“I’m floating in water,” he said.

She imagined him smiling. “I’ll go to the store to get more chicken for soup.”

“You shouldn’t be going out. You’ve been in contact with me. The virus is very contagious.”

“I’ve been careful.”

“We should be more than careful. You can have food delivered.”

“But…” Her daughter’s face came to mind. “What about Hope?”

There was a long pause. “Under the circumstances, with my fever… I don’t think you should see her.”

“For how long?” Her voice rose.

“Until I’m well.”

“But, David,” she sputtered, “how long will that be?”

Another long silence. “I don’t know.”

She felt anger rise against him. No, she wanted to scream. This is terrible. I won’t do it. Cara dropped her face into her palms. Then she lifted her head and took a calming breath. He must be worried too, all alone in that bedroom. She wouldn’t shut him out, the way she had when Hope had the measles. They were married now.

“We’ll get through this,” she told him, meaning it. “We’re in this together.”

HOPE THREW THE peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the floor. “It’s yucky! I won’t eat it!” She glared at Linnea, blaming her for the terrible food. Then she burst into fresh tears.

Linnea stared at the child for a moment, holding her breath, then turned heel and stomped into the kitchen. She clutched the counter and counted to ten. How could she screw up a PB&J? She’d even cut off the crusts. The sandwich was the third dish she’d prepared for Hope’s lunch. A plate of chicken nuggets sat abandoned, and beside that a bowl of mac and cheese. She was ready to blow her stack and scream what her mother used to say to her when she’d refused food: Go to your room and stay there till you’re really hungry!

The three days since Cara had told them that she couldn’t be physically close to Hope had been a nightmare. At first, Cara had tried to come to the house and talk to Hope from outside the sliding glass porch doors, the way family members were doing for elderly relatives in retirement homes. It didn’t take Freud to tell them that wasn’t going to work for a child. Predictably, Hope cried and begged, throwing herself against the glass, to go outside with her mother. FaceTime at bedtime was equally bad. Just when Linnea had Hope quietly engaged in a bedtime story, Cara called to say good night. Again, predictably, Hope began howling for her mother.

Linnea finally had to tell Cara to please just stay away. Any contact with her came hard on Hope. Not to mention on Linnea. For Hope, seeing her mother, especially at bedtime, was like ripping off a Band-Aid repeatedly. Cara had wept but agreed. At least temporarily. No one knew what the time line was for David’s illness or how long Cara could hold out. Every night, Linnea prayed for his speedy recovery.

Linnea looked out at the dining table and saw Hope slumped over with her head lying on her arms. Her heart went out to the little girl. This was hard on Hope. She didn’t understand why her mother couldn’t visit her. Her daddy was sick, not her mommy. She was confused and a little scared. Linnea needed to remember that during the histrionics. Who was the grown-up here, after all? Did she want to look back at these weeks as a chore, or as a special time shared?