Meredith

MEREDITH

11 YEARS BEFORE

May

The Tebows’ baby is covered in forceps marks and bruising when she arrives. Within minutes of her birth, her tiny head begins to swell. Within hours, she begins to seize. A cranial head ultrasound is performed, where doctors discover an intracranial hemorrhage, otherwise known as a brain bleed. The cause: excessive mechanical force to her head, resulting from forceps misuse.

The baby’s condition improves by the time she’s allowed to go home. But even when she does go home, there’s much uncertainty about her future.

The days and weeks pass. The Tebows meet with an attorney. They decide to sue Dr. Feingold for malpractice. Shelby calls and asks if I think it’s a good idea.

“Jason says we’re doing it, whether I like it or not. He’s pissed. Dr. Feingold screwed up.”

This isn’t for me to decide. “You have to do what’s right for your family,” I tell her. She has a case. I was there. I saw with my own eyes. I saw him do things to Shelby’s body without her consent, things that carried a great deal of risk.

A malpractice suit can’t change anything that’s happened. Their baby will likely have special needs. A settlement could help pay for the baby’s care.

“If I can help in any way, I will. Whatever you and Jason need.”

The attorney looks through Shelby’s and the baby’s medical records. He speaks with medical experts. He decides that the Tebows have a case.

The next week Dr. Feingold receives the medical malpractice complaint. The first thing he does is call me. “Those folks wouldn’t know their ass from their elbow. Far be it for them to decide that I did something wrong. You put the idea into their head.”

“I shouldn’t be speaking to you,” I say.

“If you did this,” he says, “if this was your idea, I’ll ruin you. Do you hear me? I will ruin you.” He enunciates one word at a time. I. Will. Ruin. You.

I hang up the phone. My whole body shakes long after I do. For over an hour I sit at the kitchen table, unable to move. My thoughts dwell on one thing: How will he ruin me exactly? Will he ruin my career? Or will he physically ruin me?

Josh comes home with the kids. They’re bubbly, loud. Delilah is excited. Their classroom is getting caterpillars. When they turn to butterflies, they’ll release them outside.

She hugs me. She’s getting taller. Her arms, when she wraps them around me, reach my waist. She asks me, “When can I have a playdate with Piper and stupid Lily Morris?”

“Delilah,” I tell her, “we don’t call anybody stupid.”

“But she is,” she pouts.

“Delilah,” I warn. My voice is stern.

“Fine. But when can we have a playdate? And does Lily Morris have to come?” she pleads. She sets her hands on her hips. One juts out. Only six and already she has a flair for the dramatic. I smile at her, wishing life could only be this complex. I do feel badly for her. I know how hard it is to be left out.

“Yes,” I tell her, “Lily Morris has to come. Because we don’t want to leave anyone out. That doesn’t feel good, does it?”

Once the kids leave, I tell Josh, “I was just about to start dinner.” In the next room, the TV turns on. I haven’t so much as thought about dinner.

“How about we order something?” he suggests. I like that idea. I don’t feel like cooking. My stomach is in knots. I don’t even know that I could eat.

Josh is looking at me. He’s incredibly handsome. Josh has always been incredibly handsome. He’s dapper. His suit is slim-fitting, navy. He has many suits. While other men collect cigars or license plates, Josh collects suits. Some are tailor-made and others off the rack. He’s always trying to impress. He has a likable personality, a gravitational field. People are drawn to him. He’s outgoing. His smile lights up a room. Everyone likes Josh.

I should trust him enough to tell him what happened to the Tebows, what’s happening with Dr. Feingold and about the threatening texts. But he would be disappointed after the fact. And he would worry. He would want to know how and why I got myself into this situation to begin with. And then he’d want to completely revamp the way I do my work, to some other formula where he believes I’m at less personal and professional risk. But I love what I do. I love the way that I do it.

I put the Tebows and Dr. Feingold out of my mind. Soon it will be through.