Chương 5
“I made one phone call.”
“To whom?”
“My attorney.”
“Your attorney has an encrypted military phone number?”
“It is complicated.”
I felt laughter building in my chest, wild and exhausted and entirely inappropriate.
I pressed my lips together.
The effort failed.
I laughed until my incisionless, battered body hurt, until tears ran down my face, until the nurse told me to breathe slowly.
Dad watched me with deep concern.
“That isn’t funny.”
“It is a little funny.”
“Your husband is accusing a retired general of using a newborn in a government conspiracy.”
“When you say it like that, it’s much funnier.”
Dad looked offended.
Dana turned away because she was laughing too.
The security officer did not laugh.
“Ma’am, there’s one more thing.”
My laughter stopped.
“Your husband also told police he intends to take the other children from his mother’s house tonight.”
I reached for my phone.
Marisol had already sent a message.
I’m here.
David just pulled into the driveway.
I hit Marisol’s name before I had enough air to speak.
She answered in a whisper.
“Don’t panic.”
“That is a terrible opening.”
“I know.”
Behind her came the muffled sound of a television and Grace complaining about somebody touching her blanket.
Then a car door slammed.
“Is that him?”
“Yes.”
“Are the girls with you?”
“Inside.”
“Where are you?”
“Carol’s kitchen.”
“Lock the door.”
“I’m not locking a woman in her own house.”
“Marisol.”
“I locked the back door.”
My father was already on his feet.
Dana stepped closer to my bed.
“Claire, do not send anyone into a confrontation.”
I looked at Dad.
He lifted both hands.
“I heard her.”
Another slam came through the phone.
Then David’s voice, faint but unmistakable.
“Mom?”
My whole body tightened.
Marisol whispered, “He’s inside.”
“How?”
“Front door.”
“Of course.”
“Claire, breathe.”
“Don’t tell me to breathe.”
“Fine.”
She lowered her voice further.
“I’m putting the phone in my pocket.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Marisol.”
“If I’m holding it, he’ll know you’re listening.”
The sound changed as fabric brushed the microphone.
I heard footsteps.
Carol said something I couldn’t make out.
Then David’s voice came closer.
“Where are they?”
“They’re upset,” Carol said.
“I’m taking them home.”
“You shouldn’t drive right now.”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Mom.”
“David.”
That single word carried years of practice.
Not defiance.
Management.
I knew the tone because I had used it myself.
“Where are my daughters?”
Marisol answered.
“They’re in the den.”
Silence.
“Why are you here?”
“Claire asked me to pick them up.”
David laughed once.
“You need to leave.”
“No.”
“You don’t belong in this.”
“Probably true.”
“Then go.”
“No.”
A chair scraped.
Dana held her hand out toward me.
“Put it on speaker.”
I did.
The room filled with David’s distant voice.
“You think this is funny?”
“I don’t think any of this is funny,” Marisol said.
“Claire sends you over here like some kind of bodyguard?”
“No one has ever mistaken me for a bodyguard.”
“Get out of my mother’s house.”
Carol said, “David, stop.”
“No, Mom.”
His voice sharpened.
“She’s taking my kids.”
“They aren’t being taken anywhere.”
“That’s exactly what this is.”
My phone buzzed with an incoming call while I was still connected.
Hospital security.
I ignored it.
Dad quietly pulled his own phone out.
Not the encrypted one.
His ordinary cell.
He typed something and showed me the screen.
Call police there?
I nodded.
He stepped away and made the call in a low voice.
On speaker, Sophie suddenly shouted, “Dad.”
Every adult in both rooms went quiet.
David’s voice changed immediately.
“Hey, bug.”
“Why are you yelling?”
“I’m not yelling.”
“You were.”
“I’m just trying to take you girls home.”
“Mom said we were staying with Marisol.”
A pause.
“She told you that?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Emma.”
I could almost see Sophie’s irritated face.
At seven, she had inherited none of my instinct for smoothing things over.
David tried again.
“Get your shoes.”
“No.”
“Sophie.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Why?”
No answer.
Then, barely audible, “Because you hit Mom.”
My throat closed.
David exhaled hard.
“Who told you that?”
“Emma.”
“Who told Emma?”
“Grandma.”
Carol said, “I did not.”
“Then how does she know?”
“I heard you,” Emma said.
Her voice came from farther away.
“You told Grandma in the garage.”
The room around me disappeared.
Dad stopped speaking into his phone.
Dana looked at me.
On the speaker, David said nothing for several seconds.
Emma continued.
“You said you messed up because Mom made you crazy.”
I pressed my fist against my mouth.
That was the thing about children.
Adults could build entire structures out of euphemism and denial, but children tended to walk through the unfinished walls.
“Emma,” David said, “come here.”
“No.”
“I need to explain.”
“No.”
“Emma.”
“I said no.”
His voice changed.
“Do not speak to me like that.”
Grace started crying.
Marisol cut in.
“David, back off.”
“Stay out of it.”
“She’s scared.”
“She’s my daughter.”
“And she’s scared of you.”
Something struck a surface.
Not a person.
A wall or a table.
Grace screamed.
I sat upright too fast and nearly tore the IV from my hand.
“David!”
He heard me through the speaker.
His breathing stopped.
“Claire?”
“I’m here.”
“You’re listening?”
“Yes.”
“You sent her over here and you’re listening?”
“I sent her to get the girls.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“Step away from them.”
“They are my children.”
“So stop frightening them.”
“I am trying to keep my family together.”
“You hit me while I was holding our son.”
“Stop saying that like I attacked the baby.”
Dad’s face became stone.
I heard myself answer before I had time to soften it.
“You attacked the person holding him.”
The silence afterward was different.
Not empty.
Exposed.
David spoke more quietly.
“I lost control for one second.”
“One second is enough.”
“So that’s it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
May you like
“No, David, I don’t.”
I started crying again, and I hated that he could hear it.
