Chapter 22: Hollingshead Doyle

Margaret had screwed the new sign to the studio door the morning before the plaque went up.

HOLLINGSHEAD DOYLE, ARCHITECTS.

She had not asked me which name went first.

"Alphabetical," she had said, and then she had laughed so hard she needed to sit down.

On Sunday night I stood in an emergency room with my daughter in my arms and could not remember what the sign said.

"She's five weeks old," the triage nurse said, with a thermometer in her hand. "A fever this high in a baby this young, we admit. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry," I said. "Just do it."

"We'll start with bloodwork and a lumbar puncture. You can stay."

Ada's skin was dry and hot, and her cry had gone weak and thin.

Harrison stood on the other side of the gurney.

He had driven us in Margaret's Volvo, with his hands white on the wheel.

He had not said a word about speed limits.

"Tell me what to do," he said.

"Hold her hand."

He slid one finger into her palm, and she gripped it feebly.

A doctor in blue scrubs came through the curtain.

"Mom and Dad can be in the room for the procedure if they want to," she said. "Some people prefer not to."

"Yes," Harrison said before I could answer. "Both of us."

The test was short and horrible.

Ada screamed once, high and furious, and I felt it go through every stitch in my body.

Harrison held her fist, and he kept saying her name in a low voice.

"Ada. Ada Merrick. Daddy's here. Daddy's right here."

I looked up at him over the tiny shaking body, and his face was wet and entirely open.

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