The next time Daniel called, I answered.
Grace was resting against the pillow with her eyes half closed.
I stepped only a short distance from the bed, keeping her in sight.
"What is going on?" Daniel asked.
His voice was controlled, but I could hear the impatience beneath it.
"I'm still waiting for the hospital to clarify the cancellation."
"I already told you that you're misunderstanding the situation."
"Then explain it to me."
He went quiet.
I waited.
For a moment, I thought he might finally tell me something that would make the afternoon easier to understand.
Instead, he asked why I was making everything so difficult.
"I'm not trying to make anything difficult," I said. "Grace is here because she has been having pain, and the hospital says an authorization was canceled."
"They have procedures."
"I know."
"Then let them follow them."
"That's what I'm doing. I'm asking them what the cancellation means for her care."
Daniel exhaled sharply.
"You always do this when you're worried. You keep asking the same question until you get the answer you want."
I looked through the doorway at Grace.
She had opened her eyes.
I lowered my voice.
"I'm asking because I don't understand what happened."
"You don't need to understand every administrative detail."
"I do if it affects whether our daughter can receive care."
He said my name in the tone he used when he wanted me to stop arguing.
I had heard that tone at our kitchen table, in the car, and during conversations about bills and appointments.
Usually, I would have softened my answer.
I would have told him I wasn't trying to challenge him.
This time, I didn't.
"Did you cancel the authorization?"
Another silence followed.
"Why are you asking me that again?"
"Because the hospital has connected your information with the cancellation, and I want to hear what you know."
"I don't know exactly what they're talking about."
"Did you request it?"
He didn't answer directly.
Instead, he said he would deal with the matter when I came home.
I felt the old instinct rise in me.
I wanted to accept that answer because it would let me stop asking questions.
I wanted to believe he had a reasonable explanation waiting for me.
But I couldn't use a promise of a future explanation as a substitute for understanding what was happening now.
"I'm staying with Grace until I know what the hospital needs from us," I said.
"Rebecca, this is getting ridiculous."
"I'm not going to argue with you over the phone."
"Then come home and we can talk."
"I'll talk to you when I can."
He ended the call.
I stood still for a moment, holding the phone in my hand.
The screen went dark.
I looked at my reflection in it and hardly recognized the expression on my face.
I wasn't angry in the way I had expected to be.
I was tired.
I was also frightened by how familiar the conversation had felt.
Daniel had asked me to stop questioning him, and some part of me had immediately wanted to obey.
That response had developed over years.
It hadn't appeared in the hospital that afternoon.
I returned to Grace's side.
"Was that Dad?" she asked.
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
"He wants me to come home."
Grace pulled her sleeves over her fingers again.
"Are you going to?"
"Not until I understand what's happening here."
She looked at the floor.
"He's going to be angry."
"I know he might be."
She glanced at me, surprised that I had acknowledged it without pretending otherwise.
I sat down.
"But you aren't responsible for managing his feelings," I said. "You didn't cause this by telling me your stomach hurt."
She didn't reply immediately.
Then she asked, "What if he says you should have waited?"
I remembered how many times I had repeated that question to myself.
What if I had waited?
What if I had taken Grace's pain more seriously sooner?
What if I had insisted that she be examined the first time she told me something was wrong?
There were so many moments I wanted to revisit.
But I couldn't change them by agreeing with Daniel now.
"If he says that, I'll tell him why I brought you here," I said.
Grace studied my face.
"Will you tell him I wasn't pretending?"
"Yes."
Her eyes filled, though she tried to keep the tears from falling.
I reached for a tissue and placed it on the bed beside her.
She took it herself.
I didn't want to assume every tear needed to be wiped away by me.
Sometimes she needed room to feel what she felt without someone trying to hurry her through it.
When she was ready, she spoke again.
"I didn't tell you everything because I didn't want everyone to get upset."
I turned toward her.
"What do you mean?"
She stared at the tissue in her hands.
"I thought if I said it was really bad, Dad would say I was being dramatic."
I waited for her to continue.
"He says that when I don't finish things. Or when I say something hurts and I don't want to do what I'm supposed to do."
I felt a heaviness settle in my chest.
I had heard Daniel make those comments.
Sometimes I had disagreed.
Other times, I had stayed quiet because I didn't want another argument.
I had told myself that Grace knew we loved her.
I had assumed that my silence didn't change the meaning of Daniel's words.
Now I was sitting beside her, hearing that she had learned to measure her pain against the possibility of upsetting us.
"I'm sorry," I said.
She rubbed the tissue between her fingers.
"You already said that."
"I know."
"Why do you keep saying it?"
I thought carefully before answering.
"Because I'm sorry, and because I want to do better. But I know saying it doesn't fix everything."
She considered that.
Then she folded the tissue into a small square.
I didn't push her to forgive me.
A doctor had not yet given us a clear answer about the cause of her pain.
The staff were still working through the authorization question.
Those were separate problems, and I could not solve either one by making promises I couldn't keep.
I could only keep listening.
A nurse came in and checked on Grace again.
She asked about the pain and whether anything had changed.
Grace answered more readily this time.
I noticed the difference.
She still looked toward me now and then, but she didn't wait for me to speak first.
When the nurse finished, I asked whether there was anything else we should do while we waited.
She gave us the instructions she had available and reminded us that the team would return with more information.
I thanked her.
After she left, I wrote the time and the main points in my phone.
I wasn't trying to build a case against Daniel.
I was trying to keep track of what had actually been said.
I had spent too much of the afternoon wondering whether I had misunderstood something.
A written note gave me something solid to return to.
Grace watched me type.
"What are you writing?"
"What the hospital has told me, so I don't forget."
"Are you writing down what Dad says too?"
I paused.
"Only if it helps me remember something important."
She nodded.
Then she looked away.
I put the phone down and gave her my attention again.
For a while, we sat quietly.
I thought about the kitchen at home, the skillet on the stove, and the eggs Grace hadn't eaten.
I wondered whether Daniel had turned off the burner after I left.
I wondered whether he was still at the house, waiting for me to return so he could explain the situation on his terms.
I also wondered how many times I had mistaken the absence of an argument for the presence of peace.
The answer frightened me.
But I couldn't let that fear take me away from the room.
Grace was still hurting.
The hospital still had questions to answer.
And I was still her mother.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: My Daughter Finally Told Me Why She Had Been Afraid to Speak, and I Had to Face How Often My Silence Had Left Her to Handle Things Alone
I Thought My Daughter Was Refusing Breakfast Until I Noticed What She Was Trying So Hard Not to Say
Part 10 of 20
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