Page 42 of His Daughter

The doctor nodded. "It's very likely a viral infection. Common at this age. Not dangerous in itself, but by month four, we want to rule out anything bacterial. We'll run a CBC and a urinalysis. I'd like to monitor her temperature for a few hours."

"How many hours?" Declan asked.

"Three to four. If the fever trends down and the labs are clean, you'll go home tonight."

She nodded and left. The curtain swished closed. Declan sat back down beside me. His knee pressed against mine on the narrow bed, and neither of us moved.

The hours passed slowly. They ran the tests. A nurse drew blood from Lena's heel, and the cry she made was high and sharp. Declan's hand gripped the bed rail, and his knuckles went white. I put my hand over his and didn't think about it until it was already there.

We didn't talk much. He got up once and came back with a bottle of water from the vending machine. He held it out.

"Here."

I took it. "Thank you."

It was the first time I'd thanked him for anything since I moved in a week ago. He noticed. I could tell by the way his eyes stayed on my face a beat longer than necessary. He didn't comment. He sat back down.

The nurse came in to check Lena's vitals. "Mom, we're going to need you to lay her down for a moment so I can check her temperature again."

I opened my mouth. I'm not her mother. The words were right there, lined up, and ready to go.

"Of course," Declan responded before I could. He looked at the nurse. "Whatever you need."

I blinked at him. He was watching the nurse adjust the thermometer. He didn't look at me. He didn't correct her.

He didn't say anything like she's the temporary arrangement or she's the caretaker or she's a woman I hired to hold my baby because my baby won't let anyone else.

I laid Lena down. The nurse checked her temperature. The baby fussed. I picked her back up. My hands were shaking slightly. I didn't know if it was the exhaustion or the fever or the fact that a man I barely knew just let a stranger call me his daughter's mother without blinking.

I thought about it all night. But no matter how I tossed it over, I couldn’t come up with any answers. And Declan and I didn’t speak. He watched Lena sleep. We both did.

By the time morning came, I could see the dark circles under his eyes.

The doctor came back with the results on a tablet.

"Labs are clean. No bacterial infection. It's viral, as we expected. The fever's already trending down. She's at 99.8 now." She looked at Lena, who was asleep on my chest with the pulse oximeter still clipped to her toe. "She can go home. Rest, fluids, monitor the temperature. If it goes above 101 again, come back."

We walked out of the hospital into the morning. The air was cool and clean after the recycled atmosphere inside, and I took a breath that went all the way to the bottom of my lungs. Lena was in her carrier, asleep, her lips parted, her color already better — the flush fading, her skin returning to its normal pale.

"We should eat," Declan said.

"I'm fine."

"Calloway, you haven't eaten since yesterday. I haven't eaten since yesterday. We spent hours in a hospital. We're eating."

I was too tired to argue. He led us to a diner half a block from the hospital. We slid into a booth by the window. I set Lena's carrier on the seat beside me. Declan sat across from me. He looked as wrecked as I felt.

The waitress came. He ordered coffee, scrambled eggs, and toast. I ordered the same.

The coffee arrived. I wrapped my hands around the mug and let the warmth seep into my fingers. The diner was quiet — a few early risers, a man at the counter reading a newspaper, and the cook visible through the window to the kitchen.

"Can I ask you something?" Declan said.

I looked at him over the mug.

"The adoption. How did that happen? How did you end up in that file?"

I set the coffee down. "I wanted a child. It’s really that simple.”