Then I opened his diaper, lifted his little legs, and he screamed so hard his whole body arched. Instinct made me pause. Experience made me look. And there, on the soft skin of his stomach, just above the diaper line, was a darkening bruise the size of two quarters pressed side by side.
For one second I had simply stared.
Then I picked him up, called his name even though he was two months old and my saying “Noah” could not possibly have changed the fact of pain, and something old and cold moved through me.
Because babies that young do not get bruises by accident. Not really. Not on their bellies.
I did not think in words right away. I moved. Diaper bag. Blanket. Car seat. Keys. Purse. Out the door. I shouted something into the hallway toward Megan, who had just stepped into the shower to wash the spit-up off her shirt, but I don’t think she even heard me over the water. Or if she did, she probably thought I was just stepping outside with him the way I sometimes did when he got fussy.
