I held his small, cold hands while Dr. Adams gently tipped his head back. He let out a small whine as the wooden blade pressed down on his tongue.
Dr. Adams peered into his mouth, then suddenly stopped, her pen freezing mid-air. She held the light there for three seconds longer than usual.
“Is everything alright?” I asked.
She did not answer immediately, instead sliding the wooden depressor into the trash bin with a quiet click.
We moved into her private office, where the walls were covered in framed diplomas and drawings of smiling cartoon animals. Johnny sat on the floor by my boots, lining up three yellow plastic blocks in a straight line.
“His throat is quite red at the very back,” Dr. Adams said, leaning back in her leather chair. “It looks like some minor irritation, but there is no sign of infection or fever.”
“Could it be from crying?” I asked, thinking of the daycare lobby.
“It could be behavioral, yes,” she said, her pen tapping against the edge of her desk. “Sometimes toddlers develop a strong aversion to certain foods, or they stop swallowing properly when they are anxious.”
“He used to love his breakfast,” I said.
“Now look, toddlers bruise easily, but we should watch this,” she said, her voice dropping a register. “Something feels a bit different here, Clara.”
She did not write anything down on her notepad, which only made my chest feel tighter.
The autumn wind was blowing dry maple leaves across the asphalt parking lot when we got back to the car. The air smelled of damp earth and car exhaust. I lifted Johnny into his cold blue plastic booster seat and began buckling the gray straps.
As I pulled his sleeve up to clear the buckle, his jacket slid back.
A small, bluish-purple mark sat on the soft skin of his upper arm, just below his shoulder. It was about the size of a thumbprint.
