Chapter 5 - ERICMy husband flew home that night.
Eric Warren.
Thirty-seven.
Civil engineer.
Not dramatic.
Which was why his reaction frightened me.
He listened.
Said nothing.
Then:
“Where is Ivy?”
“With your mother.”
“Good.”
“Eric.”
“What?”
“I need you to say something.”
He looked at the monitors around my hospital bed.
“About what?”
“Dana.”
His jaw tightened.
“I’m trying not to say the thing I want to say.”
“What thing?”
“That I should have listened to you three weeks ago.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“You told me Ivy was scared of her.”
“You said toddlers get phases.”
“I know.”
He sat.
“I thought you were anxious because of the pregnancy.”
That phrase.
Anxious because of pregnancy.
Pregnant women become easy to discount because hormones exist.
Hormones are real.
So are observations.
Eric covered his face.
“I left you with her.”
“No.”
“I did.”
“So did I.”
He looked up.
“Did you know about the antihistamine?”
“Yes.”
His eyes changed.
“You did?”
“She said it was hers.”
“Rebecca.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean—I saw her give Ivy something once.”
My whole body went still.
“What?”
“Two months ago.”
“Give her what?”
“Pink liquid.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I asked. She said Ivy had a fever.”
“Did Ivy have a fever?”
“I don’t know.”
“Eric.”
“I was leaving for the airport.”
There are failures so ordinary they are almost impossible to forgive.
Not evil.
Busy.
Trusting.
Late.
“I’m sorry.”
I turned toward the window.
The baby kicked.
May you like
I put my hand over the movement.
The relief almost hurt.
Related Stories
