Chapter 9 - The Child Who Woke Up
Emma opened her eyes on Monday morning.
I was reading aloud when her fingers curled around mine.
She looked at me with a dazed expression and whispered, "Mommy?"
The sound broke something open in my chest.
Marcus came to the bedside so quickly he almost knocked over the chair.
We cried, but quietly, because Emma seemed frightened by the smallest noise.
A neurologist examined her and carefully explained that waking up was a milestone, not the end of her recovery.
There would be therapy and follow-up assessments.
We said yes to every appointment and recommendation.
When the doctor left, Emma asked for Mr. Buttons.
I put the worn rabbit against her shoulder.
"Did I fall?" she whispered.
"Yes, baby."
"Is my treehouse mad?"
I kissed her forehead.
"No. The railing broke. The grown-ups will make sure you're safe."
She considered that answer and closed her eyes.
Later, she asked a question I hadn't expected.
"Why did Grandma sound angry?"
Marcus and I looked at each other.
We did not know how much she had heard before or after surgery.
We wanted to be honest without placing adult cruelty on her shoulders.
"Grandma made bad choices," I told her.
"None of them were your fault."
When Emma opened her eyes, she did not look like the girl who had raced down the hallway every morning.
She looked exhausted, bewildered by the tubes and strange ceiling.
I wanted to ask her everything at once.
Did she hurt?
Was she frightened?
Did she remember falling?
The physician reminded us to let her set the pace.
I nodded and swallowed my questions.
Marcus stood on the other side of the bed with his fingers pressed against his mouth.
"Hi, bug," he whispered.
Emma blinked at him and then at the small rabbit under her hand.
The first time she tried to smile, it barely reached one corner of her mouth.
It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
Later, when she fell asleep, Marcus went into the hallway and sank onto a chair.
"I'm scared to be happy," he admitted.
"What if tomorrow is worse?" I sat beside him.
"Then we'll be here tomorrow too." We had no promise of an easy recovery.
We only had a tiny hand that had moved toward ours.
For that afternoon, it was enough.
Emma touched her rabbit's ear.
"Does she still want cake money?"
I felt my skin go cold.
Perhaps she remembered the argument, or perhaps she had heard fragments while recovering.
Either way, the demand had reached her.
"That's not your worry," I said.
"You don't owe anyone anything."
That afternoon, the detective notified us that the prosecutor's office was reviewing the ICU incident.
He could not predict charges or an outcome.
I thanked him and returned to my daughter.
By evening, she had asked for strawberry pancakes and complained about the hospital's applesauce.
For the first time, those ordinary requests made me laugh.
Then Marcus checked our mailbox at home.
A lawyer's letter was waiting.
May you like
Helen and Richard were demanding that we retract our statements or face a lawsuit for damaging their reputation.
