Page 19 of The Kiss Principle

But I didn’t. Instead, I sat in the exam room, trying to fill out paperwork. I didn’t make much progress because every time the doctor moved, I looked up to see what was happening. But from what I could tell, it was a more thorough version of the exam Igz had gotten in an abbreviated form a few minutes earlier, not that far off from what she’d had when we went to her one-month checkup.

“Has she had an episode like this before?” Dr. Ferguson asked.

“No, never.”

“Any complications in her health history?”

I shook my head.

“Walk me through what happened tonight.”

So, I told her about it—eating the dinner that Zé had made, watching TV together, texting Bea, getting ready for bed. From a long way off, a part of me recognized that I was babbling (Dr. Ferguson’s mouth twitched while I was using my hands to show how much broccoli Zé had left me). But she let me get it all out.

Then she asked, “Have you noticed any changes in her behavior?”

“Nothing.”

“Her feedings?”

I shook my head.

“Do you have a lot of air fresheners in the house? Or candles? Do you or your partner typically wear strong colognes?”

“No, Zé’s not—” And then I remembered the day I’d met Zé, how stupid I’d been taking the vape out of my pocket, using it in the house. Since then, I’d taken my recreational shit outside, but that was a recent change. I’d been vaping in that house pretty much every day of my life for years. I’d smoked, too. And Chuy had done God only knew what. What kind of particles were floating around? “Oh my God, this is my fault. I vape—I used to vape inside the house. That’s what it was, wasn’t it? Oh my God, I did this to her. Did it damage her lungs? Is this like asthma, is this how babies get asthma? What the fuck is wrong with me?”

“Take a breath.” She smiled softly. “Pun intended. Igz is a healthy baby. There’s nothing wrong with her lungs as far as I can tell. Do you still vape in the house?”

“No. God, no.”

“That’s good. Do you still vape?”

When I’d been twelve, Mom had wanted to try a megachurch, and I remembered the long-faced white pastor clutching my shoulder, his breath close and hot in my face and smelling like peppermint as he asked, “Fernando, do you touch yourself?”

“Uh.”

Dr. Ferguson was too professional to roll her eyes. “Since you’re an adult, I’m sure you know that vaping is not a healthy lifestyle choice.”

“I’ve been thinking about quitting.”

Okay, maybe she wasn’t too professional to roll her eyes. “Like I said, you’re an adult. But I do recommend that you do it outside the house, and not anywhere near your daughter.”

I almost said, She’s not my daughter. But I didn’t.

“You don’t need to beat yourself up,” Dr. Ferguson added. “As far as I can tell, this was a minor respiratory episode. That’s what we call them when we don’t know exactly what caused them or why. It could be an allergen. It could be dust. It could be that her throat got dry. This kind of thing is common in newborns.”

I looked up at her.

“Yes,” she said with a smile. “Really. Keep an eye on her, and if it happens again, or if the symptoms are worse, you’ll need to do more testing. You did the right thing bringing her in tonight. You’re a good dad.”

Finishing the paperwork took almost as long as the exam itself, but I didn’t mind. Igz fell asleep on the drive home. I went slow. I took the turns carefully. I stopped at a red light with a Taco Bell on one corner, and I stared at the illuminated Taco Bell sign, and it felt like my head was empty—this big, open, empty place. Then my vision blurred, and I sank down in my seat and fought to keep from coming completely undone. When the lightchanged, I snuffled into the Bible hotline T-shirt and let the Escalade roll forward.

Zé’s car was parked in the driveway when I got home. That was unusual; he always parked on the street. Sometimes, I didn’t see his car at all, and he’d say he parked up the block because he wanted some exercise. A lie, maybe, because he was embarrassed to admit he’d needed a ride. But Zé wasn’t a liar, so it was probably the truth.

Tonight, though, his car was in the driveway. When the garage door rolled up, he got out of the car. I only caught a glimpse of his face, a mesh of shadow and worry, as I parked in the garage. By the time I got out of the Escalade, he was already coming toward us. His knee must have been hurting worse than normal because he was limping.

“What happened?” he asked. “Is Igz okay?”

“She’s fine,” I said. “I, on the other hand, am not. I am still freaked nine fucking ways from Sunday.” As I got the car seat out of the base (zero problems now, of course), I added, “I’m sorry I ruined your night. You didn’t have to come.”

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