too long without enough fluids.”
“I tried to give her water,” I said, my voice low and flat. “She could not keep it down.”
“We need to start an intravenous line right away,” Dr. Marcus said. He patted Sabina’s shoulder as she clung to my sleeve. “We will get some fluids and some liquid acetaminophen into her system, and we will monitor her overnight.”
I watched the nurse prepare the small needle, taping a tiny plastic splint to Sabina’s arm so she could not bend her elbow. My daughter did not even cry when the needle went into the back of her hand; she only whimpered once and pulled her faded star blanket tighter against her chin.
“You did the right thing bringing her in,” Dr. Marcus said, writing on a clipboard. “A few more hours of this fever without fluids would have been very dangerous.”
