Chapter 2 - THE ASTHMA PLAN
Juniper’s oxygen saturation was ninety-two when the paramedics evaluated her.
Not catastrophic.
Not normal.
They gave additional bronchodilator treatment under protocol and transported her to the emergency department.
I rode with her.
Tabitha did not.
Police stayed at the house.
So did Willa.
So did Orson.
My hand still burned from the slap.
I hated that I noticed.
At the hospital, Dr. Sarah Ellison reviewed Juniper’s asthma history.
“Hospitalized before?”
“Once overnight at two.”
“ICU?”
“No.”
“Intubated?”
“No.”
“Controller medicine?”
“Daily inhaled corticosteroid.”
“Adherence?”
“Yes.”
“Rescue inhaler frequency?”
“Usually less than twice a week unless she has a cold or there’s heavy pollen.”
“Triggers?”
“Smoke. Strong fragrance. Dust. Respiratory infections.”
She nodded.
“Today?”
“Family party.”
“Fireplace?”
I stopped.
My father’s gas fireplace had been on.
For atmosphere.
Even though it was mild outside.
Artificial log scent.
Not necessarily enough to cause an attack alone.
But one more trigger.
“Perfume?”
Tabitha always wore strong perfume.
Again.
Not proof.
Dr. Ellison listened to Juniper’s lungs.
“Improving.”
Relief weakened my knees.
She would be observed for several hours.
Maybe discharged if stable.
No admission automatically.
Then Detective Rowan Miles arrived.
Local police.
Forty-six.
Quiet.
He did not treat me like the righteous father in a viral video.
Good.
“Mr. Voss?”
“Yes.”
“Did you strike Tabitha Voss?”
“Yes.”
“Open hand?”
“Yes.”
“Was she striking you?”
“No.”
“Juniper?”
“No.”
“Was she holding medication?”
“I had already taken it from her.”
“So immediate danger had passed?”
I looked at the floor.
“Yes.”
“You understand the prosecutor may review assault charges?”
“Yes.”
No argument.
I protected Juniper by taking the inhaler.
The slap came after.
Different action.
Different responsibility.
Rowan asked:
“Why were you late?”
“I wasn’t.”
“What?”
“The gathering started at five. I arrived a little after six because my flight landed early and I went straight there. Dad thought I wouldn’t arrive until seven.”
“Flight from?”
“Phoenix.”
“Work?”
“Yes.”
I ran Voss Commercial Recovery, a restructuring firm for distressed hotels and retail developments.
Nothing criminal.
Nothing glamorous despite how my suits made strangers look at me.
The trip lasted two days.
Juniper stayed with Orson overnight.
Tabitha spent most of today there.
“Who normally cares for your daughter when you travel?”
“My nanny, Ingrid Lowe, or my father. This time Ingrid had influenza.”
“Does Tabitha have regular caregiving authority?”
“No.”
“Medical authorization?”
“Emergency contact only.”
“Can she pick up prescriptions?”
“No.”
“Does she know Juniper’s asthma plan?”
“Yes.”
Everyone did.
Copies existed:
My house.
School.
Orson’s house.
Juniper’s pouch.
“Has medication gone missing before?”
I thought.
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“Three times in six months.”
“Which medication?”
“Rescue inhalers.”
“What did you think happened?”
“One lost at preschool. One I thought fell from her backpack at Dad’s. One was empty earlier than expected.”
Rowan wrote.
“Did you report?”
“No.”
Why would I?
Children lose things.
Inhalers get misplaced.
That assumption now felt like failure.
Then he asked:
“What did Juniper mean when she said Tabitha takes it whenever you leave?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do not ask her repeatedly.”
“I won’t.”
Good.
Child interview later, after medical stabilization.
Then Willa called.
Her video had been copied by police with her consent.
She had more.
“How much?”
“Three clips from today.”
“Anything before today?”
Silence.
“Willa?”
“I recorded something at Easter.”
My chest tightened.
That was four months ago.
“What?”
“I didn’t know what it meant then.”
“What happened?”
“Juniper was wheezing.”
My mouth went dry.
“Where was her inhaler?”
“Tabitha had it.”
The room tilted.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought she was holding it because Juniper was overusing it.”
I stared at the hospital wall.
“Did she give it back?”
“Eventually.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
Then Willa said:
“Corbin, there’s something else.”
“What?”
“Your dad knew that time too.”
I closed my eyes.
Two adults.
At least two incidents.
Then Dr. Ellison returned.
“Juniper’s improving. If she remains stable for another two hours, you may be able to go home.”
Relief.
Then:
“I reviewed her chart.”
“What?”
“There are several telephone notes over the last eight months saying you frequently forget to leave rescue medication with caregivers.”
I stared.
“That’s not true.”
She looked at me.
“The calls were made by a woman identifying herself as Juniper’s aunt.”
May you like
Tabitha had not only been taking the inhaler.
She had been telling doctors the absence was my fault.
