Son in ICU Worth Six Points, Marriage Zero

Alice Farley had a scoring system for family matters.

Urgency ran from one to ten, and only anything above a seven earned her personal attention.

But that standard only ever applied to me and our son.

When her assistant, Kevin Hughes, had a stomachache, she dropped a multimillion-dollar contract and drove him to the hospital herself.

When our son spiked a fever of one hundred and six, she gave it a four.

"Kids get fevers all the time. Not worth a special trip."

When our son was moved to the ICU, she still only gave it a six.

"One point short. Doesn't meet my threshold for coming."

I asked her, "Exactly how many points does it take before you'll come?"

On the other end of the line, her voice was flat.

"Seven is the life-or-death line. He isn't there yet."

Later, the doctor issued a critical-condition notice.

I took a photo and sent it to her. "This one. How many points is this worth?"

Two hours later, she finally replied.

"Seven. I'll come after tomorrow's board meeting."

But half an hour after that, I saw Kevin's new post pop up in my feed.

In the photo, Alice was crouched in a downpour, searching for a cat that had run off on him.

The caption read: "I just mentioned I was scared, and she came out through the night to be with me. Ms. Farley says my problems are always a ten."

I stared at that line for a long time, and then I laughed.

So the seven-point life-or-death line had never been a measure of how serious a thing was.

It was only her measure of whether she loved the person or not.

I put my phone away, signed my name on our son's critical-condition notice, and calmly messaged my lawyer.

"Get the divorce papers ready."

...

The lawyer's reply came fast.

"Papers drafted tonight. Custody of the child, the current home, and future medical costs, do you want those handled too?"

I stared at the red light over the ICU door and typed one line.

"Custody comes to me. Everything else is negotiable."

The doctor came out and handed me a medication consent form.

"Arthur Farley had a febrile seizure, and the lung infection is still getting worse. We want to adjust the treatment plan. Please sign."

I had just taken the pen when I heard footsteps behind me.

Alice had arrived.

The hem of her coat was soaked through, and there were a few fresh scratches on the back of her hand.

A nurse behind her held antiseptic and gauze, pressing her to see to the wound first.

She glanced at the ICU door, her tone level.

"What did the doctor say?"

"Febrile seizure. The infection's worse."

Alice lifted her wrist and checked the time.

"If he's still being treated, then it hasn't reached the worst point. Sending me seven messages in a row only clouds my judgment."

The doctor frowned. "Ms. Farley, a critical-condition notice isn't the family throwing a tantrum. The boy was already in respiratory failure when he came in. Any later, and the outcome would have been impossible to predict."

"I respect the professional judgment."

Alice took the consent form, her eyes running over the risk clauses.

"But he went from a one-hundred-and-six fever to critical in only a few hours. I need to look into whether a deterioration that fast has anything to do with a treatment error."

I looked at the injury on the back of her hand.

"Did you find the cat?"

She paused for a beat.

"I found it."

"So Kevin mentions he's scared and it's worth half an hour of standing in the rain. Arthur ends up in the ICU and it's only worth questioning the doctor?"

Alice set the form back down in front of me.

"You can't lump the two together. Kevin has a panic disorder. During an episode he can hurt himself. Arthur is in the hospital, with doctors responsible for him."

"He's only six."

"Precisely because he's our son, he can't grow up learning to cry and make a scene the moment something happens."

An alarm went off inside the ICU.

A nurse ran in, and in the instant the door opened, I saw Arthur's thin little arms strapped to the sides of the bed, his whole face buried under an oxygen mask.

My legs gave out, and I only kept my feet by catching the wall.

Alice reached out and steadied my arm.

"Don't scare yourself over nothing."

I shook her off.

"Go back."

"You kept pushing me to come, and now you're telling me to leave?"

"The lawyer will contact you."

Alice's eyes went dark.

"What lawyer?"

Before I could answer, a nurse leaned out of the ICU.

"He's awake, but he's not very clear. He keeps calling for his mother."

Alice pushed the door open and went in.

Arthur heard the footsteps and forced his eyes open.

"Mommy."

She bent down and touched his forehead.

"I'm here. Where does it hurt?"

The fever had left Arthur's voice hoarse.

"Daddy said you'd only come if it was a seven."

Alice's hand went still.

"Why is your father telling you things like that?"

"So am I a seven now?"

She didn't answer.

Arthur waited a few seconds, then carefully reached out, trying to touch her cuff.

Just as his fingertips were about to reach it, Alice's phone rang.

Kevin's voice came through shaking, thick with panic.

"Alice, Fluffy's been throwing up ever since we got him back. The vet says he might have swallowed something. I can't do the exam on my own..."

Alice straightened up.

"Send me the address. I'm on my way."

Arthur's hand fell back to the sheet.

I planted myself in front of the bed.

"He just woke up."

"The animal hospital isn't far. I'll come back once it's handled."

"Alice. He's calling for you."

She tucked the corner of the blanket around Arthur, her voice still calm.

"He's already seen me."

At the door, she turned back to look at me.

"Whatever you want to say, save it until Arthur's fever breaks. Don't bring your resentment toward me in front of the child."

After the door closed, Arthur looked at the empty spot where she'd been and asked me quietly,

"Daddy, does the kitten hurt more than I do?"

I didn't answer Arthur's question.

The doctor wouldn't let him keep talking and quickly fitted him with a non-invasive ventilator.

Two in the morning. For now, his condition was stable.

Alice didn't come back.

She only had the driver deliver a cake, saying it was a reward for Arthur when he woke up.

When the nurse opened the box, everyone fell silent.

There was a line of blue writing on the buttercream.

Wishing Kevin happiness always.

The driver explained awkwardly: Must be the wrong one. Assistant Hughes had his birthday yesterday. Ms. Farley ordered two cakes, and this one didn't get finished.

I closed the lid.

Take it away.

Arthur saw it through the glass and tapped the bed rail lightly.

Daddy, is that from Mommy?

No. It came by mistake.

The light that had just come up in his eyes dimmed again.

It's okay if I don't have any.

Before dawn, the lawyer contacted Alice and told her I wanted a divorce.

That morning, Alice's younger brother, Burton Farley, showed up with a few relatives.

He didn't ask about Arthur's condition first. He pulled me out into the hallway.

My sister says you want a divorce?

Yes.

Burton's face darkened.

Just because she didn't get to the hospital in time? My sister runs a huge company out there. You can't use a sick kid to force her to circle around you twenty-four hours a day.

And Kevin's cat counts as her own business?

Kevin's got no father, no mother, and he's stuck by my sister for five years. You're Alice's lawful husband. You can't even show that much tolerance for a person?

The few relatives stood off to the side, urging me in low voices.

The child's still sick. Don't stir up trouble.

Alice already came. That shows she has you two in her heart.

The scoring is just to sort out what matters most in the household. There's no ill will in it.

I looked at Burton.

So all of you know about this system?

He waved it off.

Of course we know. You and Arthur are always coming to her over every little thing. That's why she came up with the method.

Last month, Arthur's drawing contest, you called her a dozen times in a row. Didn't that hold her up from taking Kevin to see his therapist?

From inside the room came the sound of something hitting the floor.

I pushed the door open and saw Arthur scrambling to pick up the drawing by his bed.

It was the family portrait he'd drawn last month, before the contest.

In the picture, Alice sat in the front row, holding a bouquet of flowers.

But that day, right up until the contest ended, her seat had stayed empty.

Arthur hid the drawing under the blanket and said softly: Uncle, I won't call Mommy anymore.

Burton's expression turned uneasy.

Uncle's not blaming you. I'm telling you to be sensible. Your mom is very busy. You can't go to her for everything.

I pressed the call button.

Please see them out.

Burton said, displeased: Lawrence, we came to see the child.

He needs rest.

I'm his uncle.

Then you should be asking whether he's in pain, not teaching him how to be less of a bother to his mother.

Footsteps came from the doorway again.

Alice walked in carrying the cat that had gone missing, Kevin trailing behind her, his eyes faintly red.

Burton, don't blame Lawrence. It's all my fault.

He came up to the bed and held out a brand-new tablet to Arthur.

Uncle Kevin's making it up to you. Last night my cat got sick, and that's why your mom got called away.

Arthur didn't take it.

Kevin went on gently: The cat had to stay in the hospital too, but she was so brave, she didn't cry once. Arthur has to be brave too, all right?

I pushed the tablet back.

He doesn't need to be compared to a cat.

Alice handed the cat to the driver, her tone cooling.

Kevin was only trying to comfort the child. You don't have to put a barb in every sentence.

Arthur suddenly pulled off one side of his oxygen mask.

Mommy, I didn't cry.

He struggled to sit up straight, his pale little face full of the need to please.

Not even during the shots. The nurse said I was very brave.

Alice made a small sound.

That's how it should be.

Arthur looked up at her, longing in his eyes.

Then can I earn one more point?

The room went completely silent.

Alice's brow drew together slightly.

Who taught you to say that?

Arthur clutched the bedsheet and answered in a small voice:

Uncle said, if I'm just a little more sensible, Mommy would give me a seven.

Alice cleared every relative out of the room.

Once the door shut, she looked at me.

"The scoring only helps me sort out what matters most. He was never supposed to know about it."

"I'm not the one who told him."

"Then who else would keep drilling that seven into his head?"

I took out my phone and pulled up the household affairs system.

Alice had insisted we install it a year ago.

Every time Arthur or I needed to reach her, we had to log the matter, the time, and how urgent it was first, and then she would rescore it.

The screen laid it all out.

Arthur's first time on stage: two points.

Arthur running a fever on his birthday: three points.

Arthur trapped in a mall restroom: four points.

My acute appendicitis: five points.

Last night's critical-condition notice: seven points.

And in Kevin's records, not one thing scored below nine.

I held the phone out to her.

"He didn't hear it from me. Last week you put the system up on the living room screen, and right in front of him you changed his request for you to come to the parent meeting from five points down to one."

Alice pressed her lips together, her face darkening.

"I didn't know he was standing behind me."

"So as long as he can't hear you, it's fine to do it?"

Kevin took hold of her sleeve.

"Alice, please, don't fight. Arthur just stabilized. He can't handle any stress."

I turned to him.

"Then why are you here?"

His face went a little pale.

"I was only worried about Arthur"

"Worried, so you brought a cat?"

Kevin stepped back at once, his eyes brimming with tears.

"I'm sorry. I thought he liked Fluffy, I wanted to cheer him up. Since everything I do is wrong, I'll just go."

Alice caught him by the wrist.

"No one told you to leave."

She turned back to me, her voice colder.

"Kevin had a scare last night and he still remembered to come see the child. You won't stop until you've forced him to cry?"

The monitor let out a sharp string of beeps.

A nurse hurried in and checked the readings.

"The child's heart rate is climbing. Please, no arguing in here."

I shut my mouth right away.

But Alice called the doctor out into the hall.

"When can he be transferred?"

The doctor said, "I don't recommend moving him now. The child is showing signs of sepsis. Any transport could add to the risk."

"The Farley family's private physician thinks you've been overmedicating him. I've already arranged for another hospital."

"Ms. Farley, a patient is not a piece of property. You can't move him around on a schedule."

I pushed the door open and stepped out.

"I don't agree to the transfer."

Alice looked at me.

"They can't even control the basic risks here."

"At least the doctors here come running when he's dying."

"Lawrence."

She caught my wrist lightly, her manner leaving no room for discussion.

"Don't make decisions for our son out of emotion."

"His attending physician says he can't be moved."

"Three o'clock this afternoon. The ambulance will come."

"I won't sign."

"I'm his mother. I have just as much say."

At two-fifty that afternoon, the people Alice had arranged arrived.

Arthur was still on oxygen when they lifted him onto the transport gurney.

He was terrified, but he didn't dare cry. He only reached out and grabbed the hem of my shirt.

"Daddy, I won't be any trouble to Mommy."

"Don't be scared. Daddy's here."

Alice stood by the elevator and took the risk-consent form the nurse held out.

"It's a twenty-minute drive. There's no need to blow it out of proportion."

The elevator had barely dropped one floor when Arthur went into violent convulsions.

The monitor alarmed again and again.

The doctor slammed the stop button.

"His oxygen's dropping. Get him back to the ICU now!"

The transport team pushed the bed back at a run.

Alice's phone rang at the same moment.

Kevin was standing downstairs, his voice frantic.

"Alice, someone from the press got a shot of me coming to the hospital with you. They're asking if I'm Arthur's father. What should I say?"

Alice answered while keeping pace with the bed.

"Don't explain anything. I'll handle it."

A few minutes later, a message from her appeared in the family group chat.

"Kevin is someone I'm responsible for looking after. Please don't give him a hard time. Lawrence has been emotionally unstable lately. Regarding the child's condition, only the information I release is to be trusted."

I read it, then looked up at her.

"This emotional instability you're talking about, does it mean I won't gamble our son's life to go along with your plans?"

Alice didn't answer.

A nurse rushed out of the ICU.

"The child needs an emergency platelet transfusion. He has a rare blood type, so immediate family need to do a match right now."

Alice and I put out our arms at the same time.

Ten minutes later, the results came back.

The nurse looked at the report and walked quickly over to her.

"Ms. Farley, only you're a match."

Alice was taken in for the pre-donation screening.

The doctor kept going over her medication history and her physical condition.

"The boy's platelet count keeps dropping, and there are signs of bleeding in his lungs. Matched blood won't arrive for at least two hours. A direct-relative donation is the fastest option we have right now."

Alice rolled up her sleeve.

"How long will it take?"

"About ninety minutes to collect and process. You can't leave partway through."

She glanced at her watch.

"Then let's start."

I stood in the doorway and, for the first time, didn't argue with her.

While the nurse set the needle in her arm, Arthur was wheeled into the resuscitation room next door.

His consciousness was already slipping, but he was still murmuring numbers.

"Six points."

"One point short."

I took hold of his cold hand.

"You don't have to score anything anymore, Arthur."

He forced his eyes open.

"Seven points, and Mom won't leave."

Something closed around my throat.

"She's not leaving this time."

The words were barely out when Alice's phone rang on the table.

The first call, no one answered.

The second time, Kevin sent a voice message, only a dozen seconds long.

"Alice, the elevator just stopped, there's no light in here. I can't breathe, I think it's happening again."

Alice opened her eyes.

The nurse held down her arm.

"Ms. Farley, we've only just started the collection. Please don't move."

"He has claustrophobia."

The doctor said, "We can notify building management and emergency services. Your son is waiting on those platelets."

Kevin's third message came in right after.

"You promised. You said no matter where I was, if I got scared, you'd come. Alice, I really can't hold on."

Alice pulled out the needle.

Blood welled up fast from the puncture.

The nurse's face changed.

"Ms. Farley, if you leave now, everything we've prepped is wasted."

I blocked the doorway.

"Building management is already helping him."

"When it hits, he hurts himself."

"Arthur will die too."

"The backup blood is on its way."

"That's still two hours off."

Alice pulled out a tissue and pressed it to her arm.

"The doctors will find a way to keep him stable."

I grabbed her by the cuff.

Since he'd gone critical, it was the first time I'd reached for her on my own.

"Alice. Look at him. Just once."

Through the glass, Arthur's small body was hemmed in by machines.

The nurse kept swapping out blood-soaked gauze.

"He's waiting for your blood."

Alice's eyes held there for a few seconds.

"Kevin has no one with him."

"Arthur has no mother with him either."

"You're here."

She pushed my hand off.

"Lawrence, don't force me to prove something at a moment like this. Once the blood arrives, I'll come back."

"What do you score him?"

Alice didn't answer.

"He's just stuck in an elevator, and building management is already on the way. Arthur has bleeding in his lungs and can't wait for the backup blood. So what do you score each of them?"

Her patience finally ran out.

"Kevin could suffocate at any moment. Of course that's a ten. Arthur has doctors working on him. It's a different situation."

"So it's still a six."

"The score adjusts based on the resources available."

She turned sideways and walked past me.

Her soles pressed over the blood that had just dripped to the floor.

Inside the room, Arthur's eyes suddenly opened.

He saw Alice's back as she walked away, and lifted a hand covered in tape.

"Mom."

Alice's steps paused for a moment.

Kevin's stifled crying came through the phone.

She didn't look back.

Just before the elevator doors closed, Arthur asked, very softly,

"Am I seven points now?"

The next second, the line on the monitor snapped flat.

The doctors rushed in, one of them shouting,

"Cardiac arrest, get the defibrillator ready!"