She looked like a child trained to obey.
When I pushed open the door, Mark turned his head slowly, not quite startled.
As if even then he still thought he could explain everything and continue to be in charge.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
He didn’t even sound furious.
He sounded annoyed, as if I had interrupted some random household chore, as if I were the intruder in that house.
I lifted Sophie out of the bath without a thought for the spilled water or my soaked clothes.
I just grabbed a towel, wrapped it around her, and held her close.
Mark jumped up.
He still had the paper cup in his hand.
I saw a white powder stuck to the wet rim, and the timer was still counting down the seconds on the sink.
“Don’t touch her,” I said.
My voice sounded so different from my own that even Sophie looked up at me as if another woman had just walked in.
He put down the glass.
He opened his hands in that gesture of his, the gesture of a reasonable man.
The gesture he used with neighbors, teachers, waiters, doctors, anyone who wanted to appear sensible.
“You’re confusing things.
It’s medicine.
The pediatrician said we could try long baths to help her relax and with the constipation.”
I wanted to believe it for half a second.
I hated him for that.
I hated that even then he knew how to strike at the exact thread of my doubt, the place where my fear sought excuses.
But Sophie began to tremble inside the towel.
