“I completely understand. I’d feel the same way. But I think it’s important to remember the end goal here. We want Sara to get better so she can come back to her kids and give you those answers. I think if you were to ask her in the fragile state she’s in, though, you might push her the opposite way. Make her feel backed into a corner.” Lance’s ice blue eyes pierce into me. He’s kind, but also firm. I have no doubt if I were to push the matter, he would have me escorted out. “That’s not what you want, right?”
“Of course not.” I back down. “I just want her safe and healthy.”
“We’re on the same page then.” His icy eyes melt and turn into cool, crystal blue. “Take the day off. I’ll call you later, let you know what Sara and the social worker decide.”
“What are the options?”
“It’s up to her. She could refuse any help and return home, she could opt for outpatient intensive therapy, or she might decide on an inpatient option. The social worker will bring in a therapist to assess her mental state and they’ll decide as a team.”
“Inpatient?” I croak.
A million things are running through my mind. Babysitting, my job, bills, the stress of it all feels like a weight on my chest.
“It’s a decent option. She can focus on working through her problems while not having outside stressors.” He takes a sip of his coffee and winces. “I’ve only been at this hospital for a week and I’m ready to petition for them to change the coffee.”
“You’re new to town?” I ask, realizing out of all the gossiping Kian does, he’s never mentioned the doctor.
“Yep. Just moved from here from Florida.”
“Why?” My brows furrow. Brigs Ferry Bay has grown on me, but it’s not a place I would’ve intentionally chosen.
“Divorce. My wife and I”—he searches for the right words—“we didn’t work out and I needed a change. A friend of mine told me his dad was retiring from this hospital and they were looking for a new resident. It kind of just happened.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to pry.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m not hiding skeletons or anything.” He laughs nervously, telling me that’s exactly what he’s doing.
I stand up. “I guess I’ll go. Make sure you call me later. Do you have my number?”
“The nurses do and I’ll be sure to check in this afternoon.”
“Thanks, Dr. Miller.”
“Lance.” He corrects.
“Right. Lance.”
I walk into the lobby and out the door, unsure of what to do now. I’ve called into work for this whole week. Depending on what the social worker and Sara want to do, I’ll either be preparing for her to come home or preparing for her to be gone for an unknown amount of time.
I hate this up-in-the-air feeling. I want a definite plan where I know what to expect. Doesn’t seem like that’s possible, so I do the next best thing. I head home to where Kian is. He makes lists and schedules in his sleep. He’ll know what to do.
Kian
I’ve just finished making a ham and scramble for Emmy and Lou when I hear the front door open. Archer comes strolling around the corner, his brows knitted and his plump lips turned down. My stomach flip-flops, wondering what’s wrong.
“Archer!” The kids jump down and hug their uncle around his legs.
“Hey, guys. Breakfast time?”
“Yup. Kian said no more pancakes, so he made green eggs and ham. Like in the book,” Lou says animatedly.
I tilt a plate, showing him the eggs I colored with food dye and the bite-sized pieces of ham mixed in.
“Looks interesting. Why don’t you guys go eat before it gets cold.”
Archer jerks his head toward the living room and I nod. I set the plates in front of the kids and give them utensils and napkins, then follow Archer into the other room. I find him looking out the giant picture window in the living room, his tree trunk arms folded across his chest.
“What happened?” I rest a gentle hand on his forearm.
“Absolutely nothing. She won’t talk to me and the doctor sent me home.”
“Why?”
“He said she’s fragile.” He air quotes the last word. “Then he said she might decide to go to an inpatient treatment facility for depression or some shit.”
“And that leaves you in a pickle.” I sigh.
“I don’t know what to do. I have to go back to work. I can’t afford daycare now that I have mortgage and utilities to pay for. I have some savings, but it won’t last forever.” His entire body is tense, like in those videos of people who wrap a million rubber bands around a watermelon. The top and bottom swell to almost bursting right before they add that final rubber band and then boom! It explodes into a million pieces. If one more thing happens to this man, he’s going to explode.
“Archer, you know I don’t mind babysitting. I’m fine to be here for as long as you need.” I rub up and down his arms, trying to release some pressure.
“It’s too much to ask a friend to do.” He studies me, looking for any sign of hesitation.
“It’s not. We’ve been having fun. I’ll never have my own kids and I don’t have siblings. This is giving me the full gunkle experience.” I don’t mention how exhausting they are. I’m not about to be the final rubber band. Plus, I can tough it out. It’s temporary. “Why don’t you not worry about it yet. Wait and see what they decide and then we’ll make a plan. My dad always used to say, don’t count your chickens before the eggs hatch.”
“Everything feels so out of control. I mean, what do I tell Emmy and Lou? What if she goes to some facility and doesn’t want her kids to visit? Or—”
“You’re counting those chickens and one of those eggs might not hatch.”
“I think you’re using that idiom in the wrong context,” he mumbles.
“Same difference. It works.”
“I’m glad you’re here.” The muscles in his jaw relax and it makes my chest puff up in pride. I did that. I calmed him.
“Me too. Now, let’s go eat some green eggs.” I tug him by the hand to the kitchen and the four of us laugh through breakfast. For the first time in days, Archer smiles a real smile.
I did that.
The calm is short-lived, though. Because after a walk through town and a stop for coffee and Italian sodas, Archer gets a phone call. He steps away and I find a grassy area with some shade to sit and wait. I watch as he paces, jutting his chin out and scratching through his beard. I can’t tell what’s being said because his only response is a series of “okay” and “I understand” and “whatever it takes.”
A minute later, he’s tucking the phone back in his pocket and making his way toward us. His mouth is in a firm line, giving nothing away.
“Was it the hospital?” I ask.
“Let’s get the kids home and I’ll tell you what they said.”
“Mommy come home now?” Emmy peers up at him, hope sparkling in her eyes.
“Not quite yet. But he said Mommy is doing so much better and she can’t wait to see you.” Archer tugs on one of the pigtails I wrangled in her hair. Up until today, I’d only brushed it after she woke up, but this morning she asked for piggy tails like her mom does. I know how much these little squirts miss their mommy, so of course I pulled up a tutorial and figured it out. Not half bad, in my opinion.