Page 20 of Mob Star

“Why do you have some of Jamie’s shirts?”

“He and Asher had the kids over, and Skyler had an explosive diaper. Twice. You know they both always have an extra shirt for themselves in the diaper bag. Jamie went through both and wound up going home in one of Papa’s.”

My brother and brother-in-law have four kids, and the youngest is six months old.

“How’s Skyler doing?”

My mom hesitates. It’s only for a second, but I know it.

“What happened at the last appointment?”

“The cardiologist wants to do some more tests.”

“Dr. Rodesman is the best pediatric cardiologist I know. If he wants more tests run, it’s because he wants to be absolutely certain of his diagnosis. It doesn’t automatically mean something bad.”

My nephew has a congenital heart defect— CHD. In the grand scheme of things, it’s mild. But it’s going to take ongoing care, not just because of the heart itself but because of the related medical and developmental challenges it will present. I was at the hospital the day he was born. I didn’t know Skyler was the baby in distress when I got the page. Thankfully, there were two other neonatologists on call at the same time. I didn’t have to be my nephew’s doctor. Instead, I was able to explain to my family what was happening.

That was the worst day of my life. That was the worst day of my career. I made it through the first twenty-six hours of Skyler’s life, having to come in and out of the postpartum room where my family and the biological mother were because of my own patients. I finally got five minutes to myself. I have never cried so hard in my life. Then I had to pull myself together and do my rounds.

“Asher says the doctor has been amazing with Skyler. But it’s hard, you know?”

“I do. Jamie and Asher know I’m happy to talk to them after any appointment.”

“They do. Thank you, sweet pea.” My mom’s been calling me that for as long as I can remember.

“How’s everything else going?”

My mom’s even slower to answer that. I raise my eyebrows and wait.

“We weren’t going to say anything until you all came over next Saturday.”

“Weren’t going to say what?”

Next Saturday will be my first day off again after the three I have now. It’s Wednesday, so that’s a week and a half. My mom puts down the socks she just rolled. If she can’t fold laundry at the same time as talk to me, there’s something wrong. She could fold laundry while grounding me for two weeks from TV when I did something wrong as a kid.

“Your dad lost his job last week.”

“Last week?!” And they were going to wait another week and a half to tell us?

“Yes. The company says he’s underperforming.”

“How? He still puts in the same long hours plus overtime that he has since he started working on the fabrication floor. He never takes sick days. The people under him respect and like him. Is it agism?”

“Yes. You know your dad’s arthritis is getting worse, so they’re saying he can’t do all the parts of his job description.”

“That’s ridiculous. His job doesn’t involve him being a welder anymore. He supervises. What does the union have to say?”

“They’re doing what they can, but it’s slow going. And Papa isn’t sure he’d even want to be reinstated there.”

“Can he go on disability?”

“He qualifies, but at his age, if he goes on, who would hire him if he goes off it? He’s not ready to be home all day, and you know we need his income.”

I sit on the edge of their bed. The same one I climbed into and scooted down under the covers between them when I had a bad dream or didn’t feel well. The same one my mountain of a father used to play tickle wars with me on.

“He’s not that old.”

“He’s fifty-seven.”

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