Diagnosis
She was always running away. Not just from me. From everything.
How by the Great Little did that angry little girl become that airhead's mother?
As the memory faded, Grandpa pulled himself together to face what was happening there and then in the clinic waiting room.
They were waiting, a nurse in her best English had told them, for tests to finish: bloodwork, x-rays. Grandpa hugged Lucy on his lap- she hadn't let him go since they'd entered the clinic- and tried to force away the memory of that other girl who refused to be comforted. The boys stirred restlessly, Tom anxiously looking around and trying to comfort Lucy, and Ashley, who, despite his scowling, eyed everything nervously.
The doctor who finally approached them was a bright eyed fellow of Grandpa's age, whose smile spoke of more experience than his coat and clipboard ever could.
"I understand you are worried," he said, after introductions had been made and he had shaken Grandpa's hand (a firm handshake, to Grandpa's satisfaction), "and I know that this place must be frightening for all of you. But we will do everything we can to help your cousin, and I am here to answer any of your questions."
"And, it is...?" Grandpa asked, sitting down again and patting Lucy's back.
"Meningitis." The doctor's eyes were grave even as he smiled for the children's sake. "We are waiting for the blood work to confirm which type before we begin treatment, but there is no doubt."
"Meningitis." Grandpa sighed, closing his eyes. "Yes, that's what coach called it with Alex. Meningitis…I'll be. To come all the way to Italy…" He could feel Lucy tugging again, but he let the doctor explain the disease to the children in his soft, caring voice. Grandpa listened, catching the same terms his parents and coach had tossed around when Alex had been taken to the clinic.
Inflammation of the spinal cord at the brain…flu like symptoms…spinal fluid…medical rubbish
All Grandpa needed to know was one thing. "When can I see him?"
He bore the doctor's scrutiny as well as he could. Yes, he looked like an old, fragile Little, but he was tougher than any that existed.
"It is best that he doesn't have many visitors," the doctor answered at last. "Let us see what the tests tell us, and then we can say." The doctor's eyes darted to Lucy and the boys. Grandpa nodded curtly, catching the message. He clapped a hand to Tom's shoulder.
"Kids," he said, drawing them in, "I want you to go back to the hotel with Henry. I'm going to stay here for a while and wait for Dinky's test results."
"But, Grandpa…"
"No buts, Tom." He regarded his grandson warmly. Eleven-years-old he might only be, but there was a deep responsibility for everyone around him that made him older than his years. He liked to think he'd been that way himself at that age.
And there was Maeva, scowling before his eyes again… "There's no reason for all of us to be here, and I want to know that you three have a place to sleep for tonight."
A nurse kindly walked the reluctant children to the entrance. Grandpa watched them go, steeling his heart. No, separating his family in a strange country was not something he wanted to do.
The doctor was watching him silently.
"Well?" Grandpa asked. "What's next steps, doctor?"
"The blood work will tell us what strain he has so we can start him on antibiotics. We have a good system here." He looked meaningfully at the ceiling overhead, where the Bigs' hospital worked.
Grandpa followed his gaze and nodded. "Alright. What's the treatment? No, don't give me all the details," he added, holding up a hand as the doctor consulted a clipboard. "I won't understand the mumbo jumbo. Just give me the basics."
"A steady stream of antibiotics. And rest. We'll keep him in isolation overnight."
"And…" Grandpa took a breath. "How's he doing?"
The doctor's smile was compassionate. "He's weak, but he's resting. Don't worry, Grandpa Little. My staff will look after him."
Grandpa finally let him go. He was offered a bed which he accepted. It was better that he stayed, in case there was any change.
Once settled, his gut stirred. With his grandchildren finally out of sight and the medical staff giving him time alone, his own heaviness descended on him like a shadow.
Poor Dinky. Poor hapless, dreaming fool, so sick and alone in isolation. His poor nephew.
Grandpa bent his head. He had never been the sensitive type in his life. All gruffness and edges-that's what his own wife had said in her laughing way. But even in this state he knew tears wouldn't hurt, and so he cried them out into a handkerchief for some time.