“Well, be careful because I think Lennon likes likes you,” Lynsey interjects, pursing her lips together. “She’s in middle school, and she’s totally boy crazy. She said you were the hot Jonas Brother, for sure.”
My nose wrinkles. “Which one is the hot one?”
She shrugs. “I have no clue…I’m into country music.”
“I’m aware,” I reply with a fond smile.
Lynsey tilts her head and watches me. “You were good with the girls today. Kind of in a gruff, no bullshit grump sort of way but I think they responded well to you.”
I rub my lips together and cringe. “It’s sort of my default.”
“I gathered that the first time we met in the cafeteria.” Lynsey’s belly shakes with quiet laughter, causing Claire to nuzzle deeper onto her bump. She settles her and then turns a quizzical brow to me. “Is that how you were when you worked with kids in Baltimore?” Her eyes are anxious as she holds her breath to await my reaction.
I exhale a long breath, wishing I could avoid this conversation. Considering there’s a sleeping child on me right now, cutting and running would be really dramatic. And maybe if I tell Lynsey a little, she’ll stop being so curious. “I was pretty blunt with my young patients. But that’s because I never believed in treating them like they were kids. They were dealing with heavy, grown-up shit, and they deserved to be addressed like a grown-up. It felt right for me.”
Lynsey nods, rubbing her lips together as she quietly listens.
“And I never patronized them,” I state, recalling so many of the patients I saw in great detail and how some of the hospital staff would talk to them in baby voices. It drove me nuts. “Those kids had gone through enough by the time they got to me that they didn’t need sweet bullshit and nonsense.”
The corner of Lynsey’s mouth tips up into a half-smile. “I’m sure they loved you for that.”
Lennon stirs on my lap, her bare arm slipping from under the covers. I noticed the scar on her upper arm earlier today but didn’t say anything.
My voice is tight when I ask, “Why does Lennon have a PICC line scar near the brachial artery of her arm?”
Lynsey stills on the end of the couch, her eyes falling to her niece and becoming glossy with each passing second. “I should have figured you’d spot that.”
My brow furrows as I await her reply.
Lynsey exhales heavily. “Lennon was diagnosed with severe aplastic anemia when she was seven.”
My entire body tenses, knowing instantly what that diagnosis entails.
“Shit,” I murmur.
She chews her lip and stares at the television, the lights of the animated film dancing on her face. “I was working at this rehab clinic after college when my sister called me bawling. She said Lennon was in the ER because her mouth started bleeding at school for no reason, and that the ER was transferring her to Denver for further testing. All we knew at that point was that her labs indicated cancer, and it could be fatal if she wasn’t treated right away.”
A familiar feeling weighs heavily on me as memories of my work at John Hopkins flood back.
“After a bone marrow biopsy, they told us it was SAA and that there were no bone marrow donors who matched her. So our whole family got tested. Thankfully, I was a full match.”
I stare at Lynsey, her anxiety radiating off her as she recounts the painful memory. Slowly, I maneuver my hand from under Lennon to stroke Lynsey’s shoulder. I’m not sure if I do it to comfort her or myself, but when her eyes meet mine, I’m more connected to her than I’ve ever been.
Timing-wise, Lynsey’s past trauma probably matches up pretty closely with my own. My chest aches over that. My pain, her pain. Her sister’s and her parents’ pain. And especially Lennon who was the same age as Julian at the time.
When treating sick children, you learn how to emotionally detach for your own survival. It’s called “professional detachment” where you completely suppress your natural reaction to feel badly for a patient who’s in pain and inherently blame the disease or treatment instead. It’s easier to blame something than someone.
The problem is, sometimes you slip. Sometimes you feel too much or you let down that wall. Sometimes your patient is your best friend’s son who came to you because he trusted you could save him. And you’re certain you have the answers, but because of the personal nature of that relationship, you let your guard down and put yourself at risk for missing things.
Lynsey offers me a weak smile. “Lennon’s doing great now, but as you know, this is an illness she’ll live with her whole life. And she really struggles with that. There was a good chunk of time after she got better when she totally isolated herself, refused to join any school activities, and didn’t want to talk to her parents. I was the only one she confided in, and the anguish she felt over not being able to feel like a normal kid was brutal.”
I nod and stare back at Lynsey while so many things click into place. “Is Lennon the reason you went back to school to specialize in pediatric psychology?”
Lynsey nods, a tear slipping down her cheek as she stares down at her niece. “My experience with her and her illness was what my thesis focused on. There was only so much I could do for her when she was going through all the emotions of being a sick kid. She needed more than just another grown-up who talked at her. She needed to be around other kids who were dealing with stuff, grown-up stuff like you said, happening in a child’s body, so she’d feel less alone, you know?”
An ache in my sternum spreads as I stare at the woman who continues to amaze me with her unflinching willingness to just…live. She’s brave and strong and vulnerable in ways I don’t know if I could ever truly be. It’s hard to look away from.
I lift my hand to touch Lynsey’s cheek, dragging the pad of my thumb along the damp trail left by her tears. “Lennon’s why you want to open your own clinic, isn’t she?”
She nods and offers me a wobbly smile. “It was such a scary time for her and for all of us. I just think creating a clinic like I want could help so many other kids and families.”
I stare into her brown eyes for a long moment, amazed that out of all of the women I could be having a child with, it’s this one. “You’re one of a kind, you know that, Jones?”
She exhales through her nose and tries to laugh off my comment. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“It’s good.” I pin her with a serious look. “Because your fears don’t shut you down. They propel you forward.”
All humor on her face disappears as her eyes lock on mine. I lean across the two sleeping girls and pull her close to press my lips to hers. I need this touch. I need this moment. I need to feel everything that Lynsey is right now—goodness, optimism, light. She is hope personified. A sign that there are people in this world with open souls and open minds, risking their hearts every day, and living to tell the tale. Lynsey Jones is everything I wish I could be.
I’m breathless when Josh breaks our kiss and rises from the couch with Lennon in his arms. He instructs me to stay where I am, and his expression leaves no room for argument. I sit patiently while he takes her down the hall to my bedroom, still reeling over the fact that he opened up about his life in Baltimore.