We’ll get our shoes on and be eating spoonfuls of ice cream by the beach in no time. But I hardly make it two steps toward the door before Grier lets out another shriek. This one is shorter and more urgent.
“Flapflap!”
It takes me a second to register what she’s talking about, but then she points to the dingy gray bat toy.
“Ah yes, how could I forget?” Hoisting her farther up my hip, I lean down and grab the bat, handing it off to Grier. “Does Flapflap like ice cream?”
She smiles, shaking her head. “No! Eggs!”
“Right, of course. Because all bats eat eggs.”
I stifle a laugh as I head off in search of Grier’s shoes. I guess I’ll be figuring this out as I go.
8
* * *
LEXINGTON
Worry grips me as I ask where to find my mom, then rush to the hospital room at the end of the hallway. When I enter the room, Mom’s sitting up in bed, listening to a doctor.
“—just to make sure,” the doctor is saying, then glances over to me. He looks fiftyish, with more gray than black in his hair, an impressive mustache, and has a strong Southern accent. “Ah, you must be her son. Please make yourself comfortable.” He gestures to the lone chair in the corner of the room opposite Mom’s bed.
I might explode if I have to sit still. “I’ll stand, thanks.” At his tight-lipped expression, I add, “I’ll stay out of the way, I promise. What happened?”
As I move closer, she looks even smaller and paler then last time I saw her, and my heart jumps when I spot a bandage on the back of her head.
He narrows his eyes slightly. “She had a nasty fall. Fainted and hit her head on the way down.”
Fuck. I should have been there. Should have hired more nurses to watch her round the clock, instead of just having Gail come by three times a week. It’s a mistake I’ll have to rectify immediately.
Mom moves her arm in a gesture that I think is supposed to be waving off my anxiety, but her hand only lifts about six inches from the hospital blanket. “It was nothing, sugar. I had my alert bracelet on. As soon as I came to and realized I was bleeding, I called the ambulance. They’re going to fix me up right as rain. I’m perfectly fine.”
“Passing out and cracking your skull open doesn’t sound like nothing to me.” The words come out much harsher than I intend. “And what do you mean, as soon as you realized? If you hadn’t seen blood, would you have just gone on with your business and not called 9-1-1?”
Her doctor nods. “Fortunately, you don’t seem to have a concussion, Mrs. Dane, but your son has a point. Even for a young, healthy person, one has to take head injuries seriously, and in your condition . . . well.” He sucks his teeth loudly. “Anyway, as I was telling her when you came in, her fainting was probably just a side effect of chemotherapy. But on the off chance this is a warning sign that her cancer is progressing faster than expected, I’ve ordered some tests and a consult with her oncologist. Just to rule things out and to find out what we could be facing.”
I force myself to nod and act like a reasonable, civil adult, instead of screaming and breaking everything in the room like I want to do. “I understand. How long do you think it’ll take before the results come back? I’ve got someone watching my daughter.”
The doctor rubs his chin. “Three, maybe four hours would be my guess.”
Looks like I’ll be using that chair after all.
After he leaves, I drag the damn thing over to her bedside, sit down, and take her hand, disliking how limp and cool it feels.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap earlier,” I say quietly. “It’s just . . . you worry me sick, Mom. You don’t take your health seriously enough.”
“It worked itself out in the end,” she says, giving me a weak smile.
Before I can blow up, she continues.
“I don’t mean to cause you trouble, sugar. Everything changes so fast, is all.” Her smile falters, and for a second, I can see just how much effort she pours into staying positive. “I can’t keep up. One day I can still do all kinds of things, and the next, poof. I can’t.”
I don’t know what to say other than, “I’m sorry. That’s awful.”
It’s not enough, of course. But I don’t have the words to fix this situation, and that kills me.
I lace her thin, knobby fingers with mine. This hand used to be the one that steadied me, not the other way around. Used to belong to a superheroine who handled our lives with ease, and now . . .
“But enough about all that.” A mischievous twinkle appears in her eye. “You say you found someone, hmm?”
“What?” Then the abrupt topic change processes. “Oh. For Grier.”
She’s definitely not for me. I blew that chance ten years ago.
“Yes, Mom, I found someone to watch her, but you might laugh when you hear who it is. Corrigan.”
“Dak’s baby sister? She was such a sweet girl—and so pretty. You picked a winner.” Mom beams at me. “I’m glad you’ve gotten back in touch with her.”
Her tone makes me suspicious. Is she just in matchmaker mode, or is she implying that she knows more than I thought she did about our relationship? But Mom’s words are innocent enough that I can’t interrogate her without tipping her off that I’m hiding something myself.
Finally, I decide to keep it vague. “Yeah. She’s a teacher now, so Dak thought she’d be a good fit for nannying Grier.” Not that she’s actually agreed to it yet. I sort of ran out of my house like a madman . . .
Speaking of which, I should check in with her. Maybe she can bring Grier here and leave her with me or something. It won’t be fun to keep a toddler entertained in a hospital room for over three hours, but that’s my problem, not Corrigan’s.
With my free hand, I reach into my pocket . . . and my stomach plummets.
It’s not there. My pocket is empty. Where the hell is my phone?
As soon as I ask myself that question, I know the answer. There’s a crystal-clear picture in my head of my phone lying on the kitchen counter. I forgot it at home in my rush to leave the house.
I massage my forehead with bruising force while silently repeating every curse word I can think of.
• • •
It’s already dinnertime when I screech into my driveway, slam the brakes, and rush out of the car in a near panic.
“An hour,” I mutter to myself. “Hour and a half, tops.”
It’s been six fucking hours. God, I’m the actual worst.
How could I trap Corrigan for the entire day into a job she didn’t even want to do? I’ll have to pay her overtime—no, double. And do something extra nice for Grier too, to make up for leaving her with Corrigan without giving them a chance to get to know each other first. I might trust Corrigan to the ends of the earth, but to Grier, she’s a total stranger.
I barge through the front door and race inside, expecting to hear the mother of all wailing meltdowns . . .
Only to be greeted with laughter. And not just Grier’s giggles, but Corrigan’s too.
I follow the sound into the dining room, where Grier is in her high chair with Flapflap squeezed in by her side. Corrigan sits next to her, singing the Jaws theme while guiding a small forkful of spaghetti toward her.