“My husband wanted to wait until morning,” I said.
Dr. Marcus did not look up from his clipboard, but his pen stopped moving for a fraction of a second. “You are here now. That is what matters.”
By nine o’clock, the storm outside had started in earnest, throwing cold rain against the thick glass of the pediatric waiting area. The heavy double doors at the entrance slid open, and my mother, Gail, walked in carrying a large canvas bag.
Gail walked with a slight, careful limp, though she tried to hide it by holding her purse tightly against her side. She wore her old wool winter coat, the one with the slightly frayed cuffs she refused to discard.
“I brought you some dry socks and your thick green sweater,” Gail said, sitting on the vinyl chair next to mine. She handed me a paper cup containing hot tea. “And I brought some crackers for later.”
I took the cup, letting the warmth seep into my palms. “Thank you, Mom. I did not realize how cold I was.”
“How is she?” Gail asked, looking toward the heavy doors of the pediatric ward.
“They have her on a saline drip,” I said. “Her fever is down to thirty-nine degrees now. She is finally sleeping.”
Gail folded her hands neatly in her lap, her wedding band catching the dull fluorescent light. “Arthur called me. He said you phoned him from the car.”
“I had to,” I said. “Thatcher stood in front of the door. He actually tried to block us from leaving.”
Gail looked at me, her eyes narrowing slightly. “He tried to keep you from taking a sick child to the hospital?”
“He was terrified of a scene,” I said. “He told me I was going to ruin his mother’s dinner party. When I tried to push past him, he grabbed my wrist.”
I pulled back the sleeve of my cardigan to show her. The gold and diamond tennis bracelet Thatcher had bought me for our anniversary had dug into my skin, leaving a neat, bruised crescent of small red marks around my wrist.
