My husband, Jack, appeared in the hallway a second later, wearing the same wrinkled T-shirt he'd gone to bed in. His hair was a mess, and sleep still clouded his eyes.
My husband, Jack, appeared in the hallway a second later, wearing the same wrinkled T-shirt he'd gone to bed in. His hair was a mess, and sleep still clouded his eyes.
"What the hell is going on?" he asked, rubbing at his face.
I looked straight at him.
"Your stepmother just slapped Eva."
The last traces of sleep disappeared from his expression.
"What?"
Marlene folded her arms across her chest as though she had absolutely nothing to apologize for.
"Oh, don't make this into something it isn't," she said. "The child was throwing a fit. I gave her one slap to calm her down. That's called discipline."
Eva buried her face against my shoulder, trembling so hard I could barely keep my arms steady around her.
"No," I said quietly. "That's called hitting an eight-year-old."
Marlene rolled her eyes.
"You young parents are all the same. You let children run the house, then wonder why they grow up spoiled."
Jack looked from me to Eva, then back to Marlene.
"Did you hit her?"
"I already told you," Marlene replied impatiently. "It was one slap. She'll survive."
Before either of us could answer, I felt Eva's body suddenly go limp.
At first I thought she'd simply stopped crying.
Then I realized she wasn't holding herself up anymore.
"Eva?"
She didn't answer.
I pulled back just enough to look at her face.
Her eyes had rolled halfway back.
A thin stream of white foam began forming at the corner of her mouth.
For one horrifying second, my brain refused to understand what I was seeing.
Then instinct took over.
"Jack!" I screamed. "Call 911! Right now!"
Eva's body jerked violently in my arms.
Her tiny hands curled inward.
Her lips were turning an unnatural shade of blue.
Jack lunged for his phone with shaking hands while I lowered Eva carefully onto the hallway floor, trying to keep her airway clear the way I'd learned years ago in a first-aid class I never imagined I'd actually need.
"Stay with me, baby," I begged, brushing damp strands of hair away from her forehead. "Mommy's here. Stay with me."
She didn't respond.
The next few minutes blurred into flashing lights, frantic voices, and the deafening wail of approaching sirens.
I don't remember putting on shoes.
I don't remember grabbing my purse.
I only remember climbing into the ambulance, refusing to let go of my daughter's hand while the paramedics worked over her tiny body.
One of them glanced at the monitor, then at me.
"Has she ever had seizures before?"
"No," I whispered.
"Any allergies? Medications?"
"No."
He frowned.
"Has she eaten or drunk anything unusual today?"
I opened my mouth to answer.
Nothing came.
Because suddenly, without warning, one memory forced its way to the surface.
Every single night...
Marlene brought Eva a warm glass of milk before bed.
Every.
May you like
Single.
Night.
