Free All the Things We Never Knew by Sheila Hamilton Page B

later, I drove home with Sophie’s fever under control and a bag of pink bubblegum antibiotics by my side. The neighborhood stirred with the beginning of a new day. I made it home, exhausted, daunted. I let the car idle in the driveway, trying to gather the strength to carry Sophie inside.
    The infections had started once we put Sophie in day care. David said he needed more uninterrupted time to see clients and architects, so for two hours a day, Sophie went to a neighborhood day care near our home. I wasn’t worried at the time—I knew day care could be good for children. But now, with her susceptibility to infections, it felt dangerous every time we dropped her off. Maybe I should be the one to quit. I’d asked David about it once, telling him I’d be willing to take a break from my career to raise Sophie. He argued that I would miss my work, and we needed the money. Now, as I climbed the stairs to the house carrying Sophie in her car seat, my muscles ached.
    David was getting out of the shower. He looked radiant, as if the sleep and the water had washed away anything troublesome in his life. His hair was wet, but tousled, as if he’d shaken it partly dry. A white towel was wrapped at his waist; his long legs looked strong and steady. Something inside me stirred for him, but the weight of the car seat, and Sophie’s illness, stood between us. “Is she going to be okay?” he asked.
    â€œShe’ll be fine.” I answered. “We’re back to the bubblegum routine.”
    He sighed and dropped his towel to find his clothes. His back was muscled from going to the gym at night after work; his skinwas smooth and tanned from swimming at the lake. Even though my ears were beginning to ring and my eyes felt dry and bloodshot, something shifted inside me—I wanted desperately to pull him to the bed with me right then, to make our lives better again, for the three of us.
    â€œI’m late,” he said. “Let me put her to bed so you can rest.” He took Sophie from me, tenderly kissing her on the forehead. “My poor, sweet baby,” he whispered. I could hear the safety lock going up on her crib, the lights going off. I waited in bed, hoping he might return.
    â€œSee you this afternoon,” he yelled from downstairs. “I won’t be late.”
    The phone startled me. I’d drifted off, dreaming of waiting rooms filled with dozens of screaming sick babies. My assignment editor was on the other end. “We need you to pack a bag,” he said. “There’s been a massacre at Thurston High in Springfield.”
    I struggled to make sense of where I was, what was happening, why my assignment editor was calling me in the morning when I wasn’t due at work for several more hours. The clock said 9:00 a.m. He rattled off more information, businesslike, uninterested in whether I was prepared to take notes.
    â€œNels,” I interrupted, “Sophie is really, really sick. I need to stay close to home.” I heard shouting in the background, the sound of television feeds, and computers rat-a-tap-tapping out the breaking news. On any other day, I would have loved the adrenalin rush. This morning, with my head banging and my body operating on so little sleep, I dreaded the idea that there was more chaos in the world to report on.
    â€œI’m sorry to hear that, Sheila,” Nels said, “but we need our senior reporters there now. An hour ago. Really. Get here as soon as you can.”
    I started to interrupt.
    â€œAnd bring an overnight bag,” he said. “The networks want live shots for the eastern feed.”
    Five minutes later, I was punching in David’s number on the phone. “David,” I said on the voicemail, “I’ve got to go to Springfield. Call me immediately; it’s an emergency.”
    Sophie woke up, crying again, as I tried to track David down. I phoned him several times over as I hurriedly