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think he can bear to consider them, so he lowers his emotional garage door and locks it from the inside.
     
    I squandered the last summer we spent in the Lewiston Avenue apartment, the one in Berkeley that you can’t remember. Georgia, you were almost two, Claire, you were just a baby and, truthfully, I was wishing you both older. Especially you, Claire. I wanted you to sleep, just until 4 a.m., then 5, then 6. When you woke up in the night, I’d reswaddle you in the straitjacket hold and tuck you into the vibrating seat. For hours. I’ve since heard that seat referred to as the Neglect-O-Matic. And I didn’t breast-feed you long enough. You started every feeding with a bite that made my toes curl, and I wanted to get pregnant again before Dad changed his mind, and then you and I passed thrush back and forth between your mouth and my nipples for a month and that was it. Eleven weeks. You werea healthy baby, ten pounds at birth. I knew you’d be fine. Even so, I felt sheepish about stopping, especially living in Berkeley, where I once saw a bilingual four-year-old lift his mother’s shirt at a barbecue saying, “Mama, leche !” But if you have allergies or undue colds, I’m sure it’s my fault and I’m sorry.
    One Friday night, toward the end of the summer, Claire, you got your first fever. Dad was taking out the recycling, a Diaper Genie sausage over his shoulder like a garland, and I was doing the last of the dishes. We were both watching the clock, waiting for the babysitter to unleash us for the night. I felt your forehead. I looked at Dad like maybe we should stay home, and he said, “Yeah, all right, it’d be good to save the money anyway.”
    Your fever held all weekend. On Monday, little red dots like paprika turned up around your diaper area. Sarah came over after work.
    Sarah was your pediatrician. We picked her because she went to Harvard (especially appealing to Dad) and worked less than a mile from our apartment (especially appealing to me). After I got to know her, I insisted—several times over many months—that she have a drink with our single friend Mike, even though Dad thought Mike would “geek it” since Sarah was “pretty good-looking.” A year later, they were engaged, and we’d secured a lifetime of house calls.
    Sarah checked your ears and throat. She looked at the bottom of your feet and between your toes. Then she rubbed her thumb over the string of dots. “I’m checking for blanching,” she said. “See how they stay red? That’s different than a rash. A rash would turn white.”
    “Okay…,” I said.
    “Well.” Sarah closed your diaper and handed you to me. “I don’t want to panic you, Kelly, but Ithink you should take her over to Children’s Hospital, to get some tests.”
    “You want me to take her to Children’s Hospital?”
    “Just to be on the safe side,” she said, nearly convincing me.
    “Um, okay, that’s fine,” I said to Sarah, projecting composure as best I could. “Edward should be home soon, so I can leave Georgia with him and get over there.”
    “Okay. Call me after you talk to him.” Sarah left and I dialed Dad. Before I could tell him much of anything a call came through on the other line. It was Sarah. She had called Children’s.
    “Give Georgia to a neighbor. You need to get Claire in there. They’re expecting you.”
    “Why?” I stood up, looking at Claire in her bassinet.
    Sarah said the tiny red dots around your diaperarea were petechiae, which sometimes indicate meningitis.
    “Oh my God,” I said, in a state of animal panic. “Georgia—! Sarah, what exactly is meningitis?”
    “An infection—in the membranes that protect the brain and the spinal cord—”
    My scalp prickled. My hands were shaking. I darted around the first floor, looking for keys, my purse, the diaper bag. Georgia, you were in the kitchen taping things together like you loved to do—an egg carton from recycling, a white paper bag from the pharmacy, several