Queen Esther & the Second Graders of Doom

Chapter 4

How Many is the Norm?

Josh wailed every single moment of his doctor visit. This morning’s fever had called a halt to any hope of Josh’s grumpiness being “just teething.” Essie was barely conscious. She couldn’t remember if she’d brushed her teeth yet this morning, so she tried to smile for the doctor without opening her mouth. She tried to look like an intelligent member of the human race, even though she was feeling pretty much like an amoeba.

“Yes, there, Master Walker. That’s one whopping ear infection you’ve got. Both ears, too. Overachiever, I see.” Dr. Martin was trying to put a good spin on things. The man could even be called cheerful. But to Essie right now, twin ear infections sounded like the end of the world.

It must have shown on her face. Dr. Martin walked over and returned screeching little Joshua to her arms with an understanding smile. His appearance and demeanor were so completely, perfectly “doctorish,” that the guy belonged on television. “You’ll be amazed,” he commiserated, “what a little pain medicine will do for the guy. Half an hour, a couple of squirts of pink stuff and he’ll be snoozing in no time.”

“Could I have that in writing?” Essie whimpered.

“Next best thing,” replied Dr. Martin, scribbling off a set of prescription notes. “May I introduce you to your new best friend, amoxicillin? You’ll be very well acquainted by the end of the year. There are two kinds of babies in this world. The kind who hardly ever get ear infections, and…the other kind.”

“Josh is an ‘other,’ isn’t he?”

“I could lie, but you look like the kind of person who prefers a straight story.”

Essie juggled Josh onto her shoulder, which settled his wailing down into a low-grade, pitiful moan. “And the straight story is I’m going to see a lot of amoxi-whatever.”

Dr. Martin touched her shoulder. “It does get easier. When he gets old enough to have good control of his hands—which should be soon—he’ll grab at his ears and you’ll catch on before it gets full-blown awful.”

This was not comforting. Essie felt as if she might burst into tears. Some small part of her knew it was only the sleep deprivation, but right now Josh was looking disabled, scarred and victimized. “Okay,” was all she could sputter out.

“Mrs. Walker, it’s going to be fine. The first one is always the hardest. There’s one thing you should know, though, if you don’t already.”

Your child will never hear again. His brain will be permanently affected. He will…

“This stuff stains.”

“Huh?”

“Amoxicillin. It stains. Keep Josh in old onesies or whatever for the first couple of days because it seems to get everywhere, and it stains. You, too.” He chuckled. “I’d lay off the evening gowns for the next few days so you don’t end up pink, too.”

“Yes, of course,” Essie replied, but in her head she thought, You wouldn’t be laughing if you knew I’ve had this same shirt on for three straight days.

“Mrs. Walker?”

“Yes?”

“That was a joke. A bad one, but still a joke. You’re going to be fine, both of you. Make a follow-up appointment for two weeks from now on your way out. And if you don’t have one of those tiny medicine things that looks like a miniature turkey baster, make sure you pick one up at the pharmacy—it might save you a lot of trouble and a lot of upholstery.”

Josh had settled down to a grumbling whimper by the time Essie reached the pharmacy. “I need amixibillin and a turkey baster.”

An older woman behind the counter blinked from behind her thick black glasses. “Pardon me?”

Essie shifted the baby carrier to the other hand and fumbled in her purse until she found the square of blue paper. She pushed it across the counter to the pharmacist. “This. I need this prescription filled.” Essie’s keys tumbled out of her purse and fell on the floor. She noticed the candy bars beside the counter. How many would it take to be considered a glutton? Sixteen?

“The amoxicillin I guessed. No problem, I have that. It’s the turkey baster that has me stumped.”

Oh, my, had she really said that? Essie pulled in a focusing breath, just like she used to do before she competed. “My doctor,” she began, letting the breath out in a slow, deliberate exhale, “well, Josh’s doctor, recommended a medicine spoonish thing he said looked like a miniature turkey baster. For the amoxicillin. Do you know what he means?”

The woman’s face spread into a smile. “Oh, of course. Look down to your left. And if I were you, I’d get three of them. You can never find them when you need them, especially in the middle of the night. They work wonders, these little things, but don’t use them if the baby’s asleep. You always need to make sure they’re awake when you give them the medicine. Even if you have to wake ’em up, which I know no one wants to do.”

“Okay, good. Three of them it is. Thanks for the tip.”

Essie noticed the pharmacist, who now seemed infinitely friendlier, was looking at her with an odd, knowing expression.

“How many chocolate bars do you want me to put in the bag with that medicine?” She winked. Really, she winked. It made her look like a great, gray owl with those magnified eyes.

Surprised into honesty, Essie blurted out, “How many is the norm?”

“I’ve seen one mom take eight. Of course, that was a case of scarlet fever, so extreme measures were called for. I don’t usually recommend that many.”

Scarlet fever? Didn’t people get that in Dickens novels or something?

“I’ll take four.” Just then Josh let out an ear-splitting wail. “Five.”

The pharmacist dropped the bars in the bag and leaned over to see the source of the five-alarm screech. “He’ll be a new man by tomorrow, you’ll see. This stuff works wonders.”

“The chocolate or the medicine?”

“Same thing in my book, sweetie. I’m a bar-a-day chocoholic myself. Don’t forget your keys.”

Doctor Martin was right. Amoxicillin did get everywhere. It looked and smelled like Pepto-Bismol, and trying to get it into squirming, wailing Josh’s mouth with that baster thing felt more like target practice than medical care. This child, who had no practical use of his hands yet, seemed to acquire perfect aim and swatted the medicine away just as it hit his mouth. Should any of it actually make it into his mouth—which should have been simple because it was open in a non-stop screech during this procedure—he coughed and sputtered it back out in a shower of pink drops.

Finally, Essie fell back on deception as a tactic. She nestled him in her arms as if to nurse him, which of course sent him into instant sucking mode. Before he knew what hit him, she snuck the tip of the medicine dropper-thing into his mouth and gave the bulb an authoritative squirt. He coughed, and sputtered, but this time the actual majority of medicine remained in the baby, where it belonged.

The rest, though, was just about everywhere. By the time they were done with both medicine and baby aspirin, Josh’s onesie had more pink than its original blue. He was verging on sticky from all the drips, and Essie’s shirt was beyond repair.

But he calmed. When he produced a yawn—an actual, nonwailing yawn—Essie set the world’s speed record for quick baby wash-down and insertion into a clean onesie.

And the child slept. The silence was the most beautiful sound Essie had ever heard.

She threw her dank shirt off, grabbed a T-shirt of Doug’s and collapsed on the couch. A glance at her watch told her over two hours had gone by when the phone woke her up.

“Hello?”

“Essie?”

“Anna! Oh, Anna, God must have known I needed to hear your voice today. It’s wonderful to hear from you.”

“Essie, no offense, but you sound awful. How’s life on the other side of the continent?”

Even though she’d had enough sleep to take the edge off, Essie burst into tears. “Awful. Josh has ear infections and I haven’t slept and Doug’s been working late.”

“Ear infections, ugh. Josh is going to be one of those, huh? Danny was one. That’s rough—I’m sorry you’re having such a tough go of it.”

Essie nudged the box of tissues on the floor with her foot until she pulled it within reach. “How come nobody tells you this stuff? It’s so hard….” Essie was trying to cry as quietly as possible, desperate not to wake Josh. She’d even stuffed the phone under her pillow so that only she would hear it ring. She walked out onto the back balcony, thanking God—again—for giving someone the idea for the cordless phone. “I miss you—all of you—so much.”

Essie could hear Anna’s voice catch. “I’d give anything to be able to pile in the car and come over there right this minute. I hate it that you’re so far away.”

“Me, too.” It was more sob than sentence.

“But you know, Essie, this is where you’re supposed to be right now. We went over this so many times. You’re supposed to be in San Francisco. Your family needs you. But I hate it all the same.”

Essie wished she had a pink medicine to make the ache in her heart go away. “I just can’t see how it’s good now. I remember being so sure.” She ran her hand along the curved edge of the toy box Doug was building out here. “Now I’m not sure at all. Wait a minute…I needed to get the monitor thing, Anna, sorry.”

“Monitor? How big is your apartment, anyway? I thought Doug told us it seemed like he could only afford something the size of a two-car garage out there.”

“Very funny.” Essie was glad to hear one of Anna Miller’s wisecracks. She missed her more than she realized. “I need to know he’s okay while I’m out here on the deck.”

“He’s got Walker-powered lungs. I could probably here him over here.”

“Oh, yeah?” Essie found herself smiling, just a bit. “Well, then you didn’t get any sleep last night, either, did you?”

“Okay,” Anna relented. “Okay. Is he doing better?”

“I’ve learned how hard it is to get amoxicillin from the bottle and into the baby, if that’s what you mean. It’s working—he’s finally sleeping. I even got to sleep.”

“I woke you up, didn’t I? Sorry.”

“No,” sighed Essie, easing herself into the Adirondack chair and wishing with every cell in her body that Anna was on the chair next to her and they were in New Jersey again. “No, I’m really glad to hear your voice. I’d have been sick if I missed your call.”

“Listen, I’m sorry things are lousy right now, but I have some good news—it’s one of the reasons I called.”

“I could use good news right now.”

“Kevin was at some athletic thing last night, one of those association meetings or whatever those monthly things are, and he ran into someone.”

“Yeah?”

“Some former college buddy who knows a bunch of people out in California. Essie, he says he knows of a junior college right by you looking for a women’s track coach. Starting in February. Isn’t that when you said you would need to go back to work?”

Essie took a deep breath. “It’s too early to be making those kinds of plans. I’m lucky to be walking and talking these days, much less launching a job search.”

“This could be God working things out for you. Think about it—what are the chances of Kevin bumping into this guy and hearing this kind of information?”

“No, you’re right, it does sound like it’s worth checking into.” Essie thought that last bit sounded less comatose.

“Good. Check your e-mail tonight. Kevin is sending the details. And I want photos of my little godson. He must be growing like a weed by now.”

“At the moment, he’s just growing viruses. Well, I do think he’s up a pound or two. I didn’t take much notice at the doctor’s this morning.”

“You found a good doctor?”

“Yes, he seems great. Your standard nice-old-guy pediatrician.”

“You mean they don’t all look like George Clooney out there?”

“I wish. No, this guy looks closer to Ed Asner. Or that oatmeal spokesman—what’s his name?”

“Beats me, I’m strictly a toast kind of woman. But I think I know the type.”

Essie let out a long sigh. The kind of shuddering sigh a body gives out after too many tears. “I want to come home. I’d never say that to Doug—or to Mom and Pop—but I want to come home.”

“You are home, Essie. You just don’t know it yet.”

No, thought Essie, laying her cheek against the chair back, I don’t know it at all.

Chapter 5

The Box Marked “Those”

Essie had barely caught her emotional balance when the phone rang again.

“Essie. Hi there, it’s Dahlia. Dahlia Mannington. Glad to catch you at home. Is now a good time?”

A good time? That might take a six-month delay. “Now’s fine. Josh hasn’t been feeling well, but he’s down for his nap. What can I do for you?”

“Well, you’ve had Stanton in your class for a few weeks now. I make it a point to get together with all Stanton’s teachers early in the year. You know, a bit of a ‘get to know each other’ visit.”

Wow, thought Essie, this is one thorough woman. She’d had parents like that at Pembrook High, but never ones who extended such thinking clear into Sunday school. Of course, the parents who make such heroic attempts at parent-teacher cooperation were almost never the ones who needed it. The parents of teens who terrorized classmates on the bus, or deliberately hit kids’ heads in dodgeball, those parents would never offer to meet. Many times they often refused to meet, certain their splendid offspring could never do wrong.

Almost all the time. Occasionally, a clever, manipulative child had intensely cooperative parents. It was usually then that Essie discovered the thin line between “intensely cooperative” and “cleverly manipulative.” The very thin line indeed.

“Essie?”

“I’m sorry. I’m just so surprised at your…commitment…to Sunday school. It’s nice, actually.” She really almost meant it. “Sure, I’d love to meet. Stanton’s quite a boy.”

If a mom could beam over a telephone line, Essie thought she could hear it right through the wires. “He is, isn’t he? Boys can be such a handful as infants, but Stanton’s turned out to be such a joy to us.”

On impulse, Essie asked, “Did Stanton get a lot of ear infections when he was a baby?”

Dahlia groaned. “Is that what Joshua is facing? Oh, Stanton had dozens. I ended up seeing three specialists, all to no avail. Ears will do what ears will do, evidently. Even did the tubes, but they popped out—twice.” Her voice changed as she suddenly caught the motivation for Essie’s question. “How many so far?”

“Just one so far, but it’s in both ears. His doctor tells me it won’t be his last, though. He actually said I should be pleased he didn’t get his first one until he was this old.”

“How old is your son again?”

“Six months.”

“Six months and this is your first infection? Oh, I’d have to say I’d agree. I think Stanton had been through at least two by then. Maybe even three.”

Now it was Essie’s turn to groan. “I want to feel lucky, really I do.”

“By the fifth infection, you won’t even flinch. I guarantee it.”

Fifth?

“And if you have to do the tubes, I know a fabulous specialist.”

Of that, Essie had no doubt.

“Well,” continued Dahlia, “I’m glad you’re amenable to a meeting. How does ten-thirty Thursday suit your schedule? I’ll have Carmen whip us up some sweet rolls.”

Essie could guess who Carmen was, and how much work might be involved in “just whipping up” some sweet rolls that met Dahlia’s standards.

“I’d love to come. Ten-thirty is perfect—it means Josh will conk out in his stroller for most of the meeting.”

“Splendid.” Dahlia gave Essie the address, even though Essie had a class list with all kinds of contact information. Essie took it down, mostly to be polite. Sure enough, it was in one of the spiffiest sections of town.

Essie was just talking herself out of a case of nerves when Dahlia added, “I’ve got a few papers I was hoping you could read before we meet. You don’t happen to have a fax machine at home, do you?”

“Uh, no.” Fax machine? Essie was glad they’d managed to pay for Internet service. Forget about a fax machine. Then again, Doug did work in computers and Dahlia knew that, so maybe it wasn’t such a stretch for some.

“Do you think I could fax it to your husband, or your brother, and have them give it to you?”

Obviously, Dahlia wanted Essie to do her homework before they met. On a quick analysis, Essie decided Doug was the better candidate, and she rattled off Doug’s office fax number. “I’ll just call Doug after I hang up with you and tell him to expect something.”

“Marvelous.” A cascade of Spanish erupted in the background and Dahlia let out an exasperated sigh. “Uno minuto, Carmen. Sorry, but I’d best get going. See you Thursday.”

Doug chuckled when Essie called him to alert him to the incoming fax.

He was laughing out loud when he delivered the seventeen-page document into her hands that night. Seventeen pages.

Essie pulled off the cover sheet expecting to find half a dozen articles on the proper spiritual education of second-grade boys. What she found couldn’t have surprised her more.

In her hands was an extensive analysis of Stanton Mannington’s spiritual strengths and weaknesses. Dahlia had actually taken one of those books with tests to help someone discover their “spiritual gifts”—things like hospitality, wisdom, leadership, prophecy—and filled it out for Stanton. There were no less than ten pages of test scores, four pages of commentary and three pages of Dahlia’s recommendations for Stanton’s areas of potential ministry.

All this for a seven-year-old boy.

Maybe “thorough” wasn’t quite the word to describe Dahlia Mannington.

Mouth open, Essie stared at Doug. He looked as baffled and amused as she felt. “That lady tied up my fax machine for eleven minutes. Next time tell her I’ll swing by on my way home.” He pointed at the packet. “What in the world is that thing, anyway?”

“Test results. Dahlia Mannington filled out one of those spiritual gifts tests for Stanton. Then she interpreted the results. Extensively. It’s a what-you’re-good-at, where-you’d-do-well kind of thing. For adults.”

Doug looked skeptical. “Like those tests we used to take our senior year in high school? To tell us what to major in?”

“Same principle, just applied to the different types of spiritual gifts Paul mentions in the Bible. Someone took the idea of Paul’s that each of us is wired by God for different types of service, and applied the idea to those school tests.” Essie narrowed her eyes. “It’s fascinating, actually.” She fluttered the papers. “But this is just crazy.” She fanned through the thick, official-looking packet again. “Look at this—can you believe she did this?”

Doug smirked. “Somehow I think Mark-o has a thick file of paperwork on each of the Mannington children. Probably the parents, too.” He parked his briefcase in its designated spot by the front-door umbrella stand and tossed his keys onto the hall table. “I admit, it’s weird, but still, when is the last time you met someone who took their child’s spirituality so seriously?”

“‘So seriously’?” Essie cocked an eyebrow. “I think this qualifies as too seriously. Stanton’s only seven. How’s anyone supposed to have any idea what his spiritual gifts are? Why does anyone even need to know? I’m sorry, but this qualifies as wa-a-ay over the top.”

Doug crossed his arms over his chest and laughed. “This, from the woman who spent the last year groaning to me about parents who didn’t care enough, who wouldn’t get involved, or didn’t think track and field ranked anywhere near football in importance. Now you’ve got yourself a parent who pays a boatload of attention and you’re griping?”

He was teasing her, she knew it, but it still got under her skin. “This is overboard, Douglas Walker, and you know it. I can spot this kind of parent a mile off, and it’s never good. I’m going to have Dahlia Mannington and her spiritual recommendations breathing down my neck and I’m not happy about it.”

“Well, I was wondering if she’d pull something like that.” As they sat in his office the next morning, Mark-o’s reaction told Essie that this was not at all out of character for Dahlia Mannington. With a wince, Essie remembered that it was Dahlia who had “commissioned” the Ph.D. student to write a simple Sunday school drama. Simple, it seemed, was not in Dahlia’s vocabulary.

Essie shot her brother a sidelong look. “You knew she would do this. She’s done this before. Mark Andrew Taylor, you knew exactly what you were letting me in for. Shame on you, duping your little sister.”

“Hey, you’re the one who told me you wanted to learn about raising boys. I distinctly remember you saying during some dinner at Mom and Pop’s that you knew enough about teenagers, but needed to figure out how little boys worked. That’s a wide-open door in my book. I just figured God was being obvious.”

Essie leveled a look at her brother that she hoped told him such a story wasn’t working. Understanding little boys was one thing. Corralling them into higher levels of spiritual development without major bloodshed—well, that was quite another. “You knew about Dahlia.”

He acquiesced. “Okay, I knew Dahlia was a handful. But I also knew Cece Covington was in there, too, and you two have seemed to hit it off.”

Essie couldn’t argue with that. She and Cece had met for coffee twice since that first committee meeting. Every minute of happy grapefruit-spoon quiet proclaimed that Cece was a mom who knew her stuff. Plus, it was just plain fun to be with someone who declared for certain that children aren’t in diapers forever and they do actually sleep through the night eventually. “Still…Mark-o, Dahlia’s one of those. You know how I hate them. Next thing she’ll be telling me I can only use recycled drawing paper or organic crayons. Soon, I’ll be getting magazine articles in the mail, and then it will be e-mails with links to Web sites helping me to teach The Lord’s Prayer in Latin to grade-schoolers.” She was on a roll now, imagining all kinds of havoc Dahlia Mannington and her kind could wreak in her classroom. “She’s one of those, Mark-o, and you did this to me!”

To her surprise, this got his back up. She’d gone too far—she knew it the minute he set down his coffee mug with a loud clank. “I think, Esther—” and it was never good when he called her Esther “—that you ought to give Dahlia half a chance before you stick her in some box marked ‘those’ and write her off as nothing but a nuisance.”

Mark-o had always had the ability to halt one of her tirades in a single sentence.

“If one quarter of the people in this church cared half as much as Dahlia and Arthur do about spiritual growth,” he continued, lowering his voice again, “Bayside would be an astounding place. Sure, Dahlia’s a bit of a pain, but I tell you, Essie, we’re all a bit of a pain. If I had a dozen more like her there’d be no telling how much we could do here. No telling. Don’t label her. It’s not fair.”

Since when was life fair?