I retched, but managed to not vomit this time.

“Good girl.” She smoothed my hair. “Try and have a nap. Your fever will break soon.” She pulled the covers to my chin.

I was trembling, but my skin felt like it was on fire. Closing my eyes, I soon drifted into a lucid sleep. I remember feverish dreams filled with vibrant colours and make-believe creatures.

I woke in a pool of sweat with my father sitting next to me.

“Where’s Mother?” I asked.

Ignoring my question, he pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. “You’re burning up.” He took the thermometer from its case and placed it under my tongue.

I waited until it beeped.

“104.” He looked panicked. “I need to call the doctor.”

When he returned, he began peeling the blankets off me. “I have to get you into the bath.” He scooped me up, carrying me to the washroom in his arms.

While the bath was filling, he ran to the kitchen. I stood there, listening as the water thrashed against the enamel.

My father returned, knelt by the tub, and dumped a bag of ice in. There was a crackling noise as it hit. He undressed me and I stood there, naked and shivering, trying not to scratch.

“Okay, doll, get in the tub.”

I swung one foot over the side of the tub and let my toes touch the water. “Father,” I squealed, “it’s too cold.”

“I know. I need you to get in though. Your fever isn’t breaking. This will help.”

I shook my head. “I can’t.”

“Grace, get in the tub.”

“No.”

He scooped me up, forcing me into the water.

“No,” I screamed at the top of my lungs, waving my arms. “Father, stop. Help.”

William came running into the bathroom, his little face knotted. “What’s going on?”

My father held me in place. “William, go back to bed.”

“What’re you doing? What’s wrong with Gracie?”

“I told you to go to bed,” my father shouted.

William hesitated, tugging at the edges of his pajama shirt; his concerned eyes locked onto mine momentarily before he turned and retreated.

Completely immersed in the frigid water, I was silenced; only a sharp exhalation came out. My stomach drew closer to my spine, my shoulders tensed, and my father let go.

Submerged there, sweating, shivering, panting, and crying, I looked at my father, resting on the toilet with his head in his hands. Some ice cubes bobbed on the surface, others began sinking to the bottom. I lifted a fingernail to my face and scratched, hard, along my cheekbone.

“Where’s Mother?” I shrieked, angry that she wasn’t here to stop him from doing this to me.

“She’s gone, Grace,” he shouted back, quietly repeating it a second time. “She’s gone.”

Chapter 87

When Hannah’s father was dying, I had no idea what to say to comfort her. He was a horrible man, a vicious drunk who had abused her and her mother. His face was bumpy and scarred, and whenever I went to Hannah’s house and saw him, I felt an uneasiness that I didn’t understand.