By August, I couldn't stop smiling. The storm pressed against the windows. Emma made a soft sound, and Jonathan shifted her to his other arm. "The baby came early," Carara continued. Her voice had gone flat, reciting facts rather than living them.
November. Something went wrong. Bleeding that wouldn't stop. Thomas rode for the doctor, but the bridge had washed out from rain. He tried to cross anyway.
She stopped, breathed, made herself say the rest. They found him downstream. The baby came while I was alone. She didn't breathe. I held her for an hour before anyone came.
She was so small, so perfect, so still. Tears ran down her face now. Silent and steady. She didn't wipe them away. I'm sorry, Jonathan said.
For all of it. I know you are. She finally looked at him. I know you understand. I do.
He reached across the table, not quite touching her hand, just close enough that she could feel the warmth. Mary took days. She held on so hard, fought so hard, but there was too much damage. And the doctor didn't get here in time either. Same story, different details.
Same ending. Yeah, his jaw tightened. Same ending. They sat in the wreckage of their separate tragedies. And somehow the sharing made the burden lighter.
Not healed, not fixed, just less solitary. Emma began to fuss, and the moment broke naturally. Cara stood to clear the dishes. Jonathan walked the baby around the room, humming tunelessly. Without Carara's skill, but with equal love.
Later, when Emma slept and the lamp burned low, Cara excused herself earlier than necessary. The intimacy of confession had left her raw, exposed. She needed walls between them, even thin ones. "Thank you," Jonathan said as she moved toward the sitting room. "For the meal, for everything.
Thank you for the shelter. " "That's not. " He shook his head. You've given more than shelter back. Cara paused in the doorway. For a moment, she almost said something. Almost crossed the room, almost let herself feel something beyond grief.
Instead, she nodded once and disappeared into the shadows. Jonathan sat alone with his daughter, lamp burning low, and realized the house didn't feel empty anymore. The realization terrified him. Feverd dreams morning came with crisis. Cara heard Jonathan's sharp intake of breath from the bedroom and was moving before she fully woke.
She found him bent over Emma's cradle, hand pressed to the baby's forehead, face white with panic. She's burning up. Feel her. She's burning. Cara touched Emma's cheek.
Warm. Yes. Flushed, but not the raging heat that signaled true danger. She'd seen true danger. This wasn't it.
She has a fever, Cara said calmly. Babies get fevers. It doesn't mean Don't tell me what it doesn't mean. Jonathan's voice cracked. Don't tell me she's fine.