The ambulance was already in the street with its lights on. The back doors were open. The female paramedic was inside with Sophie on the stretcher, holding the oxygen mask.
I climbed in.
The doors closed.
Through the small back windows, as we pulled away, I could see Ryan standing on the front porch in his sweatpants with his headset still around his neck.
He was holding his phone.
He wasn’t calling anyone.
He was looking at something on the screen.
Mary Bridge Children’s Hospital in Tacoma has the only pediatric intensive care unit in the South Sound. Twenty-three minutes with lights and sirens.
Sophie’s oxygen saturation came up to ninety-one percent in the ambulance. Her heart rate came up to one forty. Her temperature was ninety-four point six.
She didn’t open her eyes.
They took her through the ambulance bay doors and into a trauma room full of people in blue scrubs. A dozen of them. Doctors. Nurses. A respiratory therapist. A pharmacist.
They put a tiny IV in her scalp because they couldn’t find a vein in her arms. They drew blood. They put leads on her chest. They put her under a warming lamp.
I stood against the wall in my uniform and watched.
A doctor came to me. A woman in her forties with short dark hair and a stethoscope around her neck. Dr. Priya Nandakumar. Pediatric critical care.
-Mom?
-Emily Carter.
-You did CPR?
-About two minutes. Two-finger compressions and rescue breaths. She was bradycardic. Maybe forty. No spontaneous respirations.
-How long do you think she was down before you found her?
-I don’t know.
-Your best guess.
-Her lips were purple. Her skin was gray-blue. She was cold. The scarf was tied tight across her chest. Tight enough that she couldn’t expand her lungs. She wasn’t breathing when I found her. But she had a pulse. So not long enough for her heart to stop.
Dr. Nandakumar nodded slowly.
-Positional asphyxia. Chest compression. The scarf was restricting her breathing. Her oxygen levels dropped slowly over time. Her heart slowed down. If you’d been ten minutes later.
She didn’t finish.
She didn’t have to.
-Is she going to be okay?
-I don’t know yet.
-When will you know?
-The first twenty-four hours will tell us a lot. The first seventy-two will tell us more. We’re going to watch her brain very closely. EEG. An MRI when she’s stable. Hypoxic injury in infants can be subtle. Sometimes it doesn’t show up right away.
-What can I do?
-You already did the most important thing. You brought her back.
She looked at the chart on her tablet.
-There’s one more thing. We ran a rapid tox screen. Standard for any unexplained infant unresponsiveness.
-And?
-It came back positive for diphenhydramine.
The room went cold.
-Benadryl.
-Yes. We’ll get a quantitative level from the lab in an hour or two. But based on the rapid screen, it’s significant. Not trace.
-She’s three months old. Nobody should have given her Benadryl.
-No. Antihistamines are contraindicated in infants under two. Even small doses can cause respiratory depression. Combine that with a chest restraint and an unsafe sleep surface.
-Someone drugged her.
-Someone gave her something that made her sleep very deeply. And then someone tied her down so she couldn’t move. Her body couldn’t fight it. Her brain wasn’t waking her up to struggle.
I stood against the wall in my uniform and didn’t move.
-Mrs. Carter.
-Colonel.
She paused.
-Colonel Carter. I’m a mandated reporter. I have to call Child Protective Services. And the police.
-Call them.
-You understand that means everyone who had access to her today is going to be investigated.
-Including me?
-Including you.
-Good. Call them.
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then she nodded and went to make the calls.
Ryan arrived at the hospital at 3:41 p.m.
His mother was with him.
They came through the doors of the PICU family waiting room together. Ryan had changed into jeans and a hoodie. His hair was wet. Linda was in the same clothes she’d been sleeping in. Her eyes were red.
Ryan saw me sitting in a vinyl chair by the window.
He came straight to me.
-Emily. Is she okay?
-She’s alive.
-Oh thank God. Thank God.
He tried to hug me.
I stood up and stepped away.
-Don’t.
-Emily.
-They found Benadryl in her blood.
He stopped.
-What?
-Diphenhydramine. Significant level. Not trace. Somebody gave our three-month-old daughter Benadryl. And then somebody tied her down to an adult bed with a silk scarf.
Ryan turned slowly and looked at his mother.
Linda’s face went from gray to white.
-I didn’t. I didn’t give her anything.
-Mom.
-Ryan, I didn’t. I swear to God. I just swaddled her. She was crying and fussing and she wouldn’t settle and I swaddled her tight. That’s all.
-Mom, did you give her something?
-No!
-You always used to say a little Benadryl never hurt anybody. You used to give it to me.
-That was different. You were older. You were four.
-Did you give her some today?
-No, Ryan. No.
Ryan turned back to me.
His face was sad. Soft. Apologetic.
-Emily. I’m so sorry. I should never have called her. I just. The tournament got moved up and I panicked and I thought she’d be fine for a couple of hours. Mom raised me. I thought she knew what she was doing.
-You promised me.
-I know.
-You promised me she’d never be alone with your mother.
-I know. I know. I screwed up.
-You screwed up.
-I screwed up. I’m so sorry. I’ll never forgive myself.
He started to cry.
Real tears. Running down his face. His shoulders shaking.
Linda stood behind him with both hands over her mouth.
-I didn’t give her anything. I didn’t.
A man and a woman walked into the waiting room.
The man was in his fifties. Gray suit. A badge on his belt. Pierce County Sheriff’s Department.
The woman was in her thirties. Cardigan. Lanyard. A thick binder.
-Colonel Carter? Mr. Carter? I’m Detective Ray Halloran, Pierce County Sheriff’s Office, Special Assault Unit. This is Jordan Lowe from the Department of Children, Youth and Families. We’d like to talk to each of you. Separately.
Ryan wiped his face.
-Of course. Anything you need.
-We’ll start with you, Mr. Carter.
-Sure.
He went with them.
At the door, he looked back at me.
His eyes were still wet.
But for one second, just one, I saw something behind them.
Not grief.
Calculation.
Then it was gone.
Detective Halloran interviewed me at 5:20 p.m. in a small consultation room down the hall from the PICU.
He was patient. He was thorough. He asked the same questions three different ways. He wrote everything down.
When I’d told him everything, he set down his pen.
-Colonel, your husband says he was home all day with your daughter until around eleven forty-five. He says he fed her a bottle around ten. He says she was fussy all morning. Teething, he thought. He says around eleven-thirty his tournament schedule got moved up and he panicked. He called his mother. She arrived around noon. He handed Sophie off to her and went into the spare room to play.
-Did he check on her?
-He says he came out once around one-thirty. He says your mother-in-law told him Sophie was fussy and wouldn’t sleep. He says he told her to try swaddling her. He says he went back to his game.
-Did he see Sophie?
-He says he looked into the guest room on his way back. He says she was sleeping. He says she looked fine.
-What time was that?
-He says one-thirty. Maybe a little after.
-I found her at two-fifteen. Blue. Not breathing.
-I know.
-Forty-five minutes.
-Yes.
-And Linda?
-Your mother-in-law says she arrived at about five after twelve. She says your husband handed her the baby and a bottle and went upstairs. She says Sophie drank most of the bottle. Then she was very fussy. Crying. Arching. Hard to settle. She says she rocked her. Walked her. Nothing worked. She says around one-thirty she went upstairs and knocked on your husband’s door and asked what to do. She says he told her through the door to wrap her up tight. Like she did with him when he was a baby.
-He told her that?
-That’s what she says.
-And then?
-She says she took her scarf off and swaddled Sophie with it in the guest room. She says she tied it snug and tucked the ends under the mattress so it wouldn’t come loose. She says Sophie settled almost immediately and went to sleep. She says she went downstairs to rest for a minute and must have dozed off.
-With two glasses of wine.
-She says one.
-There were two glasses on the coffee table.
-She says the other was from the night before.
-Linda doesn’t come to our house. She’s never been inside our house without me there. She’s never spent the night.
Halloran wrote that down.
-Colonel, here’s my problem. I have a three-month-old with diphenhydramine in her blood. I have two adults who were with her. Both of them say they didn’t give it to her. Your husband says his mother has a history of giving Benadryl to children to make them sleep. He says she did it to him. His mother admits she did it to him when he was four. She denies doing it today.
-What about the bottle?
-What bottle?
-Linda said Ryan handed her the baby and a bottle.
-Yes.
-What bottle?
Halloran looked at his notes.
-She says a bottle. She didn’t specify.
-I made four bottles before I left this morning. Breast milk. I pumped them last night. Dr. Brown’s bottles. Glass. Each one labeled with a strip of masking tape with the date and time. I put them in the refrigerator on the second shelf. Side by side.
-Okay.
-Ryan texted me at ten-eleven that she’d finished her bottle. That’s one. She eats every three hours. Another at one. Another at four. Another at seven.
-So there should be two bottles left in your refrigerator.
-At least two.
-I’ll check.
-Detective. Ask the deputies at my house to check the refrigerator. Right now. Count the bottles.
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he picked up his phone.
He made the call while I watched. A deputy was still at my house in DuPont with a crime scene technician, photographing the guest room and collecting the scarf.
Halloran listened. He asked a question. He listened again.
His face changed.
He hung up.
-Four.
-Four?
-There are four Dr. Brown’s glass bottles in your refrigerator. Second shelf. Side by side. Each labeled with masking tape. All four are full. None of them have been touched.
The room was very quiet.
-Then what did she drink at ten o’clock?
-I don’t know.
-What did Ryan hand his mother at noon?
-The deputy says there’s a plastic bottle in the kitchen sink. Different brand. Philips Avent. Empty. Residue in the bottom. Looks like formula.
-We don’t use formula. I breastfeed. I pump.
-There’s a can of formula on the counter. Similac. Opened.
-I’ve never bought formula in my life.
Halloran picked up his phone again.
-I want that bottle bagged. And the can. And the trash. All of it. Every trash can in the house.
He hung up.
He looked at me.
-Colonel. Your husband told me he fed Sophie one of your bottles at ten.
-He lied.
-Why would he lie about something like that?
-Because if he’d used my bottles, there’d be only breast milk in her. And breast milk in a sealed glass bottle that I prepared is hard to blame on anybody else.
Halloran didn’t say anything.
-He used a different bottle. He made formula. He handed that bottle to his mother at noon. And if anybody ever asked, it would be the bottle his mother gave her. In his house. With his mother there. His mother who used to give him Benadryl.
-You’re saying your husband drugged your daughter and set up his own mother to take the blame.
-I’m saying the bottles in my refrigerator are full.
He looked at me for a long time.
-That’s not enough.
-I know.
-It’s suggestive. It’s not proof. A defense attorney will say he got confused. He meant to use your bottle and grabbed formula instead. He was stressed. He panicked. It doesn’t prove who put diphenhydramine in it.
-I know.
-And his mother has a documented history of exactly this.
-I know.
-Do you have anything else?
I looked at the window.
Outside, the sun was going down over Commencement Bay. Orange and gold on the water.
-No.
-Then right now, the person I’m looking hardest at is the woman who tied a three-month-old to a bed with a scarf, drank two glasses of wine, and fell asleep.
-And my husband?
-Your husband made a terrible decision to leave his infant with someone you’d told him not to. That’s negligence. It might be criminal. It’s not attempted murder.
He picked up his pen.
-DCYF is going to want to talk to you about a safety plan. They’re going to want to know where Sophie will go when she’s discharged. And who will be caring for her.
-Me.
-You work.
-I’ll take leave.
-For how long?
-As long as it takes.
-Colonel. Your husband is going to say you abandoned her to go back to work. He’s already started saying it. He told me you chose the Army over your family. He said you’ve been gone for half your marriage on deployments. He said he’s the one who raised the baby for three months while you recovered from the C-section.
-I was home for all three months. On maternity leave.
-I know that. I’m telling you what he’s going to say.
-To who?
-To a judge. If this goes to dependency court. If he files for custody.
-He’d file for custody?
-His lawyer called the hospital an hour ago. Asking about visitation rights.
-His lawyer.
-He already has one.
I looked at Halloran.
-He called a lawyer before he called me.
Halloran didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
They let me into the PICU at 7:10 p.m.
Sophie was in a glass-walled room at the end of the unit. Bed four. A tiny clear crib with a warming lamp overhead. A dozen wires and tubes. A small cap on her head covered in EEG leads. A nasal cannula. An IV in her scalp. Monitors beeping softly above her.
Her eyes were closed.
Her skin was pink.
Not perfect pink. Mottled at the edges. But pink.
Her chest rose and fell. Rose and fell.
A nurse named Glenda sat beside the crib with a clipboard. Fifties. Silver braids. A Seahawks lanyard.
-You’re Mom?
-I’m Mom.
-She’s holding her own. Sats ninety-seven. Heart rate one thirty-eight. Temp’s back up to ninety-eight. She’s been moving her arms a little. That’s a good sign.
-Has she opened her eyes?
-Not yet. She’s very sleepy. The Benadryl’s still wearing off. It’ll take time.
I pulled a chair to the crib.
I put my hand through the open side and touched Sophie’s foot.
It was warm.
I sat there and held her foot and didn’t move for a long time.
At 9:47 p.m., my phone buzzed.
A message request on Instagram.
From an account I didn’t follow. DEV_CHO_NIGHTOWLS.
I almost ignored it.
Then I saw the first line of the preview.
Colonel Carter, I’m on Ryan’s team. I need to talk to you. It’s about the baby.
I opened it.
Colonel Carter, my name is Devin Cho. I’m on Ryan’s team. Night Owls. I saw the news on the local Facebook group. A baby taken to Mary Bridge from DuPont. The address. I knew it was your house. Ryan always streams from there.
I’m so sorry. I don’t know if this is the right thing to do. But I have something I think you need to hear. From today. From our voice comms during the tournament.
We record everything. For the VODs. For reviewing our plays. Every word on the team channel.
There’s a part from around noon. And a part from around one-thirty.
I can’t stop thinking about it.
Please call me.
He’d left a number.
I looked at Sophie in the crib.
I looked at Glenda.
-I need to make a call.
-Go ahead, Mom. I’ve got her.
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