Eleven Kids, One Summer Read online

  All right, thought Ira, then I will just check myself for ticks a couple of times each day. Ira had seen ticks before. He knew what they looked like. And they were easy to spot.

  But then Ira read the rest of the pamphlet and found out that deer ticks are different. They’re no bigger than the period at the end of a sentence.

  Oh no! thought Ira. I could check myself all over and miss something that tiny. What if one got in my hair? Then I’d never find it. Ira wondered if his mother would let him shave his head. He decided she wouldn’t.

  “This is terrible,” Ira said aloud. He was alone in the beach house. He had come in for a drink of water and found no one at home. His brothers and sisters were scattered, and his mother had gone to the Harbor Store.

  It was just Ira and the pamphlet — the truth about Lyme disease.

  Ira read the pamphlet two or three times. The only good thing about Lyme disease, he decided, was that it couldn’t kill you. It could, however, make you pretty sick. It could even paralyze you for a while. Ira did not want that.

  It’s not fair, thought Ira. I can keep my room neat (or at least my half of my room). I can brush the sand out of my bed every morning. I can pick up trash to keep our beach clean. I can keep my clothes neat. But how can I watch out for deer ticks?

  “You can’t,” said Mrs. Rosso when Ira finally told her what was bothering him. “You can be careful, but you might not be able to prevent a deer tick from finding its way to your body.”

  “Ohh,” moaned Ira.

  “Listen, honey,” began Mrs. Rosso. “We do need to be careful. We really do. But look out there.” She pointed to the beach. “Look at those people. They don’t have Lyme disease. If everybody got Lyme disease, no one would come to Fire Island. So be careful, but stop worrying so much.”

  And Ira did stop worrying. When he and his family had been on the island for several weeks and everyone had stayed healthy, Ira began to forget about the deer ticks. There was so much to do on the island. He and Jan built endless castles in the sand and learned all sorts of tricks, like how to build moats and tunnels to let the water drain out of their castles. Sometimes they walked along the beach to where Abbie’s friend Justin was working on his movie. He and Jan were even allowed to go to the Harbor Store by themselves and get ice-cream cones or Popsicles. There was, in fact, so much to do that Ira began to feel tired all the time. “It’s all the sun,” he said to Jan, when he had to take a break from the truly fantastic castle they were building.

  “Then that ought to make you happy,” said Jan, pointing to the sky.

  Ira looked up. Thunderclouds were building on the horizon. “Ooh,” he said. “We’re going to have a storm tonight. A big one.” Then he added quickly, “It’ll be all right, Jan. Daddy’s here.” (It was a Saturday.) “He’ll tell stories, and you’ll forget about the storm.”

  Ira didn’t mind thunderstorms, but Jan hated them.

  The storm hit early that evening and was tremendous. The sky darkened quickly, and right after that, torrents of rain began to fall. Thunder crashed, and with the first flash of lightning, the electricity went off.

  Ira looked out the window and down the walk. “The electricity’s off everywhere. I don’t see a single light.”

  “Oh, nooo,” moaned Jan.

  But as soon as supper was over, Mr. Rosso said, “Who would like to hear a Mister Piebald story? I’ve thought of a new one.”

  “Me!” cried Jan, Ira, Hannah, and the twins. (The others had decided they were too old to hear Mr. Piebald stories.)

  “Well,” began Mr. Rosso when the five children were cuddled up with him on the couch, “there was once a tiny little man —”

  “Mr. Piebald!” said Jan.

  “That’s right,” agreed Mr. Rosso. “And he lived in a tree that was an apartment building. He lived on one floor, and Mr. and Mrs. Squirrel lived on the floor below.”

  Ira tried to listen to the story, but he was getting an awful headache. In fact, he felt sort of achey all over. Finally, he had to interrupt his father and say, “Daddy, I’m really tired. I think I’ll go to bed.”

  Ira went to his room. He undressed very carefully, folding his clothes and putting them in the drawers or the hamper or hanging them in the closet. Ira was just about to pull on his pajamas when he noticed something. On his leg, he saw two round red welts, each surrounding a tiny black dot.

  “Mommy!” Ira shrieked. “Daddy!”

  In a second, Mr. and Mrs. Rosso had rushed into Ira’s room. The other kids crowded in the doorway. “What’s wrong, honey?” asked Mrs. Rosso.

  “Look!” said Ira, holding out his leg. He felt panicky. “I don’t feel good. Like I have the flu or something. And now I just found these bites. See the little black things in the middle of them? I think they’re those tiny, tiny deer ticks.”

  Mr. Rosso examined Ira’s bites. “You might be right,” he said.

  Mr. and Mrs. Rosso quickly bundled Ira into the wagon on the deck. They left Bainbridge and Abbie in charge of the other kids and hurried through the dark along the rain-soaked boardwalks to Bedside Manor, the house and office of the Davis Park doctor. Mrs. Rosso knocked on the door loudly.

  “Hello?” she called. “Hello?”

  A young woman came to the door. She was carrying a candle. “Yes?” she said.

  “We’re looking for the doctor,” Mr. Rosso said. “We think our son has Lyme disease. He’s not feeling too well.”

  “Well, I’m the doctor,” said the woman. “I’m Doctor Yanoff. Come on around to the infirmary, and we’ll check things out. We’ll have to work by flashlight.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Rosso pulled Ira to a side door of Bedside Manor. Inside was a room that looked just like a doctor’s office. The Rossos introduced themselves to Dr. Yanoff. Then they showed her the bites on Ira’s leg.

  “I just found them tonight,” said Ira.

  “How have you been feeling lately?” asked Dr. Yanoff.

  “Sort of tired. And I ache. Like when I had the flu last winter.”

  “Well, that certainly sounds like Lyme disease,” said Dr. Yanoff. “I’ve seen a few cases of it this week. But in order to be sure, I’ll have to take a little blood from your finger. Do you mind needle sticks?”

  “Yes,” said Ira, but he had to have one anyway. “Ow!” he yelled.

  “Sorry,” the doctor told him. “Now, just to be on the safe side, I’m going to start you on penicillin. It won’t hurt you if you don’t have Lyme disease. And if you do have it, then we’ll get a head start on treating you.”

  “Oh, wait!” exclaimed Mrs. Rosso. “Ira’s allergic to penicillin.”

  “Hmm. In that case,” replied Dr. Yanoff, “I’d like Ira to spend the night in the hospital on the mainland. The doctors there can try him on a different medication and observe him for a while. So why don’t one of you go back to your house and get a few things for Ira while I call the hospital and also try to treat Ira’s bites.”

  They all did as they were told. Ira lay on the table in the doctor’s office feeling very sorry for himself. His head ached more and more; and he didn’t have any energy. He wasn’t sure he could even get off the table by himself. He let his mother stroke his forehead while he waited for his father to come back and for Dr. Yanoff to call the hospital and make arrangements.

  When Mr. Rosso returned to Bedside Manor, he was carrying two small bags.

  “What’s in those?” asked Ira weakly.

  “Well, one bag contains things for your mother. In the other are your pajamas, your slippers, and your toothbrush.”

  Ira nodded, and Dr. Yanoff hung up the telephone. “Okay,” she said, “If you hurry, you can catch the last ferry from the island tonight. I’ll arrange to have a cab meet you at the boat dock and drive you to the hospital. A Doctor Wertheimer will meet you in the emergency room and then take you to a bed in pediatrics.”

  “Let’s get going, then,” said Mr. Rosso.

  “Mommy?” said Ira. “I don’t th
ink I can get up.”

  “Poor baby,” replied Mrs. Rosso. She and Ira’s father lifted him gently from the table and carried him out to the wagon.

  “Storm’s letting up,” said Dr. Yanoff. “That’s good. It means the ferry crossing won’t be too rough. Good luck, Ira!”

  The Rossos thanked Dr. Yanoff. Then they hurried along the boardwalks under dripping trees and a black, black sky.

  “Are you corning to the hospital, Daddy?” asked Ira from his bed in the wagon.

  “Nope,” he replied. “I’d like to, but I better stay at home with that zoo we call our family. Your mom will stick with you all the way, though. Okay?”

  “Okay,” murmured Ira.

  The Rossos reached the ferry dock as the last few passengers were boarding. Ordinarily, on a Saturday night, the last ferry from Davis Park would be crowded. Anyone who had come to Fire Island for dinner at the restaurant or to visit friends had to leave then or spend the night on the island. But the stormy weather had kept people at home. So Ira and his mother were two of just six passengers on the boat that night.

  Mrs. Rosso held Ira in her lap, their bags next to them. They waved good-bye to Mr. Rosso on the dock, although he was hard to see through the foggy windows. The ferry had barely left the dock and was chugging loudly across the sound, when Ira fell asleep.

  He did not wake up until he heard his mother say softly, “Ira. Honey. Ira? We’re here. Come on. You’ve got to wake up.”

  “Okay.” Ira tried to raise his head, but it hurt terribly. He felt so weak that he couldn’t stand up. Finally, his mother had to take the bags off the ferry and then come back for Ira. Even though Ira was nine years old, he allowed his mother to pick him up and carry him to the waiting taxi.

  In the taxi, he dozed. He dozed until once again he heard Mrs. Rosso say, “Ira. Honey? We’re at the hospital.”

  The hospital.

  Oh boy. Ira did not want to be there. Hospitals meant needles and medicine and doctors poking you, and most of all — sick people. I could come home from the hospital sicker than I already am, thought Ira. Germs, germs everywhere.

  But Ira had no choice. Before he knew it, he’d met Dr. Wertheimer, been through the emergency room, and was riding in a wheelchair to a room in the children’s wing.

  Ira’s room had only two beds, and both were empty. Good, thought Ira. Fewer germs.

  Mrs. Rosso helped Ira into his pajamas, and then he climbed wearily into bed. But before he could fall asleep, Dr. Wertheimer was back. She examined Ira again. She talked to his mother. And then she gave Ira some pills to swallow. “Yuck,” said Ira. He was afraid the pills would get caught in his throat, but they didn’t.

  “Mommy?” said Ira, looking around the room. “Are you going to stay with me?”

  “Yup,” replied his mother. “The hospital is bending the rules a little. The nurses are letting me sleep in the other bed. We’ll probably only be here overnight.”

  Ira wasn’t sleepy anymore. He’d gotten a lot of sleep on the ferry and in the cab. Also, he felt a little better. Was the medicine working already?

  “You know,” said Ira, sitting up. “This is one of the most interesting things that has ever happened to me.”

  Mrs. Rosso smiled. She had changed into a nightgown and robe in the bathroom. Now she was sitting on the edge of her bed. “It’s certainly been an adventure,” she agreed.

  “First the storm and the blackout,” said Ira, “and now the hospital. I’m sure glad the hospital has electricity. I wouldn’t want to be here in the dark.”

  “I think the power failure is over,” Mrs. Rosso told him.

  “Mommy?” said Ira, who had just thought of a question about blackouts.

  “Honey, I thought you were sleepy. I thought you wanted to go to bed.”

  “I did,” said Ira. “But now I’m feeling better.”

  Mrs. Rosso was about to tell Ira to save his conversation for the morning when a nurse came into the room, smiled, and said cheerfully, “Lights out. Bedtime.” Then he flicked off the lamps and left.

  “Lights out?” whispered Ira.

  “Hospital rules, I guess,” replied Mrs. Rosso. “Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

  “Or the deer ticks,” added Ira.

  * * *

  When Ira awoke the next morning, the first thing he noticed was that his mother’s bed was empty — and all made up.

  “Mommy?” called Ira. And then, feeling nervous, “Mommy?”

  A different nurse came into the room, a tall nurse with dark skin and dark hair. “Well,” she said, “I was wondering when you’d wake up. Don’t worry about your mom. She’s gone to the gift shop. She’ll be right back. You can eat breakfast while you wait for her.”

  Ira could hear a cart rattling down the hall. “What’s for breakfast?” he asked. He thought he could smell toast.

  “Toast and cream-of-wheat cereal,” answered the nurse. “And a banana.”

  “Oh,” said Ira. He hated cream-of-wheat cereal. He wished his mother would come back soon.

  She did. She arrived in time to catch the horrified look on Ira’s face when the orderly uncovered the breakfast tray and Ira saw the cereal. As soon as the orderly was gone, Mrs. Rosso said, “Don’t worry, Ira. Look what I got you for breakfast.” She opened a small paper bag and pulled out two chocolate-covered granola bars and a little container of ice cream.

  “Ice cream! Ice cream for breakfast!” cried Ira.

  “Shh!” hissed Mrs. Rosso. “Yes. Just this once. But I’m sure the hospital wouldn’t approve, so eat it quietly, and I’ll eat your breakfast.”

  Ira ate. He felt hungry. He realized he hadn’t felt quite so hungry in a long time. While he was eating (and he ate the granola bars first, saving the ice cream for last), he noticed another bag sitting at the end of his mother’s bed.

  “What’s that?” he asked. The bag looked like the one the ice cream and granola bars had come in, but it was bigger.

  “You’ll see,” replied Mrs. Rosso. “I’ll let you open it after you’ve eaten — and after you’ve taken your pills.”

  “More pills?” said Ira, dismayed.

  “I’m afraid so. You’re going to be taking them for about a month.”

  “A month?”

  “Yes. They’re already helping you. You look much better than you did last night.”

  “Okay,” replied Ira. He could deal with that. He didn’t want Lyme disease to paralyze him, especially not at the beach.

  So Ira finished his breakfast and took his pills. Then he eyed the bag at the end of Mrs. Rosso’s bed. She handed it to him. Ira peeked inside: He saw two speedcars and a Transformer that changed from a motorcycle into a dinosaur. “Cool!” cried Ira. “Thanks, Mommy.”

  At eleven o’clock, the phone rang in Ira’s room. “Can I get it?” he asked.

  “Of course,” said Mrs. Rosso.

  Ira picked up the receiver. “Hello?” he said.

  At the other end of the line he heard a chorus of voices singing, to the tune of Happy Birthday, “Get we-ell to you! Get we-ell to you! Get we-ell, dear Ira. Get we-ell to you!”

  Ira grinned. It was the rest of his family. (Well, except for Keegan.) “Hi!” he said. “I have Lyme disease, but I’m feeling much better. I got ice cream for breakfast. But I have to take pills for a whole month.”

  “Ice cream for breakfast?” repeated Jan. “Lucky duck.”

  “And — and, hey! There’s a clown in the hall!” exclaimed Ira. “Honest. He has a big red nose and green frizzy hair, and … he’s coming into my room. I have to go now. ’Bye!”

  Ira hung up the phone excitedly. He had never been so close to a clown before.

  The clown clomped over to Ira’s bed in his long, floppy clown shoes. Then he honked a horn that he was hiding behind his back. He didn’t say a word, but he grinned at Ira, blew up some skinny balloons, and twisted them into the shape of a giraffe. He handed the giraffe to Ira, honked his horn once mor
e, and flumped out of the room, tripping over his feet in the doorway.

  Ira began to laugh and couldn’t stop. “That was funny!” he finally gasped.

  Mrs. Rosso was laughing, too. Then she said, “Guess what. Good news. I spoke to Doctor Wertheimer, and you can go home this afternoon.”

  “Really?” said Ira. “Gosh. The hospital is sort of fun.”

  * * *

  Fun or not, Ira was discharged from the hospital at two o’clock that afternoon. An orderly brought a wheelchair to Ira’s room and helped him into it.

  “But I can walk,” protested Ira.

  “Sorry,” said the orderly with a smile. “Hospital rules.” He rushed Ira down the hallway, shouting, “Vroom! Vroom!”

  “Wait for me!” called Mrs. Rosso.

  Outside the entrance to the hospital, a cab was waiting. Mrs. Rosso climbed in first, carrying the overnight bags, the toys, and the balloon giraffe. The orderly lifted Ira into the cab, and the trip back to Fire Island began. First, the ride to the ferry, then the ferry to Davis Park.

  When the ferry had reached the dock, turned around so that it was facing Patchogue again, and the motor had finally ground to a halt, Ira and his mother joined the line of passengers and made their way to the exit.

  Ira was stepping off the ramp when a crowd of people began jumping up and down, shouting, “Ira! Ira! Welcome home!”

  Ira blinked in the sunlight. It was his family. Faustine and Dinnie were holding up a banner they had made that read: “Welcome Home, Ira!” Hardy was pulling the Sandpiper House wagon. It was decorated with crêpe paper and balloons and was lined with pillows.

  “That’s your chariot,” said Jan grandly.

  Ira climbed in. He could not remember when he had had so much attention. His father kissed him, Abbie hugged him, Hannah handed him a seashell, and Keegan blew him a raspberry.

  “Thanks!” was all Ira could say.

  Hardy pulled Ira along in the wagon. People on the dock stared and smiled.

  Ira waved to a couple of them. He felt like a celebrity.