Chương 4
Connor turned toward her.
“When?”
“I don’t remember. Before Christmas.”
“Did you sign them?”
“No. Frederick started crying. She got mad and left.”
Reed noted it.
Amy’s breathing shortened. “I don’t want her to go to prison.”
“No one is asking you to decide that tonight.”
“She’ll say I did this.”
“She may.”
The honesty unsettled Amy more than comfort would have. She folded her arms tightly.
After Reed left, Connor sat beside her.
“You never told me about the papers.”
She looked at him. “You never told me the money was a loan.”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing useful came out.
Frederick remained overnight. His tests showed no immediate respiratory emergency, but he was dehydrated and had an infection the physician believed was likely viral. The doctor used words like observation and response rather than promises. By two in the morning, the baby’s breathing had slowed. His fever remained high. Amy finally slept in the reclining chair with her hand inside the hospital crib.
Connor sat by the window.
He remembered the first time Teresa called the money a loan. It had been at Thanksgiving, four months after his father’s funeral. She had been standing in the same kitchen, not yet renovated, drinking coffee from a paper cup because the cabinets were being replaced. She said she could not believe Connor had bought granite counters while she was trying to understand her finances.
He had reminded her that the money had been a gift.
She had stared at him and said, “That is not how I remember it.”
He should have answered then. He should have written down every conversation. He should have told Amy. Instead, he had transferred five hundred dollars to Teresa the following month with the note Mom expenses, because a payment without a name felt less frightening than a debt.
More transfers followed whenever Teresa complained about taxes, repairs, or being alone. Sometimes Connor sent nothing for months. Sometimes he sent two thousand dollars. He called it helping. Teresa called it proof.
At six, Amy woke and asked where Frederick’s blue romper was.
“They cut it off,” Connor said.
She stared at him.
“The nurse had to.”
“I know.” She rubbed her forehead. “I forgot.”
Connor found the two halves of the romper in a plastic belongings bag. Amy folded them carefully and placed them beside her purse.
“You don’t need to keep that.”
“I know.”
He sat across from her. Dawn made the window gray.
“Amy, I’m sorry.”
She kept smoothing the cut fabric.
“I should’ve been home more.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“I know.”
“You say that when you want me to stop explaining.”
His first impulse was to defend himself. He had worked sixty-hour weeks because their insurance premiums had increased and the mortgage rate on their home-equity line was worse than expected. He had taken the Kentucky site assignment because it came with extra pay. He had driven back every weekend except two. He had believed Teresa was helping.
All of those things were true. None answered Amy.
“What is the same thing?” he asked.
She looked at him then. Her face seemed older under the hospital light.
“You left me with someone you were afraid to say no to.”
Connor’s jaw tightened. “I’m not afraid of her.”
Amy gave a short laugh without humor.
He looked away.
A nurse entered to check Frederick, and the conversation ended because real conversations often did. The nurse spoke brightly about his improved temperature, then complained that the blood-pressure cuff was sticking. Amy helped hold Frederick’s leg. Connor stood back, feeling as though the room had rearranged itself around a fact he could not move.
By late morning, Frederick drank several ounces of formula and kept it down. The pediatrician wanted to observe him through the afternoon. Amy agreed to have bloodwork done on herself after nearly fainting beside the crib. She was dehydrated, anemic, and underweight. The physician asked about appetite, sleep, and mood. Amy answered cautiously. A follow-up appointment was arranged, along with information for counseling and domestic-violence support.
Amy objected to the last phrase.
“This isn’t domestic violence.”
Nina, the social worker, did not argue over the label. “You can take the information without deciding what to call your experience.”
Amy put the pamphlet inside her purse.
Connor’s sister, Lila, arrived carrying coffee and a phone charger. She was thirty-three, wore green hospital scrubs beneath a denim jacket, and looked as if she had not slept after a night shift. She paused inside the door, taking in the crib, Amy’s face, and Connor’s dusty clothes.
“Is he okay?”
“He’s improving,” Amy said.
Lila placed the coffee down without drinking it. “Mom called me from booking.”
Connor felt his shoulders rise.
“She says you lied to the police.”
“She shoved an officer.”
“She says he grabbed her.”
“He blocked her from interfering with the paramedics.”
Lila looked at Amy. “What happened before they got there?”
Amy lowered her eyes.
Connor said, “Don’t question her.”
“I asked a question.”
“Not now.”
Lila’s mouth tightened. “You called the police on our mother at a birthday party.”
“I called an ambulance for my son.”
“And somehow the deed ended up in Mason’s jacket?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Then stop talking like you do.”
Frederick stirred. Amy placed a hand on his chest.
Lila whispered, “Can we not do this beside him?”
Connor almost laughed. The family had spent years choosing the location of an argument as though the location caused it.
Lila sat on the windowsill. “Mom says the house was supposed to be security for the money Dad left.”
“That’s not what she said when she gave it to me.”
“What did she say?”
“That it was mine.”
“You have that in writing?”
“No.”
“Does she?”
“No.”
Lila looked tired rather than triumphant. “Then maybe both of you heard what you needed.”
Connor turned away.
May you like
Amy spoke so softly that Lila leaned forward.
“She didn’t let me call the nurse.”
