“They’re wiped out,” Gregory said with a smile that looked rehearsed. “Stayed up way too late. You know how kids are. We’ll have to do this again soon.”
Mia kept her eyes on the floor.
I thanked him, buckled her in, and pulled away. I told myself she was just tired.
About ten minutes from the house, Mia started crying.
It wasn’t a tantrum. It was a deep, quiet sob, the kind that shakes a small body when it’s been held in for hours. I pulled over to the curb and turned around in my seat.
“Sweetheart, what happened?”
She pressed both hands to her stomach. “It hurts, Daddy. Right here.”
Then, in pieces, the rest came out.
Mr. Hale had poured her some juice in a special cup, just for her. Owen wasn’t allowed to drink from the same pitcher. It tasted bitter, she said, “like flowers and medicine.” In the middle of the night she had felt sick and thrown up, but she didn’t call for anyone, because Mr. Hale had told her he’d be upset if she made a fuss.
“And he said not to tell anyone,” she whispered. “Am I in trouble?”
“No, baby. You’re not in trouble. Not even a little.”
I stopped asking questions right there.
I’m a child psychologist. I’ve spent my whole career learning that you don’t push a frightened child for details. But I also know what a medical emergency looks like, and my daughter was pale, sweaty, and holding her stomach like it was on fire.
I called Clara on speaker. “I’m taking Mia to the ER. Don’t go home. Meet me at the children’s hospital.”
She heard my voice and didn’t ask why.
At the hospital in Houston, the triage nurse took one look at Mia and rushed her straight back.
Clara arrived ten minutes later, still in her work clothes. We held hands in the waiting room and didn’t say much. There wasn’t anything to say yet.
Almost an hour passed. Then the ER doctor came through the double doors holding a sheet of test results, and I watched his expression change as he walked toward us. He looked at the paper one more time, then at me.
“Who gave her this, and when?”
