Chương 13
The reply came thirty seconds later.
We will contact you tomorrow.
Do not discuss the contents of any work-related materials with your husband or others.
I stared at the phrase or others.
“Does that include Dad?”
Evelyn said, “Yes.”
Dad looked offended.
“Probably especially Dad.”
“That seems excessive.”
“You have an encrypted phone.”
“That does not make me contagious.”
“It makes you exactly the kind of person investigators tell witnesses not to brief.”
I put the phone down.
“Am I a witness?”
Evelyn tilted her head.
“Maybe.”
I groaned.
She lifted one hand.
“Sorry.”
“I’m banning that word.”
“You can ban it after we know more.”
There was a soft knock.
My nurse came in carrying a plastic basin and a folded gown.
“Time to get you standing.”
I stared at her.
“I’ve had a full day.”
“Yes.”
“I’m declining.”
“No.”
Dad immediately stood.
The nurse pointed at him.
“You sit.”
He sat.
I looked at Evelyn.
“Help me.”
“I’m counsel.”
“You’re also wearing running shoes.”
“That is not a credential.”
The nurse helped me swing my legs over the side of the bed.
Every muscle in my body filed a complaint.
The room tilted slightly.
“Easy,” she said.
“I hate that word too.”
“That one’s free.”
I stood.
Pain moved through me in several unrelated places.
I gripped the nurse’s forearm.
Dad half rose.
She did not even look at him.
“Sit.”
He sat again.
I shuffled three steps.
Benjamin slept in the bassinet beside the bed.
It was ridiculous that three steps could feel like crossing a continent.
By the time I reached the bathroom door, I was sweating.
The nurse steadied me.
“You’re doing fine.”
“I’m adding fine to the banned list.”
She smiled.
“You’ll have no vocabulary left by morning.”
In the bathroom mirror, I saw my face properly for the first time.
The red mark had darkened along my cheekbone.
My hair was stuck to my temples.
My lips were dry.
I looked older than I had the day before.
Not dramatically older.
Just used up.
The nurse handed me a cold pack.
I pressed it to my cheek.
For a second, I stared at my reflection and tried to locate the woman who had walked into the hospital yesterday with David carrying my overnight bag and complaining about parking.
He had kissed my forehead between contractions.
He had rubbed my back.
He had told me I was incredible.
Both versions of him were real.
That was the part I hated most.
When I returned to the bed, Dad had picked up Benjamin.
I stopped.
He looked terrified.
Not of dropping him exactly.
More like Benjamin had become some complicated piece of equipment without an instruction manual.
“You’ve held babies before.”
“Not recently.”
“You had me.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“You were loud.”
“I was a baby.”
“You were extremely loud.”
Evelyn looked over from her phone.
“She still is.”
I lowered myself carefully onto the bed.
Dad ignored her.
Benjamin opened his eyes.
Dad froze.
The baby stared up at him.
“There,” I said.
“What?”
“Your eyes.”
Dad’s face softened.
“I see that.”
He moved one finger near Benjamin’s hand.
The tiny fingers closed around it.
Dad stopped breathing for a second.
I had seen my father receive medals.
I had seen him speak at funerals without his voice changing.
I had seen him tell doctors to stop using euphemisms when my mother was dying.
I had never seen him look as helpless as he did with Benjamin holding one finger.
“You can breathe,” I said.
“I am breathing.”
“You stopped.”
“Temporarily.”
“Is that your military training?”
“No.”
Evelyn lowered her phone.
“Tom, your granddaughter texted me.”
Dad looked at her.
“Which one?”
“Emma.”
I stared.
“How does Emma have your number?”
Evelyn looked at Dad.
Dad looked at me.
I narrowed my eyes.
“What?”
He shifted Benjamin slightly.
“She asked for it at Christmas.”
“Why?”
“She wanted legal advice.”
“She is nine.”
“She had a dispute.”
“What dispute?”
“School fundraiser.”
I stared at him.
Evelyn sighed.
“She wanted to know whether a teacher could require students to sell wrapping paper.”
I covered my face.
“Why are all of you insane?”
Dad said, “I told her it wasn’t a legal matter.”
“You gave my nine-year-old your attorney’s phone number.”
“She asked politely.”
Evelyn held up her phone.
“She wants to know if babies remember being born.”
I lowered my hands.
“What did you tell her?”
“I haven’t.”
Dad looked at me.
“Do they?”
“I don’t know.”
Evelyn typed.
I said, “Tell her probably not.”
She sent it.
Thirty seconds later, her phone buzzed.
“She says good.”
“Why good?”
Another message.
“She says Benjamin had a bad first day.”
That one hurt.
Dad looked down at him.
“He did.”
I held out my arms.
Dad gave him back reluctantly.
My son settled against me.
I kissed the top of his head.
“He’ll have better ones.”
The sentence came out before I decided whether I believed it.
Evelyn looked at me.
“You should sleep.”
“I can’t.”
“You can try.”
“I have five children.”
“Four are safe.”
“And one is here.”
“And your husband is not.”
I looked at her.
“That was almost comforting.”
“I practice.”
Dad checked his watch.
“I can stay.”
“You are staying.”
“I assumed.”
“I’m clarifying.”
“Good.”
Evelyn packed up her legal pad.
“I’m going home.”
I felt a sudden flare of panic.
She noticed.
“I’m not disappearing.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
She took a business card from her wallet and placed it beside my phone.
“Call if law enforcement contacts you tonight.”
“Okay.”
“Do not call David.”
“I won’t.”
“If he calls and you answer, keep it about the children.”
“Okay.”
“Do not discuss his job.”
“Okay.”
“Do not let Tom discuss his job.”
Dad looked at her.
“I know how investigations work.”
“That is why I said it.”
He rolled his eyes.
Evelyn looked back at me.
May you like
“And tomorrow, I’ll connect you with separate family counsel.”
“Do I need one that fast?”
