But not enough.
Not yet.
At the hospital, everything became bright lights and questions.
How long had Diane been staying with us?
What medication was it?
How often had Emma taken it?
Had she vomited?
Had she fallen?
Had she lost consciousness?
Had she been confused?
Had she been unusually sleepy?
Had anyone else witnessed Diane giving her anything?
Every question was a blade.
Because every answer was:
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I was her mother and I did not know.
They placed a tiny hospital bracelet around Emma’s wrist.
She hated it.
She kept trying to pull it off.
“It feels like a tag,” she said.
I kissed her fingers.
“It’s just so everyone knows your name.”
“Grandma said my name too much.”
I froze.
“What do you mean?”
Emma rubbed her bunny’s ear.
“When I cried, she said, ‘Emma Grace Patterson, if you keep acting ugly, I’ll give you another one.’”
Another one.
I closed my eyes.
A nurse beside us inhaled sharply.
She wrote it down.
Everything became evidence.
My daughter’s fear.
Her sleepy afternoons.
