Let It Be Me

by Becky Wade

  Wonder moved through her like flour through a sifter. The necklace was delicate. Classy.

  She pulled the velvet backing from the bottom of the box. Beneath, she found a single piece of stationery marked with the name of a jewelry store.

  The necklace shows the brightest stars in the sky on the night you were born. Some things might have gone wrong on that day, but you weren’t one of them.

  -Sebastian

  Since she’d received her DNA results, she’d sought to address her birthday mix-up in the way that had always served her best: with logic. Logically she knew she wasn’t the mistake.

  Emotionally, that was a little harder to internalize. Across her early childhood years, she’d always felt that she didn’t fit. She’d come to accept and even own that fact. But now evidence proved that she was more than simply someone who didn’t fit. She was, without a doubt, a tremendous oddity. She’d been switched at birth when no one else she’d met or was likely to meet in her lifetime had been switched at birth.

  Some things might have gone wrong on that day, but you weren’t one of them.

  A heated ball glowed in the vicinity of her heart.

  Glancing up, she discovered Dylan watching her smugly. “Is that from Dr. Grant?”

  “Yes.”

  “The guy you don’t have a crush on?”

  “Correct.” She shut herself into the bathroom and tried on the necklace. The chain fell to just the right length.

  She dialed Sebastian’s number.

  Her call went to voice mail.

  He was no doubt busy rescuing a sick child from the jaws of death.

  Sebastian was going to have to take Isabella Ackerman off the heart transplant list.

  Her parents, Megan and Timothy, waited nearby while he finished his examination. Megan looked like a thinner, harder version of the woman he’d first met. Timothy was as stocky and bearded as before. But his posture had started to stoop. Their expressions pleaded with Sebastian to say that he could make their daughter well.

  He hated this part of his job. “Isabella has developed sepsis,” he informed them. Last week, one of his colleague’s patients had become septic and died within twenty-four hours.

  Megan anxiously tucked her hair behind her ears. “How are you going to treat it?”

  “Antibiotics. Additional medications for her blood pressure and cardiac function. Increased ventilation.”

  “How long do you think it will take until she’s better?” Timothy asked.

  “I don’t know.” There was no guarantee of “better” for Isabella. Her small body might have endured all it could take, in which case this would be the final blow. If she did recover, “better” for her would mean she’d still be so sick that she’d need this Pediatric Intensive Care Unit to keep her alive.

  “Here’s what I can tell you for sure,” Sebastian said. “Those of us on staff are committed to doing everything we can to help her.” It made him furious that the best care and the best science couldn’t save them all.

  “Can she remain on the transplant list?” Megan asked.

  “I’m afraid that I’m going to have to remove her from the list. For now.”

  Their faces fell. They knew that removing Isabella from the list meant removing her shot at survival.

  “I’m sorry,” Sebastian said.

  Weighted silence answered.

  Isabella fidgeted.

  Megan pressed a kiss to the baby’s forehead, then took hold of her daughter’s hand. “I’m worried she’s uncomfortable.”

  “She’s comfortable,” Sebastian said. “We wouldn’t allow her to be otherwise.” Not many years ago, children like Isabella had simply been protected from pain with palliative care until they died, a few days after their birth, in their parents’ arms.

  Treatments had come a long way in a short time, and now parents almost always chose to intervene surgically. Even when the odds weren’t in their favor, they were willing to try a Hail Mary pass to give their child a chance at life.

  “Several of our family members are coming by to visit her later today,” Megan said. “Do you hear that, sweetheart? A whole group of people who love you are on their way. They’ve met you, but they can’t wait for you to meet them.”

  He saw it all the time—large interconnected families, hanging on every breath of their newest, youngest, sickest member. They crowded into waiting rooms during surgery. Filled sections of the cafeteria and lobby. They often brought balloons, stuffed animals, cookies.

  Those big families always threw his own situation—the fact that he had no one but the Colemans—into perspective.

  “Everyone at our church has been praying for Isabella,” Timothy said to Sebastian. “Her story has spread to other churches in Augusta, and we’ve heard that they’re all praying, too.”

  “We’ll let them know about the sepsis,” Megan said, her voice cracking. “And they’ll double down on their conversations with God.”

  “You’ll put her back on the transplant list as soon as the sepsis is gone, right?” Timothy asked.

  “When the sepsis is gone, we’ll reevaluate.” Sebastian excused himself and turned toward the break room.

  He never made promises to family members that he couldn’t keep, because his mother had once assured him that she’d recover. He didn’t know if she’d believed that when she’d said it or not. Either way, she’d lied.

  She’d died on a Tuesday, while he was at school.

  The hospice staff had believed that she had several days left, and his mom had wanted him to continue his routine. So he’d gone to school even though he’d hated school and been nauseous with worry every morning when the old lady neighbor they were staying with walked him to the bus stop wearing her house shoes.

  On that Tuesday when he’d returned home from school, he’d knocked on the door of the old lady’s apartment.

  A young female voice had called, “Come in.”

  He entered and watched two women raise their faces toward him sadly. The old lady was there, but so was the young one with curly brown hair who’d been coming around. They called her his social worker, except he wasn’t really sure what that meant.

  His vision jerked to his mom, in her hospital bed. Smooth blankets covered her to her shoulders. Her eyes were closed, and she was too still. Too white.

  Terror tightened his stomach.

  “Sebastian,” the old lady said, “your mother passed away while napping a few hours ago.”

  He couldn’t move or speak.

  Your mother passed away.

  No.

  Your mother passed away.

  No!

  “I’m so sorry,” the social worker said.

  “It was peaceful,” the old lady told him.

  His lungs weren’t working, and a terrible buzzing noise filled his head.

  “We didn’t know if you’d want to see her before she goes,” the social worker said, “but we wanted to give you that option. It’s totally up to you.”

  His mom had died? And he hadn’t been there?

  He was going to be sick all over his shoes.

  “I want you to know that you’ll be safe and cared for,” the social worker said. “There’s a plan in place. As soon as you’re ready, I’ll take you to a family who lives near here. They have a room ready for you, and they’re very kind people.”

  He hated the social worker with the curly brown hair. He’d never be safe, and he’d never be cared for, and he’d never be ready to leave this apartment. This is where his mom was.

  His mom. She was his family.

  These ladies were strangers.

  He’d remained silent the rest of that awful day. They’d let him sit at his mom’s bedside for a long time. He’d stared at her because he’d been too scared to hold a dead person’s hand.

  Sebastian forced his thoughts back to the present. In the break room, he downed trail mix and poured himself a mug of coffee. Then he took the mug with him up to the second highest floor
of the building.

  Occasionally, he needed fresh air to clear his head. It didn’t matter the season. The steamy heat of summer, the freezing wind of winter. He’d investigated every hospital he’d worked at until he’d found at least one space that could offer him quiet and privacy outdoors.

  He passed through a rarely used conference room and exited onto a balcony. At the rail, he breathed the damp afternoon air. The coffee was bitter, but it also provided a needed shock to his senses. He took regular sips until he’d drunk half of it.

  Checking his phone, he saw that he’d missed a call from Leah. The realization affected him like sunlight. It shoved aside the gray clouds.

  He placed a call to her, anticipating the sound of her voice.

  “I received a necklace from you today,” she said as soon as she picked up. “Did you hand deliver it?”

  “I did, this morning. Before I got called back to the hospital.”

  “The necklace is exquisite. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “However, it’s not my birthday.”

  “I hope not. I plan to do much better on your birthday.”

  “Sebastian!” she said, half laughing, half chiding. “I cannot possibly accept lavish presents given to me for no reason.”

  “That wasn’t a lavish present.”

  “I have a sneaking suspicion that it was.”

  “And it was given for a reason.”

  “Which is?”

  “I like you.”

  “That’s not a valid reason.”

  “That’s the most valid reason there is.”

  “This is too kind. . . .”

  “Is there such a thing as too kind?”

  “Too generous—”

  “Is there such a thing as too generous?”

  “I value my independence. If I need a necklace, I will buy a necklace.”

  His smile grew. “You’re one of those people, I can tell. The sort who don’t know how to accept a gift. I think you need more practice.”

  “And I think you need to return the necklace and invest the money.”

  “I view the necklace as an investment. Besides, I’m no fool. I bought you a custom-made necklace that can’t be returned.”

  “In an effort to make me feel even more indebted to you so that I say yes to a date?”

  “Exactly. But also to make you happy.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re difficult?”

  “Everyone I’ve ever known. But you’re a math prodigy because you’ve figured out how to solve difficult problems. Right?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest notion how to solve problems of the adult male variety.”

  “Will you go out on a date with me?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “In that case, will you travel to Atlanta next weekend to see me?”

  “No.”

  “Fine. Then I’ll come back to Misty River next weekend to see you.”

  “I recommend that you spare yourself the effort.”

  I’ll see you then, he thought.

  On Monday, a top-of-the-line graphing calculator arrived at Leah’s front door. She hadn’t known calculators could be personalized. But apparently they could be if someone was persistent enough, because Professor Montgomery was etched into its back.

  It could not be returned.

  On Tuesday, Dylan received an Atlanta Falcons jersey with Montgomery stitched across the shoulder blades.

  It could not be returned.

  She began to pray, asking God to let her know if going on a date with Sebastian was a viable option or an absolute no.

  She couldn’t discern His answer.

  On Wednesday, a copy of The Theory of Numbers, first edition, published in 1914, landed on Leah’s doorstep. In an act that verged very near desecration, someone had written Property of Leah Montgomery in Sharpie on its first page.

  It could not be returned.

  On Thursday, two very large boxes addressed to Dylan were delivered. The instant he returned home from football practice, she handed him a pair of scissors so that he could open them. Inside each box lay two hubcaps for his truck. Upon closer inspection, she noticed they were each engraved, in small print, with Dylan is chillin’. Subtle.

  What wasn’t subtle? Sebastian’s methods.

  The hubcaps could not be returned.

  This could not go on!

  A date would be preferable to this—this deluge of presents. The prospect of continuing to accept charity from him carved ice into her soul.

  God had not yet made His guidance clear regarding Sebastian. But if gifts were going to continue to arrive daily, she didn’t feel she could postpone her decision until she’d received divine confirmation.

  She dialed Sebastian and, for once, he answered.

  “You rang?” he said.

  “I’ll go on a date with you this weekend on one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “You agree to cease sending Dylan and me presents.”

  “Done,” he said immediately. “Can I pick you up at seven on Saturday?”

  He was beyond exasperating! “Fine.”

  As skilled as she was at chess, she sensed that Sebastian was no amateur at his tactics.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  On Saturday morning Leah regarded her reflection critically in the dressing room mirror of the Buttercup Boutique.

  She did not have the funds to spend more than a meager amount of money on clothes. The ladies at the boutique understood this. They also knew Leah’s taste for classic-yet-current clothing. Bright, clear colors. Collared shirts and fitted cardigans. Sweaters. Tailored pants. Items that affirmed her uniqueness. They called Leah when something they thought she might like went on sale. Over time, they’d helped her curate items into a small capsule wardrobe.

  The sapphire blue dress she had on at the moment wasn’t exactly a capsule piece. But at thirty-seven dollars, the price was right. Plus, it seemed just the thing for a date with Sebastian Grant.

  The neckline folded over into a panel that traveled straight across her chest and around her upper arms, leaving her shoulders bare. It fit snugly to just below her waist then flared into folds that ended at her knees. Simple, yet sophisticated. Modest, yet flattering.

  She angled her back toward the mirror and looked over her shoulder at her reflection.

  What was she doing?

  She should rebel against Sebastian’s wooing techniques by dressing in her very worst clothing for tonight’s date. Perhaps pajama bottoms and the stretched-out Jabba the Hutt T-shirt Dylan had given her when he was eleven?

  She couldn’t bring herself to give that plan serious consideration.

  In part, because she was strangely . . . excited about tonight’s date.

  In part, because she had pride, after all.

  She could pair this dress with the 1930s-inspired high-heeled Mary Janes she already owned.

  One of the boutique’s employees stopped outside the dressing room to check on her.

  “I’ll take it,” Leah said.

  Leah answered Sebastian’s knock a few minutes before seven that night to find him on her threshold, wearing a suit and confidence.

  The visual power of the scene before her—the lines of his charcoal jacket, his snowy white shirt, black hair gleaming in the light of her fixtures—was too overwhelming to absorb.

  “Good evening,” Leah said, acutely glad that she’d splurged on a new dress.

  “Good evening.”

  She gestured for him to come inside and discovered more to adjust to. The sight of Sebastian Grant in her home. He was larger than she’d recalled, more debonair.

  In the direction of her brother’s room she called, “Dylan, come out and say hello.”

  No response.

  Sebastian stared at her with admiration in his eyes.

  What was she supposed to do with a large and debonair man? Dating was awful. The worst of all inventions. “I will not be ki
ssing you at the conclusion of this evening,” she announced.

  Humor tugged at his lips. “That’s fine. In fact, I’m glad you brought that up. In a way, I forced you to go out with me. But I’d never force you into a kiss.”

  “Excellent.”

  “When we kiss—”

  “If we kiss.”

  “It will only be because you want to.”

  Ruefully, she already wanted to.

  Dylan sidled out of his lair.

  “Hey, Dylan,” Sebastian said.

  “Hi, Dr. Grant.” They shook hands.

  “Thank you for the gifts you sent me this week,” Dylan told him. “They’re awesome.”

  “You’re welcome. How’ve you been?”

  “Pretty busy with football and stuff.”

  “I was at your game a few weeks ago. I thought you played well.”

  If Sebastian had spotted Dylan on the field, he must have been watching for him with an eagle eye because her brother’s playing time had amounted to approximately four minutes. Dylan was a far better athlete than she was, yet he wasn’t cut out to be a starter on the team because he didn’t have ferocious internal drive or a commanding physique. Frankly, she was thrilled he’d made the team again as a bench warmer.

  “Football’s cool,” Dylan said. “It’s just hard. You know?”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  She often thought about how much Dylan had aged in comparison to the Dylan she’d known four years, six years, twelve years ago. But in comparison to Sebastian, Dylan seemed incredibly young. The two of them might as well belong to different species.

  Dylan scratched the side of his face. “Have you been doing a lot of . . . surgeries?”

  “Quite a few, yes.”

  “Anybody die?”

  “Not since I saw you last.”

  “Sweet. If they’re still alive they might . . . stay that way.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  Dylan’s vision landed on Leah. “A couple of my friends are gonna come over later.”

  “Who?”

  He rattled off the names of four kids she knew well.

  “What are you guys going to do?” she asked.

  “Snort cocaine.” Dylan gave her the first genuine grin she’d seen out of him all day.