Chapter 2 - The Nightmare on the Sofa
I don’t remember running across the asphalt of the parking garage, nor do I remember navigating the tight turns of the exit ramp while my hands shook so violently I could barely grip the steering wheel. I placed two frantic calls to my husband during the ten-minute drive, but both went straight to voicemail.
My mind raced backward to seven-twelve that morning. I could still picture her vividly in her dinosaur pajamas, messy hair flying, standing on her little white step stool beside the kitchen counter. She had been fiercely negotiating over breakfast, insisting that her green cup was entirely unacceptable because today required the blue one. I had laughed at her stubborn seriousness, switched the cups, and kissed the crown of her head before heading out the door. My husband had taken the day off from his part-time remote work specifically to take her to daycare—a daycare she apparently never reached.
When I slammed my car into park outside our apartment building, I didn't bother locking the doors. I sprinted up the concrete steps, threw our front door open so hard it crashed against the drywall with a thunderous bang, and rushed into the living room.
My husband was sitting comfortably on the sofa, scrolling lazily through his phone while a television sitcom played in the background.
And right beside him lay our daughter.
She wasn't sleeping normally. I knew that instinctually within a fraction of a second. Her small body looked entirely wrong—too loose, too heavy, too terrifyingly still. The right side of her flushed cheek was pressed flat against the upholstery, a dried streak of purple grape jelly stained the collar of her shirt, and one little blue sock hung precariously off her toes.
"Baby?" I gasped, dropping to my knees on the hardwood floor.
Her eyelids fluttered, moving sluggishly beneath swollen lashes.
I touched her face, my fingers recoiling from how hot her skin felt. "Sweetheart, Mommy’s here."
No verbal response. Just a faint, agonizing whimper.
I shook her shoulder gently. Her mouth parted, but the sound that escaped her lips was a hollow, unnatural rattle.
"What happened?" I demanded, turning my panic-stricken eyes toward my husband.
He didn't even stand up. He didn't drop his phone. He just sighed, looking deeply inconvenienced. "She fell."
"Why is she like this? Why won't she wake up?"
"She’s tired, Elena. Kids sleep."
"This isn't tired!" I screamed, my voice cracking. "Stop yelling at me! Did you call an ambulance?"
"No."
"Did you call a doctor?"
"No."
"Did you do anything?"
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His expression morphed from annoyance into genuine anger. "I watched her. She was breathing. You always act like everything is a catastrophe."
I didn't argue further. I scooped her limp body into my arms, her head instantly flopping backward against my shoulder with a weight that stopped my heart. I didn't grab my jacket, I didn't lock the apartment door, and I didn't look back at the monster sitting on my sofa. I ran down the stairs barefoot, placed her carefully across the passenger seat of my car, and hit the gas toward the nearest regional hospital.
