Chapter 44 The Second Area
Damian did not wait for morning. He called Dr. Harris back within the hour. I sat beside him on the couch, listening to the phone ring.
Dr. Harris answered on the third ring. "I was going to call you first thing."
"We couldn't sleep," Damian said. "Tell us what's happening."
Dr. Harris sighed. "The pediatric endocrinologist reviewed Rose's bone density scan. There's a second area of lower density, this time in her lower spine."
I pressed my hand to my mouth. "Her spine?"
"It's mild. But because it's in a weight-bearing area, we need to be more cautious. No running, jumping, or climbing for the next three months."
Damian's voice was tight. "No running? She's seven years old."
"I know. But we need to protect her spine while we increase her calcium and vitamin D levels. We'll repeat the scan in three months and reassess."
Rose was standing in the doorway. She had heard everything.
I hung up the phone. "Rose, come here."
She walked to me slowly. Her face was calm, but her hands were clenched.
"You heard," I said.
"I heard."
Damian knelt in front of her. "We're going to get through this. Three months of being careful, and then we'll see where we are."
"No running," she said.
"No running. But you can still walk, swim, draw, read, and boss your siblings around."
She almost smiled. "I'm good at bossing."
"The best."
The next morning, we told the other children.
Leo asked if Rose was going to break. Lily cried. Max offered to carry her everywhere.
Rose stood in the middle of the living room. "I'm not glass. I just can't run for a while."
Leo nodded. "I'll run for you."
"Thank you."
Lily wiped her eyes. "Can I still hug you?"
"Yes."
Max ran to his room and returned with his favorite stuffed dinosaur. "This is for you. It's a protector."
Rose took the dinosaur. "Thank you, Max."
She held it close.
The first week was hard. Rose watched her siblings run in the yard. She sat on the porch with her notebook. Waffle kept her company, lying across her feet.
On the third day, she asked to go to the library. Damian drove her. They came back with a stack of books.
"Mommy, I'm going to read every book in the children's section," she announced.
"That's a lot of books."
"I have time."
On Friday, Dr. Harris called with more news.
"The calcium and vitamin D supplements are working. Rose's blood levels have improved. But the endocrinologist wants to do a genetic test for a condition called osteogenesis imperfecta."
Damian put the phone on speaker. "What is that?"
"Brittle bone disease. It's rare, and Rose's symptoms are mild, but we need to rule it out."
My heart sank. "How do we test?"
"A blood draw. We can do it at the same time as her regular monitoring."
Damian looked at me. I nodded.
"Schedule it," he said.
Rose took the news without flinching. "Another blood test?"
"Yes," I said. "This one looks at your bones."
She held out her arm. "Let's do it."
We went to the lab that afternoon. Rose sat still, watched the needle, and counted the seconds. "Twenty-three," she said when it was done.
"You counted?"
"I always count. It makes the time go faster."
The phlebotomist gave her two stickers. She put them on her notebook.
That night, Damian sat on the porch alone. I joined him with two cups of tea.
"Brittle bone disease," he said. "I read about it. Some people have hundreds of fractures."
"Rose has none."
"She's had none. That we know of."
I set down my tea. "Damian, we can't live in the what ifs. We have to live in the now."
He looked at me. "The now is hard enough."
"Yes. But it's also full of good things. The children are healthy enough to go to school. Rose can still read and draw. Lily can still hug her. Max can still give her dinosaurs."
He almost smiled. "Leo can still run for her."
"Exactly."
The results came back in five days. Dr. Harris called on a Tuesday morning.
"The genetic test for osteogenesis imperfecta is negative."
Damian exhaled. "So no brittle bone disease?"
"No. Rose's bone density issues are likely related to her other mutations and her growth hormone deficiency. We'll continue the calcium and vitamin D, repeat the scan in three months, and hope for improvement."
I leaned against the counter. "Can she run again?"
"Not yet. But if the next scan shows improvement, we can slowly reintroduce activities."
Rose was eating breakfast at the table. She looked up. "I heard."
"You heard?"
"The phone is loud."
I sat beside her. "The good news is you don't have brittle bone disease. The hard news is you still can't run."
She nodded. "I figured. But can I walk to school?"
"Yes."
"Can I carry my backpack?"
"Yes."
"Then I'm fine."
That afternoon, Rose asked to go to the garden. She wanted to plant flowers. Damian carried a bag of soil. I brought the seeds. The younger children ran around us, Waffle chasing them.
Rose knelt in the dirt. She dug small holes with a hand trowel. She placed seeds carefully, covered them, and patted the soil.
"These will grow," she said.
"How do you know?"
"Because I'll take care of them."
I watched her small hands working. She was patient, deliberate, strong.
Damian sat beside her. "What are we planting?"
"Marigolds. They're hard to kill."
He laughed. "Perfect."
That night, after the children were asleep, Damian and I sat on the porch. The stars were bright. The marigold seeds were tucked in the dark soil.
"Three months," he said.
"Three months."
"Then we see."
I took his hand. "And whatever we see, we handle."
He kissed my fingers. "I love you."
"I love you."
The porch creaked. Waffle snored at our feet. Then Damian's phone lit up with a new message.
He read it. His face went still.
"What is it?" I asked.
He turned the screen toward me. A text from Dr. Harris.
I've been reviewing the family genetics again, cross-referencing with a new database. There's a rare disorder that matches some of the children's symptoms. I need to test for it. Please cal
l me tomorrow.