She Gets That from Me

by Robin Wells

  I draw in a deep breath. Terri’s advice is reassuringly similar to what I read in Reparenting Your Inner Child just that morning: When you’re overwhelmed, just do the next thing that must be done. I take it as a sign I’m on the right track.

  “What can I do to help?” Terri asks.

  “You liked that last applicant for the part-time manager position, didn’t you? I think her name is April.”

  “Yes,” Terri says. “She seems perfect.”

  “Well, would you please call her, offer her the job, and see if she can come in Tuesday to man the store? I’ll need you to take over my client appointments.”

  I make other calls—to check on an upholstery job, to discuss the widening of a doorway with a contractor, to make a bid on two chairs at an online auction.

  I’ve just settled back into the chair beside Zack when I hear the call for Margaret’s family. It takes me a moment to recognize the scrubs-clad man as Dr. McFadden, the cardiologist I’d met in the emergency room, because his graying hair is covered by a surgical cap. But then, everything happened so fast in the ER it’s doubtful I would have recognized him anyway.

  Zack had pulled his BMW right behind the ambulance to let me out before he went to park. I dashed over as the paramedics unloaded Margaret, then followed as they wheeled her through the automatic glass doors. Margaret’s eyes had been closed, her face pale, and she’d been breathing through an oxygen mask.

  Zack had joined me as the paramedics transferred her to a hospital gurney. “She coded again in the ambulance,” the male medic said. He looked up at Zack. “You saved her life with that CPR.”

  The staff quickly determined that Margaret was suffering a major heart attack and needed immediate angioplasty and stent placement. They also diagnosed her hip as not only broken, but splintered; she needed immediate surgery for that, as well. They’d whisked her away and directed us to the surgery waiting room, where half a dozen other people awaited word about their loved ones.

  Now I follow the lanky heart specialist into the hallway for a private conversation. Zack comes, too.

  “How is she?” I ask.

  “Well, three arteries were involved,” Dr. McFadden says. “One was completely blocked. We put in two stents and did a balloon procedure, and we’ve restored adequate blood flow.”

  Relief rushes through me. “So she’ll be okay?”

  The doctor rubs his jaw and adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses. “We’ve fixed the blockage, but she suffered some heart damage. I’d estimate she’s lost between twenty and thirty percent of her heart’s function. Because she immediately received CPR, though, we hope to see minimal brain damage.”

  My stomach clenches. “Brain damage?”

  His head dips in a curt nod. “Anytime the blood flow to the brain is blocked or compromised, you have the potential for damage. Because of her age and the hip fracture, we can’t do a medically induced coma, which we might consider otherwise.”

  My thoughts tumble like socks in a clothes dryer.

  “Her hip break is another story. She’s in surgery now for that, and as you know, that requires total sedation.”

  I nod. An orthopedic surgeon had briefed me in the emergency room. As I understood it, the ragged edge of her splintered bone was in danger of puncturing an artery.

  “The sedation alone is a risk at her age, and I don’t like the added stress of a lengthy surgery right after the heart procedure, but we have no choice. The heart problem and the hip break complicate each other. Because of the complexity of the break, her movement will be severely limited for some time, which will put her more at a risk of heart failure.”

  “But you think she’ll fully recover?” I press.

  He hesitates, then speaks slowly, as if he’s choosing his words with care. “If she does well through the hip surgery and stabilizes within the next twenty-four hours, I think she’ll make it.”

  Make it. That means she’ll stay alive. The fact that he’s wording it this way indicates a distinct possibility she won’t.

  “As far as how full her recovery will be . . .” He takes off his glasses, rubs the bridge of his nose, and sighs. “I’m afraid this is a life-changing event.”

  “Life changing . . . what do you mean?”

  “We’ll have to wait and see, and of course we hope for the best possible outcome, but she’s nearly eighty. She’s in good shape for a woman her age, but it’s likely she’ll never have the same quality of life as before.” The explanation sounds well practiced. I imagine it’s one he has to repeat all too often. “She might achieve something close to it, but she’ll need assistance and rehabilitative care for quite a long while.”

  “How long a while?”

  “I honestly don’t know. The orthopedic surgeon can give you some better answers, but it will depend on three factors. The first one is how well she comes through the hip surgery.” He holds up a finger, then adds a finger with each point. “The second is how much, if any, brain damage she has from the heart attack; and thirdly, how well she’s able to handle physical therapy.”

  My legs feel like they’re about to fold beneath me.

  “She’s going to be hospitalized for a good while—a week or two. If things go well, she’ll be transferred to our rehabilitation hospital or a skilled nursing facility for another few weeks. The staff here can help you sort out decisions about her long-term care as we get closer to discharge.”

  I bob my head, trying to process everything he’s said. “Thank you, Doctor,” I mumble.

  Zack leans forward. “Will you continue treating her while she’s in the hospital, or will another cardiologist take over?”

  “I’ll continue seeing her and monitoring her heart.”

  “What time do you make rounds?” Zack asked.

  “Usually at six thirty in the morning. But she’ll be in ICU for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.” He turns to leave.

  “One more question, Doctor. Do you know when the hip surgery is starting?” Zack asks. “I believe the orthopedic surgeon said it would take two to four hours.”

  The cardiologist nods. “He was scrubbing in as I left, so it should be getting under way now.”

  “Thank you,” Zack says.

  “My pleasure.” Dr. McFadden shakes Zack’s hand. “I wish you and your grandmother the best of luck.” The doctor shakes my hand almost as an afterthought before he walks away.

  “He thinks Margaret’s your grandmother,” I say, feeling a little slighted.

  “Sorry.” Zack’s eyes—good grief, they look so much like Lily’s—are apologetic. “I didn’t mean to butt in, but those were the kinds of questions I wish I’d asked when my mom was in surgery.”

  It’s hard to argue with that, even though a part of me would like to. Ever since I realized who he was, I’ve been filled with anxiety. What was Miss Margaret thinking, contacting a registry to find him? Brooke hadn’t wanted the sperm donor to play any role in Lily’s life.

  And Lily’s life isn’t the only place he doesn’t belong. He sure as hell doesn’t belong in mine. My stomach pitches with nausea.

  He gazes at me intently. His dark brows pull together. “Are you okay?”

  Damn it, he doesn’t seem to miss a thing—and I have one of those faces that shows everything I’m feeling. Morning sickness just started making an appearance this week, and it isn’t limited to just mornings. The last thing I want to do is tell him I’m pregnant, though. I sink down on a bench in the hallway. “I think I need to eat something,” I say. “I sometimes start feeling bad when my blood sugar gets low.”

  He sits down beside me. “Are you diabetic?”

  “No, nothing like that.” I dig a half-eaten energy bar out of my purse. “But stress and hunger are a bad combination for me.”

  “Well, let’s go to the cafeteria,” he says. “We have at least two hours be
fore we can expect to hear anything.”

  I balk at spending more time with him. “Don’t you have someplace you need to be?” As I say it, I hear how ungracious it sounds. “I mean, you don’t have to stay here. I appreciate all you’ve done, but this really isn’t your problem.”

  “It feels like it is,” he says. “Maybe my showing up brought it on.”

  Part of me wants to agree. I’d nearly had a heart attack when I learned Lily’s father was standing on the doorstep. But then, Margaret had initiated contact with him, so it couldn’t have been a total surprise to her.

  I take a bite of the energy bar. As much as I want to blame him, it’s unfair to let him blame himself.

  “Margaret was under the weather before you arrived,” I say. “In fact, she lost her balance and fell earlier this morning.”

  “She did?”

  I nod. “She didn’t fall from a height and she landed on thick carpeting, so she wasn’t hurt. But still, it was unlike her.”

  “What was she doing on that step stool in the kitchen?”

  “She was getting down the good crystal for your water.”

  “Why?”

  A wry grin pulls at my mouth. “You’re not from the South, are you?”

  He shakes his head. “Ohio.”

  “Well, down here, it’s what ladies of her generation do for company.”

  “Oh, good grief! I thought she’d just bring me a plastic bottle.”

  The truth is, I’d thought that, too—which indicates I hadn’t really given it any thought at all. If I had, I wouldn’t have let her go into the kitchen alone, no matter how insistent she’d been.

  But then, Margaret had already climbed on the stool and inventoried the contents of the upper cabinets last night or this morning before I arrived, because a sticker saying Pack for Storage was affixed to one of the glasses on the top shelf.

  I tell him this. “You’re not to blame, so please, don’t feel like you have to stay here. Your wife must be wondering where you are.” I’m ready for him to leave, because my queasiness is getting worse.

  “She’s, um, in Seattle.”

  “Oh, that’s a beautiful city! What’s she doing there?”

  “Visiting her family and house hunting. We’re moving there in a few weeks.”

  Moving? Relief floods me. If he moves to the West Coast, he won’t be interfering in my life. I haven’t had a chance to fully think through all the implications of having him show up, but I’ve thought through enough to be terrified.

  “Anyway, if it’s okay with you,” he continues, “I’d like to hang around and find out how the surgery goes. I feel pretty invested in the outcome.”

  How can I say no? He saved Margaret’s life. “Sure. No problem.”

  His disconcertingly blue eyes stay on me, and he pulls his brows together. “You don’t look like you feel so good.”

  I don’t. That bite of power bar isn’t sitting well and the nausea is reaching a crisis point. “I—uh . . . Excuse me,” I say. I rise from the hall bench and dash across the hall to the ladies’ room.

  I heave into the toilet. When I finish, I wash my face and rinse my mouth, then chew a couple of mints. I feel like a new person when I rejoin him in the hallway a few minutes later.

  He gazes at me in that intense way again and I wonder if he can tell I just barfed. “Are you all right?”

  I nod.

  “Want to head to the cafeteria?” he asks.

  “Okay.” I try to make conversation in order to appear normal as we walk to the elevator. “This move to Seattle—is it to live closer to her family, or for work?”

  “Both reasons.” He tells me about his wife’s career with an international hotel chain and her new regional position. “I’ve taken the Uniform Bar Exam so I can practice law in most states. I’m joining a new firm out there.”

  The elevator arrives, and we have it to ourselves. “What kind of law do you practice?”

  “Corporate. I specialize in mergers, acquisitions, and mediation.”

  That sounds pretty specialized, all right. “When are you moving?” I ask.

  “Well, Jessica has to be out there permanently at the beginning of June. I’ll stay behind to finish up a couple of mergers, then I’ll join her in mid-July, early August.”

  “Do you have children?” I ask as the elevator opens on the atrium level.

  “No. Not yet.”

  So he wants them. I file that information away. “What does Jessica think about you seeking out Lily?”

  He blinks, and his mouth briefly tightens. It’s almost, but not quite, a flinch. “She doesn’t know.”

  I raise my eyebrows in surprise.

  He shrugs. “She’s the one who found the donor registry site, uploaded my information, and told me a child was looking for me, so she must have figured I would.”

  “Your wife registered to find your child?”

  “Yeah.” The word comes out like a fastball—quick and hard, as if it’s a topic he wants to blow right past.

  “I don’t really understand,” I say. “You signed an agreement to remain anonymous. That was extremely important to Brooke.”

  He nods. “I get that, and I intended to honor that. But then Jessica found this site and told me a child was looking for me. I thought I was dealing with a teenager going through the ‘who am I?’ phase who’d registered on his or her own to find me, or maybe had a medical need. I had no way of knowing it was a young child—or the grandmother reaching out because the child’s mother died.”

  “Great-grandmother,” I say. “Margaret is Lily’s great-grandmother.”

  “I stand corrected.” The corners of his eyes crease as he smiles.

  “What would you have done if your child had answered the door?”

  “I wouldn’t have said anything about who I was or why I was there, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  I nod. That’s exactly what I wanted to know.

  “I would have just asked for Brooke,” he continues. “If she weren’t at home or if we couldn’t talk privately, I would have just left my business card.” He opens the door to the cafeteria for me. “I don’t want to cause any problems.”

  “That’s good to hear,” I say.

  “So you’ll take care of Lily while Margaret’s in the hospital?”

  “Yes—and probably from here on out. I’m her legal guardian if Miss Margaret is unable to care for her. It’s in her mother’s will.”

  “I see.” His expression doesn’t tell me what he thinks of the arrangement. He hands me a tray. “Who’s watching her today?”

  “She’s playing with a friend who lives two doors down from her old house.” I place the tray on the slide rail. I want him to know that I’ve already covered her care for the rest of the day. He needs to realize that I’m more than qualified to care for Lily. “I called the friend’s mother and filled her in on what’s happening. She said Lily’s welcome to stay there as long as necessary so I can be here with Margaret.” I move my tray forward. “I’ll get her reenrolled in her old preschool on Monday morning. I know her schedule and her friends and their parents, so she’ll be right at home back in New Orleans in no time.”

  “Sounds like she’s lucky to have you,” he says. “What’s she like?”

  “Oh, she’s the sweetest, most adorable, smartest little girl in the world.”

  His dimple flashes as he smiles. “I’d love to meet her.”

  My stomach gnarls. Why, oh why had I made her sound so appealing? But then, how could I have done otherwise?

  “I—I don’t think that’s wise right now,” I manage. “She’s just lost her mother, and now her Grams is seriously ill. I don’t think she should have to deal with another big drama.”

  “She doesn’t have to know that I’m her father. You could just introduce me
as your friend.”

  Is he a friend, or is he a foe? My gut instinct is to keep him as far away from Lily as possible. “Let’s see how things go with Margaret first.”

  “Sure. No hurry. Do you have a picture of her?”

  My phone is full of Lily photos. I nod.

  “I’d love to see them when we sit down.”

  I don’t want to show them to him, but I can’t find a reason to refuse. After all, Margaret reached out to him.

  “Sure,” I say. I take a turkey sandwich, but my appetite has deserted me.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Quinn

  “WOW—SHE’S AMAZING!” Zack stares at a photo on my cell phone of Lily playing with Ruffles. We’re seated at a table against the wall, our partially eaten food on trays in front of us. The hospital cafeteria is crowded and noisy, but Zack seems oblivious to everything but the image of Lily. “I can’t get over the family resemblance. She looks like just like my sister!”

  “You and your sister must look alike.” I’m feeling better after forcing down a few bites of sandwich, but I’m too jangled by everything that’s happened to want to eat.

  “We do.” He stares at the picture as if he’s trying to memorize it. “Do you have any other photos of her?”

  I give a wry grin. “As Miss Margaret would say, ‘Does a sack of flour make a big biscuit?’”

  He laughs. I take my phone and scroll to a photo of Lily, Brooke, and me at the Bacchus parade last Mardi Gras. Lily is wearing butterfly wings and antennae, Brooke is wearing matching antennae and a caterpillar cape, and I’m wearing a padded brown costume with a pointed brown cap. We’re supposed to be the three stages of a butterfly’s life cycle, but instead of looking like a chrysalis, I resemble a poop emoji.

  I rapidly scroll to the next photo. Lily’s arms are raised to catch an airborne string of beads while Brooke watches, her smile so fond and tender that my breath catches. I pass the phone to him again.

  “That’s Brooke?” Zack asks.

  I nod.

  “Tell me about her.”