Page 68 of His Holy Chaos

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.