Chapter 2 - THE APPOINTMENT ETHAN DIDN’T WANT ME TO KEEP
I took Lily to Nationwide Children's urgent care that evening.
Her cheek was pink but not seriously injured.
The doctor documented what happened anyway.
I answered questions.
So did Jenna.
Because Lily was two, nobody turned her into an investigator.
The doctor examined her, made sure she was comfortable, and recommended we follow up with her pediatrician.
Then we went home.
Not to the Dublin house Ethan and I shared.
To my parents' place in Worthington.
Ethan called eleven times.
I answered once.
“What did your mother mean?”
“Rachel, can we talk tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Everyone's emotional.”
“Your mother hit Lily.”
“I know.”
“You watched.”
“I froze.”
“Then unfreeze.”
Silence.
“What test, Ethan?”
He exhaled.
“You're making Jenna's video sound like something it isn't.”
“What test?”
“Our cardiology appointment.”
My stomach tightened.
Lily had an appointment at Nationwide Children's Heart Center the following week.
Three months earlier, she had briefly fainted after running around our backyard on a brutally hot afternoon.
The emergency department believed dehydration was the most likely explanation.
Her pediatrician still recommended a cardiology evaluation because fainting in a young child deserved follow-up.
Ethan had repeatedly suggested canceling.
She's fine.
It was hot.
Don't put her through unnecessary tests.
I thought he was being an anxious father.
Now I heard those conversations differently.
“What does your mother know about cardiology?”
“She knows about the appointment.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
“Rachel.”
“Does your family have a heart condition?”
He stopped speaking.
I closed my eyes.
“Oh my God.”
“It's complicated.”
“No. It became complicated when your mother used the word genetics.”
He tried another approach.
“My dad died of a heart attack.”
That was the family story.
Paul Miller died at forty-eight.
Ethan was seventeen.
Diane always said Paul ignored his cholesterol and worked too much.
“Was it a heart attack?”
“That was what Mom told everybody.”
“What was it?”
“I don't know exactly.”
I almost believed him.
Then he added, “He had an electrical problem.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“What kind?”
“I don't remember.”
“You've remembered every Ohio State score since 2008.”
“That isn't fair.”
“No, Ethan. What isn't fair is learning your family's medical history because your mother slapped our toddler at a birthday party.”
He became quiet.
I asked the next question carefully.
“Have you ever been tested for anything genetic?”
He did not answer.
I knew.
“Oh, God.”
“Rachel, please.”
“What were you tested for?”
“A heart-rhythm condition.”
“Did you test positive?”
“It wasn't that simple.”
That was not no.
I hung up.
My mother, Susan, was standing in the hallway.
She had heard enough.
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
“Is Lily?”
I looked toward the guest room where my father was reading her Goodnight Moon.
“I don't know.”
And that sentence frightened me more than anything Diane had screamed.
The next morning Jenna sent me the banquet video.
She warned me first.
The relevant section lasted twenty-three seconds.
Lily was near the cake.
I was in the restroom.
Jenna's camera pointed mostly toward her own son.
But Diane's voice was clear.
“I told you this would happen if Rachel let doctors start asking questions.”
Ethan answered too softly to understand.
Then Diane:
“If that child has what your father had, your wife will blame us forever.”
A few seconds later I reentered the room.
Then came the slap.
May you like
The phone had not captured some magical confession explaining everything.
It had captured a question.
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