I drove home again, through sluggish morning traffic. I was thinking I might get a couple of hours of sleep. It was the only thing on my mind.
Maria woke me up around eleven, shaking my shoulder insistently. "Mr. Forman. Mr. Forman."
I was groggy. "What is it?"
"The baby."
I was immediately awake. "What about her?"
"You see the baby, Mr. Forman. She all ..." She made a gesture, rubbing her shoulder and arm.
"She's all what?"
"You see the baby, Mr. Forman."
I staggered out of bed, and went into the nursery. Amanda was standing up in her crib, holding on to the railing. She was bouncing and smiling happily. Everything seemed normal, except for the fact that her entire body was a uniform purple-blue color. Like a big bruise. "Oh, Jesus," I said.
I couldn't take another episode at the hospital, I couldn't take more white-coated doctors who didn't tell you anything, I couldn't take being scared all over again. I was still drained from the night before. The thought that there was something wrong with my daughter wrenched my stomach. I went over to Amanda, who gurgled with pleasure, smiling up at me. She stretched one hand toward me, grasping air, her signal for me to pick her up. So I picked her up. She seemed fine, immediately grabbing my hair and trying to pull off my glasses, the way she always did. I felt relieved, even though I could now see her skin better. It looked bruised-it was the color of a bruise-except it was absolutely uniform everywhere on her body. Amanda looked like she'd been dipped in dye. The evenness of the color was alarming.
I decided I had to call the doctor in the emergency room, after all. I fished in my pocket for his card, while Amanda tried to grab my glasses. I dialed one-handed. I could do pretty much everything one-handed. I got right through; he sounded surprised. "Oh," he said. "I was just about to call you. How is your daughter feeling?"
"Well, she seems to feel fine," I said, jerking my head back so Amanda couldn't get my glasses. She was giggling; it was a game, now. "She's fine," I said, "but the thing is-"
"Has she by any chance had bruising?"
"Yes," I said. "As a matter of fact, she has. That's why I was calling you."
"The bruising is all over her body? Uniformly?"
"Yes," I said. "Pretty much. Why do you ask?"
"Well," the doctor said, "all her lab work has come back, and it's all normal. Completely normal. Healthy child. The only thing we're still waiting on is the MRI report, but the MRI's broken down. They say it'll be a few days."
I couldn't keep ducking and weaving; I put Amanda back in her crib while I talked. She didn't like that, of course, and scrunched up her face, preparing to cry. I gave her her Cookie Monster toy, and she sat down and played with that. I knew Cookie Monster was good for about five minutes.
"Anyway," the doctor was saying, "I'm glad to hear she's doing well."
I said that I was glad, too.
There was a pause. The doctor coughed.
"Mr. Forman, I noticed on your hospital admissions form you said your occupation was software engineer."
"That's right."
"Does that mean you are involved with manufacturing?"
"No. I do program development."
"And where do you do that work?"
"In the Valley."
"You don't work in a factory, for example?"
"No. I work in an office."
"I see." A pause. "May I ask where?"
"Actually, at the moment, I'm unemployed."
"I see. All right. How long has that been?"
"Six months."
"I see." A short pause. "Well, okay, I just wanted to clear that up."
I said, "Why?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Why are you asking me those questions?"
"Oh. They're on the form."
"What form?" I said. "I filled out all the forms at the hospital."
"This is another form," he said. "It's an OHS inquiry. Office of Health and Safety."
I said, "What's this all about?"
"There's been another case reported," he said, "that's very similar to your daughter's."
"Where?"
"Sacramento General."
"When?"
"Five days ago. But it's a completely different situation. This case involved a forty-two-year-old naturalist sleeping out in the Sierras, some wildflower expert. There was a particular kind of flower or something. Anyway, he was hospitalized in Sacramento. And he had the same clinical course as your daughter-sudden unexplained onset, no fever, painful erythematous reaction."
"And an MRI stopped it?"
"I don't know if he had an MRI," he said. "But apparently this syndrome-whatever it is-is self-limited. Very sudden onset, and very abrupt termination."
"He's okay now? The naturalist?"
"He's fine. A couple of days of bruising, and nothing more."
"Good," I said. "I'm glad to hear it."
"I thought you'd want to know," he said. Then he said he might be calling me again, with some more questions, and would that be all right? I said he could call whenever he wanted. He asked me to call if there was any change in Amanda, and I said I would, and I hung up.
* * *
Amanda had abandoned Cookie Monster, and was standing in the crib, holding on to the railing with one hand and reaching for me with the other, her little fingers clutching air. I picked her up-and in an instant she had my glasses off. I grabbed for them as she squealed with pleasure. "Amanda ..." But too late; she threw them on the floor. I blinked.