"When I went up to see him he asked about you again."
My stomach drops instantly. "He did?"
"He did," he answers. "Your name was actually the first word out of his mouth when I walked into his room."
I take a gulp of water from the bottle I bought when I walked into the cafeteria. "What did he say?"
He picks up a piece of pear and holds it in the air. "He wanted to know if you were seeing anyone. I told him I didn't know."
It takes me a minute to absorb the words. They're so completely unexpected. "He didn't talk about what happened yesterday?"
"He's way too proud to talk about that again. Garrett wants to forget that yesterday ever happened."
He's not the only one. "I'd like to forget it too."
He scans his smartphone's screen as he gives me an absentminded nod in return. "It was intense when he collapsed. I think we all want to leave it behind us."
"I hope that we can," I mumble under my breath.
"How's your mom?"
To anyone listening to our conversation, it would seem like an unnatural segue. It's not. Each time Ben and I have lunch, or dinner, during a shift, he asks about my mother. "There's no change. I'll go see her after work today."
He glances at the silver wristwatch he's wearing. "Kayla and I are having dinner with some friends in Brooklyn tonight. I'll stop in and check on her."
Ben's fiancé, Kayla, has become an unlikely friend. We shared a short exchange in the hallway one night when both Ben and I were working a late shift. Since then whenever she stops by to see Ben, she'll find me to ask about my mom. Her heart is limitless.
"You don't have to." I catch my bottom lip between my teeth. He doesn't have to, but I want him to. "She's responding well to the antibiotics you prescribed for her last week."
"I want to follow-up," he says graciously. "I love seeing your mom."
I wish that I could say that she loves seeing him. I doubt that she even knows who he is. The majority of the time when I'm sitting next to her in the extended care center she lives in, her eyes are vacant and she can't remember my name. The bitter journey of watching her sink into the clutches of Alzheimer's has been wrenching for me. I'm an only child of a single mother who has essentially disappeared within herself. I wish I could have just one more lucid moment to say all the things that have gone unspoken.
"We'll try to stop by when you're there." His eyes brighten. "Around eight, okay?"
"I'll be there," I say through a stilted smile. It gets harder every single day to see her like that, but I'll be there. I need to be. She's still my mother.
Chapter 3
"Have you given any thought to searching for your biological mother, Van?"
I look over my shoulder to where Zoe Beck, my best friend is standing with two paper cups in her hands. I already know what's inside. It's cocoa. It's Zoe's favorite and I have to admit, although I don't crave the taste the way I do a strong cup of coffee, I like the reminder of the cocoa my mom used to make for me when I was a little girl growing up in Maine.
"I haven't." I reach for the cup she holds out for me. "I don't know if I can do it."
She carefully lowers herself into the chair next to me. Zoe is six months pregnant. She and her husband, Brighton Beck, are expecting a son in just a few months. The beautiful curve of her belly beneath the pale printed dress she's wearing only adds to my confusion regarding my biological mother.
"I love you like a sister so I need you to listen to me." She pats her hand on my knee. "The first time I saw you here with her I could see the love between you. You adore her. Finding your birth mother won't change anything between you and Rowena."
Zoe is my voice of reason in all of this. We became fast, and close, friends after meeting one afternoon when she was volunteering here at the extended care center my mother lives in. She was helpful, caring and would always spend more time than she could probably spare with my mom. Our friendship naturally transferred to the world outside these walls and we devote at least an hour a day to texting or talking on the phone.
"She never wanted me to search." I motion towards where my mother is sitting in her wheelchair in front of a square plastic table covered with the pieces of a never completed jigsaw puzzle. "I'm betraying her if I start looking now."
"Rowena gave you a beautiful life." She rubs her hand over her swollen stomach. "Finding your birth mother now won't change any of that."
I know she's right. When I was younger I couldn't comprehend my mother's unbending reluctance to discuss the details of my birth and what brought me into her arms. There was never a moment where she sat down to explain to me that I was adopted. It wasn't necessary. I knew from the time I could absorb my reflection in the mirror that my straight blonde hair, blue eyes and pale complexion were in direct contrast to her wild mane of black hair, her exotic brown eyes and her olive skin. She was as old as the grandparents of all of my friends and she told me that I was chosen to be her last chance at happiness. I felt special every day of my life.
"I can go to Maine with you to get your adoption records," Zoe offers. "We can do it tomorrow if you want."
It's an offer she makes at least once a week. I sometimes regret telling her that all I need to do to access my original birth certificate is to go to Augusta, Maine, fill out a few forms, pay a fee and I'll have my birth parent's names in my hands.
"Once you have your birth mother's name, I can help you do research to find her," she says quietly. "Beck can help too. He knows a lot of people."
My brows pop up. Zoe's husband is an artist. His watercolor paintings are hanging in some of the most prestigious galleries and museums in the world. To say he knows a lot of people is an understatement. The man has connections that I can't even begin to fathom. "He knows everyone, Zoe."
She laughs so heartily that a small splash of the dark, rich liquid in her cup spills onto her lap. I reach quickly into my purse to pull out a tissue.
"Thanks, Van." She glides it along her dress, carefully pulling up as much of the cocoa as she can. "I'm so clumsy now that I'm pregnant."
"I think you're perfect." I reach to rest my hand on the top of her belly. "Clumsy or not, you're the best friend I've ever had."
"I always will be." She cups her hand over mine. "Let us help you, Van. Let us help you find your mom."
***
After Ben and Kayla had stopped by the center, I took Zoe up on her offer of a ride home. We used to take the subway from the extended care center in Brooklyn into Manhattan together, but now that she's pregnant, a driver is always waiting out front for her and when she insists I join her in the car, I'm quick to accept. The ride is more comfortable, less crowded and it gives me and my best friend an extra chance to talk before we have to say goodbye.
"You're sure you don't want us to wait to take you home?" Zoe dips her head a touch so she can see me standing outside the open back door of the car. I had quickly slid across the seat after hugging her goodbye once we stopped in front of the hospital.
I'm tempted to say yes to escape the walk to my apartment in the chilly spring air, but I want her to get home. "I just need to grab my tablet from my locker and then I'll call you once I'm home."
"Promise?" She cocks a dark brow. "I worry about you when you walk alone."
She shouldn't. I've never felt unsafe in Manhattan although my adventures are generally confined to a twenty-block radius around the hospital. I live only a few blocks from work with two other nurses. It's a sublet that affords all of us the chance to live in one of the most vibrant cities in the world, while still saving for a rainy day. "I'll be fine."
I spin on my heel and stare at the front of the hospital. This is my dream. This is what I've worked for my entire adult life, and yet, each and every time I walk through the front doors I question the irony of my ability to help people get well every day, while at the same time, my mother is slowing slipping away from me and there's absolutely nothing I can do to save her.
Chap
ter 4
"I come in peace." A deep smooth voice resonates from behind me.
I don't turn. I'm standing next to a crowded nurses' station in the ER. There are at least six of my co-workers within a few feet of me. If one of the doctors needs help, I'm going to sit this one out. I've been on my feet for close to ten hours and I'm counting the minutes until I can finally go home to soak in a warm tub.
"Vanessa." There's a rasp in the tone that's oddly familiar. It can't be a doctor. I don't work with anyone who has a voice that sounds like that. Please don't let it be one of the three men I've slept with in the past year. I dated two briefly and the third disappeared into an excuse about having a sick friend. He may have been good in bed, but I don't look back once I've said goodbye.
A faint tap on my shoulder is enough to turn me around. There's the hint of a smile on his lips as I soak in his features. He's incredibly good-looking. His dark hair slicked back from his face, which is chiseled and clean-shaven. His green eyes are keen and intense. He's tall. I'm suddenly aware that the sneakers I wear to work aren't doing me any favors. I feel miniscule. He towers above me. He has to be at least six foot two and judging by the way the black dress shirt and matching pants he's wearing are clinging to him, he's muscular, toned and more than likely well hung.
Wait. No. It can't be.
"Do you remember me?" he asks with a low growl. "We met last week."
My lips are so dry that I have to run my tongue over them, twice. It does little to help. "Yes. I remember you. You're Garrett Ryan."
"I brought these for you."
There's a flash of color in front of me and a chorus of gleeful squeals from some of the other nurses as they catch sight of the large bouquet of flowers he must have been holding behind his back when I was checking him out.
I reach for the flowers and his fingers brush against mine. A burst of energy flows between us. It's not electric or dynamic. It's more restrained, but intense. He holds my gaze as I inhale the lavish scent of the flowers.
"I can't accept these," I lie not because I don't welcome the gift, but because with it comes with the promise of a favor in return. I see that within his gaze and the way his tongue darts out over his bottom lip.
"Yes, you can, "Rosalie, my supervisor, pops into view. "These are beautiful, Vanessa. Your boyfriend has excellent taste."
"No," I whisper through a scowl. "He's not my boyfriend. I don't even know him."
"I'm a grateful man." He rests his hand on Rosalie's shoulder and I watch the heave of her chest at his touch. "Nurse Meyer took extra good care of me last week."
"She's a wonderful nurse," Rosalie says. "We're so lucky to have her."
"You're very lucky to have her," he continues with a nod. "I'd like a few minutes alone with her if you can spare her."
"I have to get back to the patient in exam room five," I wave the flowers in the air before I shove them into his firm chest. "You should take these back. I don't need flowers. I was doing my job."
"They're yours to keep." He raises his hand to gently push them back at me. "I just need five minutes, Vanessa. I promise I won't take any longer than that."
The breath I draw in is so heavy that it's audible. "I can spare five minutes."
"You lead the way." His hand jumps to my elbow as he falls in step beside me.
***
"I don't remember everything that happened last week." He leans back against the wall in the private waiting area I've taken him to. "I spoke to Ben about it this morning."
I cross my ankles as I sit on the edge of a chair. "What did he say?"
"He said I was out of it." His left hand jumps to his right bicep. "Apparently my blood sugar was low. I just remember being in a lot of pain."
"You hurt yourself when you hit the tree." I glance at my watch.
"I still have three minutes." He dips his chin towards me. "That's just enough time to apologize."
"You don't need to." I bounce to my feet, smoothing my hands over the wrinkled legs of the blue scrubs I'm required to wear since I work in the emergency room. "You don’t owe me anything. I was just doing my job."
"I'm worried that I said things I shouldn't have. I wasn't thinking clearly."
The cultured tone of his voice doesn't match the frenzied cries of the man who was in here last week, clinging to the edge of the exam table because of the pain he was. "You were in shock."
"If I was a jerk and I'd like to make it up to you." He taps his shoe on the tiled floor. "Can I buy you a coffee sometime?"
I'm wise enough to know when a man is wearing a hidden cloak of future regret around him. I've always based my decisions to meet men for coffee, or drinks, or even just sex on first impressions. He may have cleaned up remarkably well in every sense of the word, but the man standing before me, who is dressed impeccably and looks like he'd fuck me into tomorrow, is still the same jerk who I met last week.
"I don't think so." I move towards the waiting room door.
"You don't want to give it some thought?"
"I don't need to." I glance briefly at the plain gray, fabric colored chair where I left the flowers. "I appreciate the apology, but I'll pass on the coffee."
His full lips part slightly as he exhales loudly. "You forgot your flowers, Vanessa."
I narrow my gaze at him, noticing how completely in control he looks at this moment. It's the polar opposite of who I imagined him to be. "You should take them up to the nurse's station on the third floor. They took much better care of you than I did."
"I'd beg to differ." He walks across the room with confidence, scooping the flowers into his hand.
"You were only in my care for an hour." I swallow hard when he stands directly in front of me. "They took care of you the entire night."
"They may have watched over me through the night," he stops talking to lean down so his forehead is hovering close to mine. "But you're the only one I remember."
I inhale the luxurious scent of his skin combined with expensive cologne. He knows what he's doing to me. There's no way in hell that he's oblivious to the sheen of moisture on my lips or my labored breathing. I can't do this. I need to remember what a total ass he was when the paramedics brought him in. A bump on the head and hypoglycemia can't completely alter a man's personality, can it?
"I have to get back to work." I turn towards the door before looking back over my shoulder to catch him staring directly at my ass.
Chapter 5
"I went onto a few of the adoption reconnection forums that I was telling you about, but there wasn't anything." I scratch the top of my nose. "I think that is a sign that I shouldn't search for my birth mother."
"A sign?" Zoe pulls her fork through the salad she's been picking at for the past fifteen minutes. "It's a sign that you're wasting time doing that. We need to take a road trip to Maine."
I knew she'd say that. I thought it too. When I'd logged into the forum for Maine adoptees and birth parents, I had a sinking feeling that I'd turn up nothing. I based that prediction on experience. I've been on the forums on and off for months, and although a host of new members always pop up, I've never found a match for my birth date. The reassurance that I'd feel knowing that at least one of my birth parents is looking for me isn't going to come. I'm beginning to realize that now.
"I think I'll put the idea to rest until..." my voice trails. I can't bring myself to say the words even though the thought that fuels them runs through my mind every single day. My mother is seventy-five-years-old. If she were healthy, I'd be counting on having years with her yet. I'd feel safe in the knowledge that she'd be at my wedding, and be standing by my side when I gave birth to my first child. I'm schooled enough in medicine to know that her time is limited, and that it will be a miracle if I'm able to celebrate with her on her eightieth birthday. I'm going to lose her and the thought terrifies me to my core.
"Don't think about that, Van." Zoe reaches across the table to pull my hand into hers. "Think about all the fun the two of you ha
d when you were growing up."
It's a notion that I should embrace. I try to and want to but the sad and tragic reality is that I miss the moments when I could talk to my mom about everyday things like a new dress I bought or the flower garden that she used to lovingly nurture in front of our apartment building in Maine every spring and summer. Those are lost memories now.
"I miss her," I say softly. "I don't want to disappoint her."
"You can't." Her head tilts to the side as her eyes hone in on mine. "You have a right to know your birth mother. You told me it's been nagging at you for years. You need to do this for you."
She's right. I've been volleying the idea of knowing versus not knowing around for a long time. My desire to know more about my birth parents was first ignited when I was in nursing school and one of my classmates had gotten ill. It was a genetic condition and the simple fact that I didn't have an understanding of my predisposition to medical issues worried me. It's much more than that though. I want to look into the face of the woman who gave me life.
"What if I find out who my birth mother is and she wants nothing to do with me?" The question is painful to ask.
She tugs on my hand to get me to look at her. "This will eat at you until you find out. You have to do it. You'll never know how she'll react until you find out who she is and you contact her."
"You're right," I agree. "I need to find the courage to go to Maine. I have to. It's time."
***
"It's time to party."
I disagree. It's time to sleep. The problem is that today is Rosalie's birthday and virtually everyone who works in the emergency department, who isn't on duty right now, is in this bar. It's more a pub, actually. It's Easton Pub and I've been here more times than I can count. That's because Zoe used to work here and she met her husband here. When she feels like taking a sentimental walk into her memories, we come here. She orders a club soda with lemon and I order the same thing I'm drinking tonight, a Tom Collins. It might not be what you'd expect a petite blonde nurse to drink but when I drink, I don't want to waste the effort. It always gives me a slight buzz, and I'm not going to shy away from that tonight. I don't work tomorrow which means I'm only responsible for myself for the next thirty-six hours.
TRACE (The TRACE Series, #1) Page 2