And suddenly I understood that whatever was happening with Marcy might be more complicated than I realized.
She had not simply been afraid.
She had been investigating something.
Or trying to understand something.
I drove to the hospital with a knot in my stomach.
My wife, Ellen, was sitting beside Marcy’s bed when I arrived.
The room smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee.
Marcy looked small beneath the white blanket.
Not helpless.
Just tired.
There is a difference.
Ellen stood.
“Where were you?”
I looked at Marcy.
She knew.
Her eyes closed.
“Oh, Dad.”
“I didn’t touch him.”
Her eyes opened again.
“You went there?”
“Yes.”
Ellen stared at me.
“Jack.”
“I know.”
I pulled a chair closer.
“I made the wrong decision.”
That was difficult to say.
Not because I had trouble admitting mistakes.
Because I could see how much my mistake had frightened my daughter.
Marcy looked toward the window.
