Antonia's Choice by Nancy Rue

caught a sweet smell on his breath.
    â€œHe’s up to 102,” Debbie Walker said at my elbow. “If you can’t get it down with Children’s Tylenol and a tepid bath, I’d call your pediatrician.”
    â€œI don’t have one yet,” I said. “I haven’t even had a chance to call around.”
    Debbie pursed her lips. I turned back to Ben.
    â€œHow ya doin’, Pal?” I said.
    â€œI’m sick.” His voice wavered.
    â€œI know. I’m going to take you home and tuck you into your own bed. What do you want to eat?”
    â€œI’m not hungry.”
    Debbie put a hand on one sizeable hip. “Don’t force food on him. Just a lot of fluids.”
    â€œUh-huh,” I said. “Come on, Pal. Let’s go.”
    I wanted to get out of there before Nurse Nightmare turned me in to the authorities for not knowing whether to starve a fever or feed it or whatever that folksy little saying was. Ben got to his feet and leaned precariously to the left like a sailboat ready to come about.
    â€œI’ll carry your backpack,” I said.
    â€œHe’s going to need a lot of hugs today, aren’t you, Ben?” Debbie said—a little pointedly, I thought.
    Fortunately, Ben was too sick to go into a fit about not wanting anybody within five feet of him. I wasn’t going to test what would happen if I actually did touch him at this point. I just thanked the nurse and hurried him out.
    He fell asleep on the way home in the car, and the minute I got him to the couch in the study, which was as far as he wanted to go, he was out like a light again. I was rummaging through the medicine cabinet in the downstairs powder room for some Children’s Tylenol when the phone rang. I nearly broke my neck trying to get to it before it woke him up.
    It was Mama. Her voice wasn’t hysterical the way it had been the night before, but it was so tight it sounded thin, like a rubber band being stretched beyond its capacity.
    â€œThey told me at your office that you were home with Ben,” she said. “How is he?”
    â€œHe has a fever and he’s—”
    â€œThey won’t release Bobbi.”
    I sagged against the counter. “You’re not serious.”
    â€œAntonia, I would not be joking about something like this.” The rubber band was about to snap.
    â€œWhat’s the deal?”
    â€œRoberta has been arraigned on charges of ‘child neglect and endangerment.’” Mama’s voice broke. “Bobbi would never—”
    â€œWhose children did she supposedly endanger?”
    â€œHer own!”
    â€œThey think she actually knew about the studio?”
    â€œThey think she helped!”
    â€œThere is no way—what evidence do they have?”
    â€œPictures.”
    â€œI don’t understand—”
    â€œI just don’t even want to say it!”
    â€œSay
what?”
    â€œA picture of Techla, Toni. Naked. Posing.”
    We were quiet. I found myself squeezing the granite edge of the counter.
    â€œDear God,” I said.
    Mama went on, phrases coming to me in snatches. The twins missing their mother. Mama holding them most of the night. Emil sucking his thumb. Techla carrying the phone around, begging to be allowed to call Daddy and tell him she was sorry. I tried to grasp at something that made sense, and found nothing.
    â€œI told her exactly how I felt about her lying about her mother,” Mama was saying.
    â€œWho?” I said.
    â€œWyndham. She shut herself up in the guest room, and I haven’t seen her since.”
    The words came out as if she were ripping them from a page. I couldn’t assemble them in my head. It was like trying to paste confetti together.
    â€œAll right, look,” I said. “Have you talked to Bobbi’s lawyer?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSo what does he say? Has bail been set?”
    â€œToni, I don’t
know!
It’s all I can