PART 6
And by around two in the morning, we were sitting in the emergency-room waiting area with our four-month-old daughter screaming in my arms.
It wasn’t her hungry cry.
It wasn’t her tired cry.
It was the cry of a baby whose body felt wrong and who had no way to understand why.
I rocked her.
Bounced her.
Sang the low, wordless melody I had invented during the first weeks of her life.
Ethan paced.
After a while, he looked at the clock.
“This is ridiculous.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“I have a huge presentation at nine.”
“Her fever is still high. We need to wait.”
“I’m exhausted, Rachel.”
The words came out sharply.
Then he pulled out his phone and walked away.
I assumed he was contacting work.
I kept rocking June.
Twenty minutes later, the automatic doors opened.
Sylvia walked into the ER.
She was wearing her coat.
She lived forty minutes away.
She had driven forty minutes across town at two in the morning.
Not for June.
For Ethan.
She walked directly past me.
She picked up his coat from the chair and shoved it toward him.
“Come on.”
I stared at her.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m taking Ethan home with me. He can sleep in his old room for a few hours before his presentation.”
For a second, I honestly thought I had misunderstood.
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