Chapter 29. Jude
The sound that wakes me isn't a cry. This is something I've never heard from her before: a high, keening note that reaches into the dark bedroom and drags me awake as if a bucket of cold water had been poured over me. It's terrifying.
Ford is already moving. He's off the mattress before my eyes are fully open.
"Jude. Get up."
I'm up. I'm up before the words land. The hallway is dark except for the blue glow leaking from the nursery.
Ford is holding Angel against his chest with one arm, his other hand pressed flat against her forehead. She's flushed, sweaty, and babies don't sweat. She's squirming against him.
"She's burning up," Ford says, and he sounds desperate. Not something I've heard from him before. "She's… feel her. Jude, feel her."
I cross the room and press the back of my hand against Angel's cheek. She's burning. The heat coming off her is alarming. Poor thing.
"Okay," I say. I hear my voice come out steady, and I'm as surprised by it as Ford is. He needs me. "Okay. We're going to the ER. I need you to get dressed."
Ford doesn't move. He's staring at Angel's face with an expression I haven't seen before on him.
Panic. This isn't worry. This is memory.
I can see it in his eyes, the way they've gone dark and distant, like he's looking at Angel but seeing someone else.
His sister, who went in for a birth and didn't come back.
Something seizes in my chest, but I swallow it down.
"Daddy." I put my hand on his arm. He flinches, actually flinches, which he never does, and that tells me exactly how far he's gone. "Give her to me. Get dressed. We're going now."
He transfers Angel into my arms. I feel the heat of her immediately, the sick warmth of her body against my chest, and she makes that sound again. But I won't panic. He needs me. She needs me too.
I carry her to the changing table and lay her down. She protests, weakly, without her usual fury. I grab a clean diaper and a clean onesie from the drawer and start working.
Ford appears in the doorway, half-dressed, his shirt buttoned wrong, his hands shaking. He reaches for the diaper bag on the shelf and knocks it sideways.
"I'll get the bag," I tell him. "Finish getting dressed. Shoes. Keys. Go."
He goes.
I snap the last button on Angel's onesie and wrap her in the softest blanket I can find. "I know, baby," I whisper. "I know it's bad. We're going to fix it."
The car is cold. I drive. Ford gets in the back, next to Angel's car seat. A fine drizzle has started, too light to justify but too persistent to ignore, and the wipers squeak against the windshield.
"It's okay, Little Bird," he murmurs to Angel. "Daddy's here. We're almost there. You're going to be fine."
He's not talking to her. He's talking to himself.
The emergency room is horrible, as every emergency room is. The fluorescent lights hit so hard after the dark of the car that it physically hurts. The air smells like iodine and industrial floor cleaner and that universal hospital smell that never changes.
"I'll handle intake," I tell Ford, already moving toward the desk. He nods and sits with Angel. I answer the questions with a precision that surprises me. Angel Ridden. Ten months. High fever, onset approximately forty minutes ago. No known allergies. No recent travel. Insurance.
They take us back quickly. Angel's temperature reads 103.
2. Ford's arms tighten around her. We don't have to wait long.
A doctor arrives. She looks tired, but she smiles at us.
She examines Angel. Angel wails, and Ford holds her through it, and I can see how he stops himself from trembling.
The doctor asks questions. Ford answers.
When did the fever start. Has she been eating normally.
Any recent ear infections. Yes. Yes. No.
Then the doctor says, "We'd like to run some tests. I'll need to take her back."
For a moment I watch the conflict cross his face. Every instinct in his body is saying no. But he knows. He knows the doctor needs to do her job. He knows the holding isn't helping.
He lets go.
The nurse takes Angel. She screams. It makes me sick, and I'm shivering, but I show none of it.
Then he starts pacing.
Three steps one direction. Turn. Three steps back. His shoes squeak against the linoleum. I sit in one of the molded plastic chairs, because watching is what I can do. Other people pass, nurses, a man pushing an IV pole, and Ford paces through them, around them.
Five minutes. Ten.
Then he stops.
I see it happen. Something I've never seen before. His chest caves. His hands drop to his sides, and his knees give, and he sinks into the plastic chair beside me.
He cries.
Not the way I cry. Not loud. Tears track down his cheeks into his beard, disappearing into it.
"Sarah went into labor at thirty-two weeks," he says, and his voice is barely there.
"They told me it was manageable. Premature, but manageable.
Modern medicine. Best hospital in the city.
" His hands are in his lap, palms up, empty.
"She was laughing when they took her in.
She was telling me names. She had a list. She was so young, barely twenty-six, my little baby sister.
Angel's dad wasn't even there, but she didn't care.
She'd been carrying this list in her wallet for months, and she was reading them to me, and the last name she said was Angel, and then… "
He stops. Swallows. The fluorescent light makes his tears look silver.
"The hemorrhaging started twenty minutes after delivery.
Eclampsia. They couldn't stop it. I was holding Angel in the NICU, this, this impossibly small thing, four pounds, tubes everywhere, an absolute warrior, and a doctor came in and I knew.
I knew before he said anything. The way he walked. The way he wouldn't look at Angel."
His voice breaks.
"I can't lose her too," he whispers.
I have tears in my eyes. But I won't let them fall.
"Look at me," I say, and my voice comes from somewhere I don't recognize. Low, steady. "Daddy, look at me."
His eyes find mine.
"She is going to be okay," I tell him. "And you are not alone. I'm here. Do you hear me?"
His fingers tighten around mine. His jaw trembles. He nods, and I pull him into me. I hold him and don't let go.
?
Footsteps in the corridor.
The doctor rounds the corner. Her face is neutral.
"Common viral infection. RSV, most likely. Her fever's already responding to the acetaminophen. We'd recommend continuing fever reducers every four to six hours, plenty of fluids, and rest. She should be significantly better in two to three days."
Common. Viral. Rest.
I hear Ford exhale.
"Thank you," he says to the doctor, and his voice is almost his. Almost the controlled man I know.
They bring Angel back. She's quieter now, the fever-bright flush of her cheeks already fading toward pink, and when the nurse places her in Ford's arms, she exhales, content.
During discharge, Ford handles the paperwork. His hands are steady again. He signs forms and nods at instructions and accepts the printed aftercare sheet. I hold Angel.
She's heavy with exhaustion, her body limp against my chest, her head tucked into the curve of my neck. I stroke her hair, the wispy blond curls. I sing to her very quietly. So This Is Love, from Cinderella. Her favorite.
We don't say much on the drive home. The city is different at four in the morning. Quieter, emptier. Like an abandoned place. Traffic lights cycle through their colors for no one.
Ford doesn't take Angel to the nursery. He carries her to his - our - bedroom, and I follow. He lays her in the center of the bed, and we lie on either side of her. Rain taps the windows.
We don't speak. But we exchange looks. And I smile.