Chapter Text
Their father never fell ill; it simply didn't happen. And on the rare occassion that it did, he would end up pushing through it and going to work despite any pains.
Cal had found out first, of course, almost always at the Finch house in an effort to maintain it. She hadn't been expecting a call from Sheriff Tate, reporting that Atticus had been found passed out at his desk, paperwork scattered all about him.
Heck and Doctor Reynolds (who had arrived after Heck had summoned him in a restrained state of panic) had had to walk a barely conscious Atticus to his car, where a distressed Calpurnia waited in front of his office, the engine.
"I'm fine, Heck," Atticus had murmured tiredly, hanging limply between his two close friends. His chin was settled on his chest, feet stumbling almost uselessly along the ground.
"No, Atticus, you're not," Heck had argued tersely, gripping the lawyers arm tighter. Concern and anger had slipped easily into his tone, but it wasn't unkind by any stretch of the word, "Let's get you home, and you can rest."
"Pushing yourself when you're ill isn't healthy, Atticus," Doctor Reynolds had agreed, shaking his head in disapproval. "You know that."
"I do, sir," Atticus had admitted hoarsely. "I do." He had passed out again soon after- settled safely in the car- breaths erratic and coughs pushing their way from his lips.
That was eleven-thirty in the morning, hours before Scout and Jem were meant to return home from school.
When at last they burst through the door in a flurry of concern and fear (they'd seen the car parked outside of the garage: it must'a been used, Jem said), they found Atticus at the dining table, head down on it and breaths puffing out quickly. Cal was scolding him softly for leaving his bed.
They nearly tackled him, eagerly smothering him with hugs and kisses (the latter was mostly Scout), and demanding to know what had happened.
At length, Cal ushered them away, promising to fill them both in later- but only if washed up first.
She watched them leave, only turning away when the kitchen door ceased its swinging. Atticus still had his head lowered, his breaths escaping him in quiet wheezes. He coughed weakly, carefully squeezing his eyes shut against the dim light of the room.
"I'm sorry, Cal," he croaked, coughing again. "I'm sorry for all this trouble. I truly didn't mean for any of this."
"Of course you didn't, sir," Cal said kindly, putting her hands on her hips. She shook her head in exasperation, chuckling a little. "You can't help it when you get sick, can you?"
Atticus raised his head with some effort, shooting Cal a smile, "I suppose not."
He tried to look around the room again, just to get a feel on his condition, but then the room spun like a top, and he had to groan, dropping his head to cradle it in his hands. "Cal. . . I reckon I'm fixin' to pass out again." He swallowed thickly. "I feel lightheaded."
Cal frowned, her face tight with worry, "Jus' try an' eat somethin' , sir. You ain't eaten all day."
"Been nauseous," was his soft reply.
Jem and Scout came back at that moment, quiet but restless. They took their usual seats, and Cal set their plates before them before sitting down with her own supper.
Atticus poked at his food, rearranging it but never letting it into his mouth; after several mintues, a throat cleared above him.
He sighed, setting his fork down and sliding his plate away, "I'm sorry, Cal. I just don't think I can hold it down quite yet."
"That's alright, Mr. Finch," Cal reassured him, retrieving his plate, "Jus' go an' lie down a while."
Atticus nodded, standing carefully and shuffling slowly towards his room. They heard a door close and blankets ruffling before it was quiet again.
By the time Calpurnia had returned from having wrapping Atticus' plate (for later, she assured herself), Jem and Scout were still sitting in silence, but looked up at her expectantly when she took her seat once more.
"Cal," Scout blurted out, ever the bolder of the two, "what's wrong with Atticus?"
Jem glared at his sister, "Hush, Scout," he scolded. "You're bein' rude."
"What? I was just askin'. . ."
Cal folded her hands atop the table, studying each of them in turn.
"I need you two to listen, and I need you t' listen hard. Understand?" Two curious nods. "Now, your father's fallen ill, so I'll need all've the help I c'n get from the two of you. I expect as much, seein' as tomorrow's the weekend. Can I count on you to help me help your father?"
They nodded again, eyes bright with enthusiasm and apprehension.
"Good," Cal nodded, smling gratefully and gesturing at their plates. "Finish up, an' then it's off to bed with you. I'll wake you if I need you, but Doc Reynolds should be here about dawn tomorrow."
She did need them. At about two in the morning.
She'd roused them when Atticus had begun to thrash about in his bed, his fever having risen sometime during the night. Cal, even with her years of experience in this family, did not feel confident enough to deal with such a thing on her own.
"Scout, go get some hand towels from the linen closet, and a thermometer."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Jem, bring me some water for your father, and a bowl of water, too, cold as you can make it."
"Yes, ma'am."
Cal smiled a little, despite the misery Atticus was enduring. It helped that his children were so enthusiatic about helping their father; it lifted Calpurnia's spirits.
But then Atticus was groaning in pain again, and she was back to being insurmountably worried for him.
He was sweating now, eyes screwed shut and whimpers escaping as his body fought whatever it was he had managed to catch.
She hushed him, soothing as she pulled the covers down to cool him down. Atticus' eyes cracked open then, dazed and disoriented. "Cal? Cal, what-?" he muttered, his heavy lids slipping shut again. "Get- get Jean. The children need her-"
"I have, sir, I have," Cal lied, swallowing around the lump in her throat, suddenly grateful that the children weren't there. "She's trustin' me to help. But you need'ta rest, sir."
"Where is she, Cal?" Atticus insisted, starting to sit up. But when Cal didn't answer, he stopped, breathing hard and gazing at her with glassy eyes, panic quickly mounting, "C-Cal? Where's Jean?" Still no answer. "Please," he tried, tears beginning to gather in his eyes.
"She. . . she's with the children, sir. She's lookin' after 'em."
A rush of air from his lips, and he deflated with relief as he flopped back down onto the bed. He was nearly asleep when he spoke again. "That's my Jean: always puttin' the chlidren first."
Calpurnia nodded as he drifted off once more, "Yessir, that's her alright."
As if on cue, Jem walked in then, Scout trailing close behind him. "Thank you," Cal said, taking the items from them gratefully.
By some silent agreement, they settled on either side of Atticus, close to him but far enough to allow Cal room to work. She smiled as she wet the towel, letting it rest atop Atticus' head.
He sighed a little in his sleep, as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders. But he still looked in pain. . .
She made a mental note to have him drink more water when he was able.
"I reckon we oughta call Uncle Jack, Cal, don't you think?" Jem piped up suddenly, his tiny face full of determination.
Scout scowled at her brother, "You're only sayin' that 'cause you want 'im over. . ."
"Am not," Jem protested. "I only meant I thought he oughta know. Atticus's never gotten this sick. Least as far as I remember."
"You don't remember much anyhow. . ." Scout pouted half-heartedly, not daring to elaborate.
"Now, now, Scout," Calpunria scolded. "Mind your brother; Mister Jem makes a mighty fine point. I ought to call Mr. Jack; he has a right to know, and he just might be able to help your father better'n anyone else in this here town."
Scout perked up, hiding a giddy smile beneath another half-hearted scowl; Uncle Jack would soon be on his way.