“How are her x-rays?” I ask.
“It’s a pretty bad break.” He holds out a tablet with the images of the x-rays on the screen. “See this?” He points to a spot above her elbow, his finger moving along a line that cuts clean through it. “That’s the break. It’s called supracondylar, and it’s going to require surgery.” His gaze flicks to me. I think he’s trying for sympathetic, but it doesn’t resonate. This is just another day at the office for him.
“Surgery?” I look at my dad as if somehow he can make this all better.
“When?” My dad asks.
“ASAP. We’re bringing in a doctor from another hospital now. He specializes in pediatric orthopedic surgeries. He’s the best. No question.”
“What happens next?” My dad asks the question that’s in my head. My brain is still tripping over the idea of Claire’s little body in a surgical setting. Anesthesia… Iodine… Oxygen…
A shudder snakes its way down my body. I take a breath and try to focus on what Dr. Green is saying instead of my own fear.
“We’ll get an IV going, then she’ll be moved over to surgery. They’ll get her checked in and go over some things with you. Then the anesthesiologist and surgeon will tell you more.” He looks at us expectantly, a canned smile on his face that isn’t pleasant or unpleasant. Just a smile that says my part of Claire’s care is over.
“OK.” The tremble in my voice is impossible to hide. My Dad shakes hands with Dr. Green, I mutter a thank you, and he disappears back through the curtain.
Claire is still engrossed in her show. I sit beside her, one leg propped on the bed, the other dangling to the floor. “Sweetie, did you hear what Dr. Green said?” I press pause on the phone. Claire looks up.
“No. I was watchin’ WordGirl.”
Oh, my heart. She has all of it.
“The doctor said you’re going to have surgery. You’re going to take medicine that will make you sleepy, and when you wake up, your arm will be fixed, OK?”
“I guess so.” She shrugs, as if it doesn’t matter one way or the other to her.
My eyes flash to the nurse setting up the IV. Dread sits like lead in my stomach. Like every child, Claire hates shots. She hasn’t noticed what the nurse is doing, and just as I open my mouth to prepare her, the nurse says it’s time.
The IV placement goes exactly like every immunization Claire has ever received. I hold her still and she cries loudly, even after the needle is out.
“Can I watch WordGirl again?” She asks when her sobs slow. The nurses eyes meet mine and we share a laugh.
“Sure,” I say as I press a kiss to Claire’s forehead. I press play, and set the phone back on the pillow.
“I hope you weren’t planning on using your phone anytime soon.” I say to my dad as I settle myself next to him.
“Nobody needs me on a Saturday.” He stretches out his legs, crossing his feet at the ankles, and leans back. “The only people who need to talk to me are here in this room.”
“Thanks again, Dad. I’m glad I’m not doing this alone.”
“Of course. Always.”
He leans his head on the wall behind him and closes his eyes. Soon he’s snoring softly. How the man can sleep right now, I don’t know, but I’m envious. I settle in and find a spot on the wall to stare at.
Just when the wait begins to feel like it will never end, three nurses show up to take Claire to surgery. Claire, who fell asleep sometime after her third WordGirl episode, stays asleep the entire ride to the surgery floor.
My eyes never leave Claire. Not when the admissions person comes to ask me what feels like four hundred and sixty seven questions. Not when my dad comes in with bottled water and hands me one. What in the world did they put in her IV? She never sleeps through this much noise.
As if the nurse senses my concern, she informs me that a long nap is not uncommon. “Their little bodies are so good at doing what they need. Adults try to stay awake, but kids let their bodies lead.”
I nod, appeased. I must look worried. I feel terrified. Like I’ve aged years since we arrived at the soccer field this morning.
Before the nurse steps out she turns back and says, “Dr. Cordova is almost here. He’s a fantastic surgeon. Great with kids. I’ll send him in to meet you as soon as he arrives.”
I lift my eyes from Claire to watch the nurse leave, then get up to pull the curtain closed.
Dad sits in the corner, eyes closed again. Gently I settle into a seat on the end of Claire's bed and resume staring at my little girl.
This isn’t a big deal. She’ll be fine. This Cordova guy is supposed to be fantastic.
I keep going with my good thoughts, hoping positive vibes and prayers can keep the nausea at bay.
It works on my stomach but does nothing for the tears. They flow as I study my little girl’s body. It’s so perfect, so beautiful, so vital, so necessary to keeping my own heart beating.
The privacy curtain scrapes along the metal rod, and I turn to look at who’s entering. A man in light green scrubs steps in, a smile on his face.
Our eyes meet, and his smile vanishes.
“Oh, my god,” I breathe the words, and the nausea I worked to contain fights to get out.
“You left the country.” My first words are defensive. I’m already defending my choice, a choice he doesn’t even know about.
Isaac swallows, his throat bobbing, and he nods once, slowly. “Yes. For eighteen months.”
“You moved.” I say it like it’s an accusation.
“To a different place in Phoenix, yes.”
We watch each other, two shocked expressions, two furiously beating hearts. Mine is anyway, and given his reaction, I can only imagine his heartbeats are keeping time with my own. The longer we stare, the more memories jump out of their hiding spots and dance between us.
My back pressed to his front door as his weight tumbled into me, his mouth on mine and the metallic sound of him fumbling to fit his key in the lock. How tangled his sheets became as we twisted in them. How we made the most of one hour.
His eyes are on me now, those deep, dark eyes.
Our daughter’s eyes.
Oh no. Our daughter.
My daughter.
No no no. I’m doing this alone. Just me, Claire, and my dad. We’re a team. Isaac doesn’t know about Claire, and Claire doesn’t know about Isaac. She’s never even asked about her dad.
“It’s nice to see you again, Aubrey.” Isaac’s voice is deep, full of something. I don’t know what.
“You too, Isaac. Or should I call you…?”
“Dr. Cordova.”
I nod, biting down hard on my tongue. The pain from it helps me calm down.
Isaac takes another step into the small space, closer to me. His eyes sweep my body. “Can I take a look at the patient?”
I look down at myself and see what he probably sees. Standing beside Claire’s bed, my arms folded no less, I look like I’m trying to block access to her. And I am, I suppose. But right now, I can’t. I have to let him in. Claire’s arm is top priority.
I step aside, making it a point to look away from Isaac as I round the end of Claire’s bed. As I pass him I feel the heat from his chest, remember what he looked like beneath me.
Briefly I meet my dad’s eyes, ignoring the curiosity I see in them. Isaac steps up to Claire’s bedside, and I suck in a breath.
She’s yours, part of me wants to scream. Pictures of happy families flash through my head. But that could never be us. He’s probably married by now.
He looks at her, and then back up to me. “She’s your daughter?”
I nod, too afraid to speak.
“She’s beautiful.”
“Thanks.” I whisper. He hasn’t smiled since he stepped in and saw me, and that’s just one of many things that has my body tied up in knots right now.
“Dr. Cordova, I’m here. Traffic was awful, man.” A man’s loud voice fills the silence. We turn to it, and the man looks at Claire and
winces. “Sorry. I didn’t know she was asleep.” He turns to me and sticks out a hand. “Dr. Main. I’m the anesthesiologist.”
I take his hand. “I’m Aubrey Reynolds.” My eyes flick to Isaac. He’s watching me, his eyes lighting up when he hears my last name for the first time.
“I’m John Reynolds.” My dad shakes hands with Dr. Main as Isaac walks around the end of the bed.
“Mr. Reynolds, I’m Dr. Cordova.” Isaac’s face is confused as his eyes move from me to my dad, like he’s trying to understand who we are to each other.
It’s not uncommon. My dad is young, very young to be a grandpa. We’ve been mistaken for a couple before, especially when Claire is with us, which is pretty much always.
They exchange pleasantries, and I wonder if Isaac is dying to ask if my dad is Claire’s father. I’m dying inside too, trying to decide which to have a meltdown over first—my daughter’s impending surgery or the fact that her surgeon is the man who fathered her and doesn’t know it?
Of course I have to tell him, but I can’t drop that bombshell on him right now. He’s about to go into surgery. With our daughter. He needs to be focused and calm.
Isaac turns all business, and so does Dr. Main. “Claire has a supracondylar fracture. We’re going to put two pins in her arm.” Isaac focuses on me and my dad as he talks, and, using two fingers to represent the pins, shows us on his arm where they will enter Claire’s. “We’ll put on a temporary cast. I want to see her in ten days in my office for more x-rays and a hard cast.”
“Mommy?”
I inhale sharply and turn to Claire. “Baby, you’re awake. What do you need?”
“Have I had surgery yet?” Her voice is still sleepy. I run my hands over her hair and down her cheeks. “Not yet, love.”
“Claire?” Isaac’s voice is right behind me. It’s smooth and strong and sends shivers down my back.
My hands shake so badly, I have to slip them into the back pockets of my jeans.
“Yes?” Claire turns her eyes on him.
“I’m Dr. Cordova. I’m going to fix your arm today. How does that sound?” His voice is soft, but not babyish. It’s just right.
“Good. I tripped and fell playin’ soccer.” She smiles at him, and I see him in her face. He looks at me, his eyes questioning, and fear twists my stomach. Is he seeing himself in her too?
“Soccer?” He looks back to Claire. “I bet you’re a great soccer player.”
“I am,” she says proudly.
He smiles at her. “Are you ready to get that arm fixed?”
“Yes.” Her voice is unsteady now. Her lower lip trembles. “Can Mommy come with me?”
“You know what? This is an extra special room that only doctors and their brave patients can go to.”
“I am pretty brave.” Claire nods and purses her lips, like she’s thinking. “OK, yeah, I can go. But not unless Mommy says OK. I’m not allowed to go places with people I don’t know.”
Isaac looks at me and smirks. “Safety first.”
I allow a small smile, knowing he’s thinking about the night we met and my open-drink policy.
Claire’s head smells like last night’s shampoo as I kiss it. “You can go, and I’ll be there when you wake up.”
Two nurses show up, and Dr. Main steps to the side of Claire’s bed. He releases the bed’s brake, and suddenly, it’s all very real.
My baby is going under anesthesia, and the person who helped me create her is also the person who’s going to fix her. It’s too much for me to bear.
Tears roll down my cheeks as soon as the wheels on her bed start moving. “I love you, Claire.” I’m trying to keep my voice under control, but it breaks anyway.
In three seconds she’s past me, past the curtain, and heading down the hall. I feel sick watching her go.
“Everything’s going to be OK, Aubs.” My dad’s tone is soothing, but it doesn’t actually soothe.
“Aubrey, she’s going to be OK. This surgery is a piece of cake. Honestly.” Isaac still has that air about him, the one of total competence. It’s a good thing for a doctor to have.
I swallow the lump in my throat, trusting him even though I hardly know him. Our eyes lock.
“I trust you.” My voice is low. I don’t know what it is about Isaac that made me trust him that night five years ago, and I don’t know what it is that makes me trust him implicitly now. All I know is that I do.
Isaac and Dr. Main leave the bay. I hurry to the curtained exit and watch their backs, my hands steepled against my lips.
My dad steps in front of me. I didn’t hear him walk up, but he’s here now, his cheekbones pulled taut from his glare.
“You said his name was Mike.”
“I just don’t understand why you lied.” My dad rearranges himself in the hard-back chair for the tenth time in as many minutes.
We were ushered to the waiting room mere seconds after my dad confronted me, and now we’re trying to have a seriously private conversation in a very public setting. A very quiet public setting.
I rub my eyes and repeat the answer I gave him two minutes ago. “I don’t want to talk about this right now. I’m scared and I’m freaking out and I don’t know what to say.”
Dad sighs and runs his hands through his hair.
I close my eyes, silently praying.
“What are you going to do now that he’s back in the picture?”
My eyes fly open, and I turned to him. “Dad! Stop. Please.” My whispered hisses don’t go unnoticed, but the woman across from us looks away when our eyes meet. I can’t blame her for being interested. It’s not like there’s much else to do right now.
Beside me, my dad’s shaking his head. “I don’t think I can, Aubs. It took everything in me not to blurt it out back there.”
“Thank goodness you didn’t. It’s not your place.”
He blows noisily through his nose and looks up at the ceiling.
My dad’s a good ol’ boy, the kind of man who does what’s right. He’ll do what he thinks is best or kill himself trying. There’s no doubt in my mind he’s going to insist I tell Isaac about Claire. And if I wait too long, he’ll tell Isaac himself.
“I’ll tell him, Dad. Don’t worry.”
“A child deserves two parents, Aubrey. Two.” He holds up two fingers for emphasis.
“I’m painfully aware of that,” I mutter.
“Then you should know more than anybody the right thing to do here.” He’s giving me his pointed look, the one he uses when he wants to convince me his way is the only way.
“I hear you.” I hold up my hand to let him know to stop. “And I’ve already said I’ll tell him. Let me just get my baby home and settled and take some time to understand what telling Isaac will mean for everybody.”
“Don’t wait too long. You’re holding two lives in your hands.”
“That’s a little melodramatic.”
He raises one eyebrow but keeps quiet. I look away and focus on the long hallway that runs parallel to where I’m sitting. I stay that way until Isaac appears at the wide entrance to the waiting room, a surgical cap on his head.
I jump out of my chair and rush to him.
“How is she?” The words fly from my mouth.
He grins his big Isaac smile. “She’s perfect. Like I said, piece of cake. Someone will come get you and take you to her in recovery.”
My dad’s hand slides past me, palm out. “Thank you, Dr. Cordova.”
“Just doing my job.” He shakes hands with my dad.
“Aubrey.” Isaac turns his attention to me. “As long as Claire comes out of anesthesia OK, she can go home today. They’ll watch her for a while and make sure she doesn’t fever, and then she’ll be discharged. I want to see Claire in my office in ten days. We’ll do x-rays and get her fitted for her next cast. My office information will be on her discharge papers.”
“OK.” I bite my lower lip, knowing there’s no way my dad will let me go ten days before telling Isaac.
Even right now I can feel him beside me, silently urging me to tell him this second.
I focus on those warm brown eyes I’ve seen in my dreams, and in my daughter’s face, for five years. “See you soon, Isaac.” I know I’ll tell him. And I know I’ll tell him soon. I just don’t know what will happen after that.
I barely got a few bites of food into Claire after we got home. The discharge nurse warned me this would happen, but it still worries me. Usually Claire’s appetite is voracious, the source of so many jokes about her being a teenage boy in a little girl’s body. Begging her to take a third bite of applesauce took my already frazzled nerves and lit them on fire. She passed out as soon as I gave her pain medicine. Which was also something I was told to expect, but it was hard to watch.
I miss my little girl. Even though I’ve been with her all day, my little Claire has been absent. The wise nurse, who had clearly seen this plenty of times, also told me Claire would start acting like herself in a day or two. Her body has been through a lot. And she probably doesn’t understand most of it.
As soon as I left Claire’s room, I escaped to the front porch. Even though it faces the street, there's privacy. Ivy threaded trellises fill the space between the three brick posts that run the length of the porch. A large wooden swing hangs from the ceiling. My dad installed it last year, and when I questioned him about how securely it hung, he gave me a dirty look. I shut my mouth and fell in love with the damn thing, but every time Claire sits on it I feel nervous. I keep that feeling to myself though.
With one foot I push off the ground, letting the gentle sway calm me. For the moment, hidden out here behind the wall of ivy, I can pretend like today didn’t happen.
Of course, in order to forget, my mind would have to stop relentlessly throwing memories and what-if's at me. Right now, between the two adults living in this house, my dad is the only one allowing me to forget, and that's because he went mute the second we arrived home. I’m pretty sure he’s mad at me for lying to him about Isaac’s name. It was so long ago I don’t even fully remember why I lied. Mostly I think it was to establish my distance from the fiasco that produced the best thing in my world.
Our Finest Hour (The Time Series Book 1) Page 5