The nurse called our name a few minutes later.
I stood before she had finished saying it.
Our daughter stirred against my chest, and I adjusted the blanket as I followed the nurse through the doors.
Behind me, I heard Ethan move.
I didn't turn around to check whether he was coming.
I had spent enough of the night looking over my shoulder.
The examination room was small and bright, with a narrow bed, a metal tray, and a computer mounted on the wall.
The nurse asked me to lay our daughter down.
I hated doing it.
She had finally become quiet in my arms, and the thought of letting go made my stomach tighten.
But I placed her on the bed and kept one hand beside her.
The nurse checked her temperature and asked me to repeat the details I had already given at registration.
I answered every question.
Ethan came into the room while I was explaining when the fever had started.
He stood near the door.
For a moment, I wondered whether he had followed me because he was worried about the baby or because he didn't want to be left outside after what had happened.
I couldn't tell.
I decided I didn't need to know just then.
A doctor came in and began examining our daughter.
He listened to her breathing, checked her responsiveness, and asked about her feeding and wet diapers.
I answered as best I could.
My voice shook when he asked whether she had been acting differently.
"She's been crying a lot, and she's much hotter than usual."
He nodded and continued the examination.
I watched his hands.
I watched our daughter's face.
I watched the monitor beside the bed.
I wanted someone to tell me immediately that everything would be fine.
The doctor didn't make that promise.
He explained that a fever that high in a baby her age needed careful evaluation.
He ordered the appropriate tests and told us what the staff needed to check.
I nodded through the explanation.
I was frightened, but at least we were no longer sitting in a waiting room wondering whether anyone understood how serious the situation might be.
Someone was examining her.
Someone was paying attention.
That was enough for the moment.
A nurse began preparing the next steps.
I moved closer to the bed, and Ethan finally came away from the door.
He stood on the opposite side.
Our daughter started crying again.
I reached for her hand.
Ethan looked at me, then at the nurse.
"What happens now?"
The nurse explained what they were doing and what we needed to wait for.
He nodded.
He didn't mention his presentation.
Not then.
I wondered whether he was embarrassed about what his mother had said.
I wondered whether he regretted standing beside her while she told me to handle our daughter alone.
But I didn't ask.
The room wasn't the place for that conversation.
Our daughter needed our attention, and I wasn't going to turn her examination into another argument about Ethan's feelings.
When the nurse finished, I asked whether I could hold her.
She helped me lift the baby from the bed.
The familiar weight settled against my chest.
I closed my eyes for one second.
Then I opened them and listened to the doctor's instructions.
We had more waiting to do.
That became the rhythm of the next hour.
A question.
An examination.
Another explanation.
A nurse coming in to check on us.
I kept track of what they told me because I was afraid that if I forgot a detail, I would somehow fail my daughter.
Ethan sat down eventually.
He chose a chair near the wall and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.
His phone was in his hand.
Every so often, the screen lit up.
I could see the reflection on his face.
He looked at it, typed something, and put it down.
I tried not to think about what he was doing.
There were more important things to think about.
Our daughter gradually stopped crying.
She still looked miserable, but her breathing seemed less frantic to me.
I knew I couldn't judge her condition by appearance alone.
I had learned that much already.
I asked the nurse what changes I should watch for while we waited.
She explained them patiently.
I repeated the information back to make sure I understood.
Ethan listened without saying anything.
For a few minutes, we were simply two parents in a hospital room.
That should have been ordinary.
Instead, I kept noticing how much effort it took not to think about the waiting room.
The dark blue coat.
Sylvia's voice.
The strangers who had heard her tell me that motherhood meant handling everything alone.
I wished I could forget the expressions on their faces.
I wished I could forget Ethan looking down at his coat.
But the memories kept returning.
I was angry with Sylvia.
I was hurt by Ethan.
I was also angry with myself for having spent so long making excuses for him.
That last feeling was harder to admit.
I had known he sometimes left difficult things to me.
I had known his mother could influence him.
I had seen how quickly he became defensive when I asked for more help.
Still, I had believed that when something truly serious happened, he would understand.
I had assumed that a crisis would strip away our smaller disagreements and show us what mattered.
Instead, it had shown me which responsibilities he considered his own.
And which ones he believed belonged to me.
The doctor returned and explained what they had learned so far.
He discussed the next steps and the need to keep monitoring our daughter.
I listened closely.
I asked a few questions.
Ethan asked one about how long we might be there.
The doctor answered as accurately as he could without promising a time he couldn't guarantee.
Ethan nodded.
I looked at him.
He was finally paying attention to the medical information.
I should have felt relieved.
I did, a little.
But I couldn't pretend that the last hour hadn't happened.
A person could sit beside his child and still leave his partner feeling abandoned.
Both things could be true.
When the doctor left, Ethan moved his chair closer to the bed.
He looked at our daughter for a long time.
Then he looked at me.
"Is she going to be okay?"
His voice was quieter than it had been in the waiting room.
I wanted to tell him that I knew she would be.
I wanted to give him the certainty he was asking for.
But I wasn't the doctor, and I couldn't promise something I didn't know.
"We have to wait and see what they find."
He nodded.
Then he looked down at his hands.
I waited for him to say something else.
He didn't.
I turned back to our daughter.
I stroked the back of her hand with my thumb and watched her eyelids flutter.
I was still frightened.
But the fear had a place to go now.
It went into listening carefully, asking questions, and making sure I understood the instructions.
It no longer had to compete with the question of whether Ethan would stay.
He was in the room.
For the moment, that was all I could say about him.
And I had decided not to confuse his presence with an apology.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: When Ethan Finally Asked Why I Had Made That Call, I Realized He Was More Worried About My Decision Than His Mother’s Words
Our Daughter Was Burning With Fever, but My Husband Kept Looking at the Clock as Though Someone Else Should Fix Everything
Part 5 of 8
