Matters of Faith by Kristy Kiernan

could sustain itself on the water the nurses brought and the dry crackers and flavorless soup from the food tray.
    Cal cleared his throat. “I’m going to pick up some food.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œYou want anything?”
    â€œI’ll take whatever you get.”
    â€œAll right.”
    We fell silent again, and Cal did not move or appear as if he were planning to anytime soon. Our marriage had, in many ways, evolved, perhaps devolved, into daily, silent competitions. Who did more housework, who brought in a larger paycheck, who was better at money management, who got a more desirable result from our children. And now we were down to this: Who was more devoted to our comatose daughter?
    The only card we had to play here was time. Who stayed awake longest, who stayed in the room longest. It was about Meghan, but on another level it was also about us. Ada and Marshall had not just placed Meghan in danger, they had forced our marital hand.
    So right now my body was holding out longer than Cal’s. But my mind was degenerating. Time spent in a hospital room is a void, a time warp, a suspension, and a weight at once. Time moves in great chunks at points, and slows alarmingly at others. During the slow hours there is time to see every age and shape of your child evolve under the sheets of the hospital bed. There is time to see recent memories—Meghan turning on the radio in the kitchen, twisting around on the stairs to get a glimpse of Ada, lying on the roof of the car with her beloved brother and her new friend—framed by the tubes and wires and electronic rhythm of artificial life.
    The fast times were the times I saw her on the boat, the times I saw blood—blood I knew now was not my child’s but from someone else’s child, the child responsible for this—the times I felt the sway of the ambulance. Those times flew, and I was grateful for that.
    When Cal finally pulled himself from the chair, I was in slow time, and I was relieved that he was leaving.
    â€œSo, do you want anything from home?”
    â€œYou’re going home too?”
    He nodded, looking at Meghan, not me. “One of us has to. Might as well do it while I’m out. I need to cancel my trips. I’ll drop my book off with Kevin, have him take over what he can, call the others. Boat needs to be taken care of. You want some clothes?”
    â€œWhy don’t you just pack us both a bag?”
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œWhat about Marshall?” I asked.
    â€œWhat about him?”
    â€œWill you bring him back with you?”
    â€œYou want him here you’d better go get him yourself. I don’t want him anywhere near my daughter, or me right now, and I can’t believe you would.”
    We were staring directly at each other now.
    â€œThis was a horrible mistake, Cal.”
    â€œNo. No, it wasn’t. And don’t you forget it, or next time he brings home some fruitcake they’re going to kill her. Or us. For all we know they were making her some kind of sacrifice or something. Still think this is some kind of fun hobby, Chloe, a growing stage ? We did this. You did this, and I allowed it because I didn’t want to fight with you. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let it happen again.”
    â€œYou’re the one who convinced me that this was the first normal thing he’d done since he was ten. Remember that, Cal? Marshall is our son, and he made a horrible, horrible mistake, but he loves Meghan, and he must be going through hell right now.”
    Cal’s face darkened. “If he’s not now, he’s going to.”
    â€œDo we have to do this . . . now?” I asked, inclining my head toward Meghan.
    I knew it was a risk. But it worked. His face softened and his shoulders slumped. “No. Of course not. I’m sorry.”
    â€œMe too,” I said. And I was, I really was. I made an effort to soften it and said: “Thank you for