It’s six days before we get the call that Marcus is awake. An additional three hours and twenty-five minutes before Anthony is able to extract me from school and drive me back to Children’s Hospital Los Angeles. And another eleven minutes before we make it to the front counter at the check-in.
The same Hispanic woman I remember from before prints visitors’ passes for Anthony and me.
“Excuse me?” I say to her.
She glances up. “Yes, miss?”
“May I get an application to volunteer here?”
She reaches into a drawer beside her and hands me a packet of papers. “Filling these out is the first step. Then there’s a mandatory eight-hour information session. We only do them once a month on a Saturday. If you miss it, you’ll have to wait until the next month before you can move forward to orientation.”
I place the packet inside my backpack. “Thank you.”
Anthony thanks the lady, as well, and we move off.
“Hey,” I start. “Would you mind if I went up alone?”
He shifts. I can tell he does mind but rather than object he replies, “Sure. Not a problem. I can visit the McDonald’s here.”
“You can’t eat McDonald’s. Everything is covered in gluten.”
“I’ll spit out the gluten. Follow the green line to the elevator. Eighth floor.”
“Okay. Thanks, Dad.” I freeze. Holy. Baloney. Did I just say what I think I said?
Anthony grabs my hand. “Dude. You just called me Dad.”
“Um, well...” I run my fingers through my long extensions. “You just called me dude.”
He squeezes my shoulder. “You can call me Dad. Anytime, okay? Tell Marcus and the family I’m here if they need anything.”
I nod and move off. I called Anthony Dad? What are the odds?
* * *
When I push into Marcus’s ICU room, Jo and Monique are sitting in chairs beside his bed. They both stand when I enter.
“Tiffany Sly,” Jo says softly.
“Hi, Tiff,” Monique whispers.
The tone of the room is quiet and peaceful. Zen for Marcus.
I follow their lead. “Hello, you guys,” I whisper, pulling idly on the sleeves of my Curington polo.
Marcus is hooked up to an assortment of machines, the honey-brown skin on his face scrubbed clean of makeup. I stand speechless for a moment. Not sure why I didn’t think that I’d be seeing him this way—without the white face. He looks so gentle, kind and soft...like his voice. His green eyes sparkle. I don’t even realize I’m crying until Jo hands me a tissue and I wipe my eyes.
“Hi, Marcus,” I whisper.
He waves from his hospital bed.
“He’s got a dry-erase board,” Jo explains. “So he can communicate with you. Won’t be another few days until they can take out the trach tube. Then he can continue spreading wisdom and being his ol’ incorrigible self.”
Marcus writes on his board. We all wait for him to finish. A moment passes and he turns the board over. It reads, I’m not incorrigible.
We all smile.
“Yes, you are, honey.” Jo moves to his side, kisses him on his cheek. “Yes, you are.”
“Let’s grab some food, babe,” Monique says. “Give the kids a chance to chat.”
Jo wrings her hands together as if the thought of leaving Marcus for even one second is making her uneasy. “Okay.” She kisses Marcus’s forehead. “Okay. Tiffany, you press this button right here should Marcus need anything at all, okay?”
I nod and the two leave. The door shuts quietly behind them.
“Marcus McKinney.” I sit beside him. “I never realized how attractive you are. Without all that makeup I can see it now. Jeez. We might have to rethink this cousin/family pet relationship.”
He writes on his board. I wait patiently for him to finish. He turns it over to show me. I thought you liked thirty-year-old white men?
“See? Incorrigible.” I unzip my backpack and present to him the folder and articles of incorporation for our new nonprofit. “It’s a nonprofit that not only helps victims of heart disease who don’t have insurance and money for the care and medication they need, it also teaches victims of HCM meditation techniques so they can learn to keep their heart rhythms under control. But I know nothing about meditation, and neither does my dad...so we’re hiring you to help get things started.”
Marcus gives me a thumbs-up.
“Do you like it?”
He writes on his board, I’m proud of you, Tiffany/God.
I grab his hand; a jolt shoots through my body. I quickly release it. “Whoa...”
He writes, Without the makeup, energy coming through me is so strong. I’m sorry.
“Don’t be sorry. That’s freaking cool. I’m tellin’ you, you need to be on a morning talk show.” I take his hand again. This time the jolt doesn’t shock me as much. It does make the hair on my arms stand straight up, though. “London’s not pregnant, by the way.”
He nods as if he already knew that.
“And Anthony is my real dad.”
He nods again and writes, Duh.
“You’re totally psychic. Just admit it!” We sit for a while. Holding hands and listening to the sound of his many beeping machines. “You know, back in the olden days, before they had Wi-Fi, people used to read books out loud for entertainment. So I was thinking we could pretend we don’t have Wi-Fi and I could read you this new book I got. What do you think about that?”
He releases my hand to write on his board. I like books. You think it’s gonna be good?
“I don’t know,” I say. “Quite honestly, I’ve been a little bit scared to read it. But not anymore. I think I’m ready. Actually, I know I am. Maybe it’ll even help me find my way back.”
I reach into my bag and extract The Boy Who Lived Before. I hold it up for Marcus to see. He smiles and writes, I’m all ears.
I flip the book open to the first page, where a simple quote is italicized and read out loud.
“Everybody wants to go to heaven,
But nobody wants to die.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Thoughts of death immediately rush in. I strain to push them out, trying to imagine the sound of Marcus’s soothing voice. It’s okay, Tiffany, he’d say.
I know it is. But I also know that I am going to die someday. Marcus will, too. But one thing’s for sure. We probably won’t die at this minute. Everything happens. But for now what’s happening...is a very special moment with my very special friend.
Thump-thump, thump-thump:
And for the first time in so very long, the foreboding of my rapidly beating heart says nothing.
I smile and turn the page...
* * * * *
Acknowledgments
It was my own experience with depression and anxiety that compelled me to create the world of Tiffany Sly, but I could not have brought this story to life without the guidance from superamazing people that I know, love and admire.
First up, my fabulous team of agents at Triada US, with special thanks to Dr. Uwe Stender. You are, quite simply, the best. Thank you for your honesty, love and incredible work ethic. I’m sure I’ve known you for a billion years. I hope we stay friends for a billion more. Times infinity.
Mallory C. Brown...you’re lovely. And thank you for always being down to read early drafts and give feedback. Your honestly is invaluable. I appreciate you.
To Brent Taylor. One phone conversation with you and Tiffany changed forever. I will be eternally grateful for you.
Thank you to my amazing team of editors at Harlequin. Extra special thanks to T.S. Ferguson for your genius. I’m so grateful to have landed under your care. I admire you. Thank you Natashya Wilson for your insight and for seeing the beauty in Tiffany.
Thanks to copy editor Christine Langone and cover desig
n team Bora Tekogul and Erin Craig.
To my early readers, Sarah Skilton, Kevin Richmond and Gregory Schwartz, thank you for your insight. Additionally, thank you Gregory Schwartz for the crash course in geography. And thank you Travis Lee Stephenson for guiding Tiffany’s love of music.
In addition: Martha Davis, Carmen Price, nurse extraordinaire, for your vast medical knowledge (all mistakes my own). My Electric Eighteens and Bree Barton for your love and support during this whirlwind debut experience.
Thank you to my family, who supported my writing. A trillion thanks to my mom, Candra Cheers. The drive that I witnessed in you has become the foundation of my life. I could not have spent so many hours laboring over this story without the values you instilled in me. You were my first example of active prayer. Thank you. Thank you.
To my darling daughter, Cameron. This story could not have come to life without you and our journey thus far. Thank you for choosing me. I love you so much.
To my aunt Margaret Stone. I know you’re reading this from the other side. I love you and miss you.
A very sincere thank-you to my readers, especially those who can relate to the complexities of tackling life after trauma. I hope you enjoyed taking this journey with Tiffany.
Until next time,
Dana L. Davis
ISBN-13: 9781488030550
Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now
Copyright © 2018 by Dana L. Davis
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 22 Adelaide St. West, 40th Floor, Toronto, Ontario M5H 4E3, Canada.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com
Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now Page 27