I keep hearing my daughter call for me at night, but she’s never awake. (Part 2)

Part 1

My daughter needed to go to the hospital. She needed help, more than I can provide.

I grabbed a few towels and rushed back to her room. I scooped her up and brought her to the car. I drove faster than I should but I needed to get her there.

I ran through the emergency room doors and straight to the check in counter.

“Help me please! My daughter she’s burning up!”

I explained the situation the best I could. The worry on my face mixed with the details of the situation must have struck a chord with the nurses because they escorted us to a room right away. I placed my daughter on the bed. Through all of this chaos she was still asleep. After asking a few more questions and connecting an IV the nurse left and told me the doctor would be in as soon as possible.

I grabbed a chair and sat right next to her bed. She began to move and stir awake.

A scream louder than I ever heard erupted from my daughter. Her back arched and vocal cords began to fry.

I jumped to my feet. My ears were ringing from the sheer volume of the scream. I could have sworn they began to bleed.

“BABY! BABY! WHATS HAPPENING! TELL DADDY!”

The scream continued.

I ran into the hallway searching for a doctor, a nurse, anyone that could help. No one nearby. I rounded the corner and saw a nurse behind a desk.

“HELP ME PLEASE! MY DAUGHTER, SHES SCREAMING! SOMETHING IS WRONG!”

The nurse paged for a doctor and followed me back.

When we walked in there was my daughter.

Asleep.

The nurse walked to her bedside. And felt her forehead. She said she was warm to the touch but not extraordinarily hot.

My daughter’s eyes began to flutter open.

“Daddy? Where are we?”

Tears began to well in my eyes. “We are at the hospital honey. Something is wrong and these nice nurses and doctors are going to help us.”

The doctor came in about fifteen minutes later, clipboard in hand and calm in that practiced, detached way that only doctors can manage.
He asked questions, ran through the motions. Bloodwork, vitals, a scan.

When it was all done, he smiled.
“Good news. Everything looks perfectly normal.”

I stared at him. “Normal? Her temperature was through the roof. She was screaming, you didn’t hear it?”

He shook his head. “Look she’s stable now. Fevers can spike and drop rapidly in children, especially if they’re fighting something off. You both seem to be exhausted beyond belief. Your mind can begin to play tricks on you when you lack this much sleep.”

I wanted to believe him, but the words didn’t make sense. I held up my hand.
“Then how do you explain this?”

He leaned in.
There was nothing there.

No redness. No blister. No mark at all.

My voice cracked. “It burned me. I swear to God.”
He gave me that polite, cautious look. The kind that says we’ve seen this before.

I felt weak. My legs began to shake. I was going to pass out. The doctor grabbed a chair and told me to have a seat. They brought me water and did their best to calm me. It didn’t work at first but eventually I regained the little strength I had left.

They discharged us a few hours later.

The drive home was silent except for the hum of the tires on wet pavement.
Every so often, I glanced at her in the rearview mirror. She was asleep again, face calm, breathing soft.
I wanted to feel relief.
Instead, all I felt was dread.

By the time I pulled into the driveway, it was almost dawn.

I carried her inside, tucked her into bed, and turned to find my wife standing in the doorway.

Her eyes were red. Not from crying, but from exhaustion. Like she hadn’t slept in days.

She kissed our daughter on the head and I brought her to her room. I grabbed the baby monitor and headed back to my wife.

We hugged for what felt like forever.

Then she stepped back.

“Sit down,” she said quietly.
“We need to talk.”