Chương 2
“Don’t,” Rebecca said.
The deputy’s head snapped toward him. “Drop it on the floor.”
Gerald released the belt. It landed with the buckle against the wood, sharp enough to make Lily flinch.
James turned immediately. “Easy, sweetheart. You’re okay.”
The words came out too quickly. Rebecca heard the strain under them. Lily did not look at him.
Dana examined Lily’s pupils with a small light, then touched her arms and legs, asking questions in a voice that managed to be both firm and kind. Lily answered some. She did not answer others. When Dana tried to move her away from Rebecca, she began to cry—not loudly, but with a low, frightened sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her chest.
Rebecca climbed onto the stretcher with her.
The younger paramedic glanced at Dana, who nodded once.
James moved to follow.
A deputy stopped him. “We need one parent here for a statement.”
“My daughter is going to the hospital.”
“And her mother is going with her. We need someone who saw what happened.”
James looked at Rebecca.
She could see what he wanted: permission to choose the correct thing when no choice was correct.
“Stay,” she said. “Tell them everything.”
His jaw tightened. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Gerald had been moved near the kitchen counter, his hands visible, his breathing still heavy. He looked older than he had ten minutes before. Patricia stood several feet away now, no longer touching him, though her body remained angled in his direction.
As the paramedics lifted the stretcher, Patricia stepped forward.
“Rebecca, don’t turn this into something it isn’t.”
Dana stopped pushing.
The room went still again.
Rebecca looked at her mother over Lily’s yellow bow.
“What is it?”
Patricia blinked.
“What exactly am I turning it into?”
“It was discipline. He lost his temper, and she fell. You know how your father gets when children talk back.”
Rebecca felt Lily’s fingers close weakly around the fabric of her blouse.
“No,” she said. “I know how all of you get when he hurts someone.”
Patricia’s face changed. Not much. A tightening beside the nose, a slight lift of the chin.
It was enough.
The stretcher wheels rattled over the threshold. Outside, late-afternoon sun flooded the driveway. Neighbors stood on lawns pretending not to stare. Red balloons tied to the mailbox moved in the warm wind above the ambulance.
Inside the vehicle, Dana cut the side seam of Lily’s yellow dress so she could check the child’s ribs and back without forcing her to sit up. There was no blood. Rebecca repeated that fact silently, as if the absence of blood meant the absence of damage.
Dana noticed.
“No visible bleeding,” she said. “That’s good, but it doesn’t tell us everything. We’re going to monitor her closely.”
Rebecca nodded.
She had questioned medical witnesses about head injuries. She knew the language of uncertainty, the careful distinction between what a scan could reveal and what behavior might reveal later. None of that knowledge helped while Lily stared at the ambulance ceiling and whispered that she wanted her blanket.
“What color is the blanket?” Dana asked.
“Green,” Lily murmured.
“With ducks,” Rebecca added.
Lily frowned. “Not ducks.”
“Frogs,” Rebecca said.
“Frogs.”
Dana smiled slightly. “Good correction.”
Rebecca almost laughed. The sound got as far as her throat and stopped there.
At the hospital, the emergency department became a procession of wristbands, questions, consent forms, lights, and people introducing themselves while touching Lily. A nurse brought a child-sized hospital gown printed with purple elephants. Lily refused it until Rebecca told her the elephants looked annoyed, which made Lily stare at the gown long enough for the nurse to slip one arm through.
A physician examined her. Then another. They ordered imaging because of the reported seizure and loss of responsiveness. A social worker arrived with a calm voice and a legal pad. A hospital security officer stood outside the room after Rebecca explained that the alleged assailant was a family member.
The language changed around them.
Incident.
Suspected abuse.
Mandatory report.
Nonaccidental injury.
Rebecca understood every term and hated each one.
When James arrived, his shirt was darker at the spine from sweat. He still held his phone, though the emergency call had ended long ago. A deputy accompanied him to the room and asked Rebecca to confirm that she did not want Gerald or Patricia admitted.
“Neither of them,” she said.
The deputy wrote it down. “Your sister?”
Rebecca looked at James.
He shook his head slightly. Not now.
“Not yet,” Rebecca said.
After the deputy left, James stood beside the bed and stared at the bandage where an IV had been taped to Lily’s hand.
“She asked for you,” Rebecca said.
“I was ten minutes away.”
“You were giving a statement.”
“I should’ve come.”
“No. You should’ve done exactly what you did.”
He rubbed his face. His silver watch caught the fluorescent light. “They took the belt. They photographed the floor. They took the can too.”
“Who moved the cooler?”
“No one, as far as I saw.”
“Did they separate the witnesses?”
“Eventually. Colleen kept recording until a deputy told her to stop.”
“Did Gerald say anything else?”
James looked at Lily.
She had fallen into a shallow sleep, one hand still tangled in Rebecca’s blouse.
“He said you were trying to destroy the family.”
Rebecca watched Lily’s chest rise.
“What did you say?”
“I said he destroyed it when he hit her.”
There was satisfaction in the sentence, but only for half a second. Then James sat in the plastic chair near the wall and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.
“I should’ve seen him move.”
“It happened fast.”
“I saw the belt.”
“So did I.”
“I saw it, Rebecca. He pulled it loose, and I thought he was making some stupid point. I thought he’d slap it against the counter or threaten her. I was standing there.”
“You were across the room.”
May you like
“I was standing there.”
His voice broke on the last word. He looked away immediately, embarrassed by the sound.
