“Of course. Absolutely.” My head was whirling. I didn’t have sole legal custody yet, but there I was, agreeing to contact terms with grandparents.
She seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “We’ll work out details later. You’ve plenty to do today.” She slid the straps of her handbag up her shoulder. “I must be off. It was very nice to meet you.” She bent to beam at Verona. “And of course you!”
She kissed her fingertips, touched them to Verona’s forehead, and sailed out.
Verona finished her bottle. The nurse offered to settle her to sleep. Though I longed to stay with Verona, I handed her off and went down the hall to the room where Fiona was recovering.
I heard the quiet sob when I was still a step outside the door. I slowed down.
“It’s not,” Sebastian’s voice said, low and soothing.
“It is. I’m a mess,” Fiona said—or some words like those. Slurred through tears, they were indistinct.
My chest blooming with secondhand pain, I approached the doorway.
Sebastian sat at her bedside with his back to me, his elbows on the bed. He held one of her hands; I saw his black-painted thumbnail move as he stroked her fingers. Of Fiona, I could only see a form under the pale-blue blanket, and a tangle of dark hair on the pillow. She was curled up on her side, and Sebastian’s body blocked most of her from my view.
Before I could decide whether to announce my presence, he spoke again.
“Listen to me. Nothing you’re feeling is wrong. Not one thing, no matter what anyone says. You’re free now, and you get to be relieved about that, and you also get to be sad about it, all at the same time. There’s not a thing wrong with you. Remember that.” He lifted her hand and kissed it.
Her fingers clutched his tighter.
I knew I was exhausted, because tears filled my eyes entirely too easily. There was nothing I could say to top that. Hats off, Sebastian.
I tried to step backward silently, but the carry-on bag over my shoulder scraped the wall, zipper tab clicking the metal frame, and Sebastian turned.
“God, you’re creepy,” he told me. “Lurking in doorways?”
I blinked to dispel the tears, and my face formed the meek grimace it habitually made when confronted with Sebastian. “Hey guys.”
Fiona shifted, sitting up, and smoothed back her hair. Her eyes were reddened, and she looked younger without her glasses. “Sinter. Come in.”
I approached and set down my bag. I’d read about the scary bleeding that tended to occur after giving birth, and had steeled myself for crimson-splashed sheets or garments, but her hospital gown and bed looked clean, as far as I could see. “Hi.” I stepped up to the side of the bed opposite from Sebastian—who glared, of course. I sat on the edge of the mattress and hugged Fiona carefully.
She leaned her head on my chest, as she had when I’d last seen her. She smelled like soap and clean hair. Unlike me, she had apparently washed lately.
“Sorry for the way I probably smell,” I said. “It’s been at least twenty-four hours and a plane ride since I showered. Plus now there’s spit-up on here.” I flapped my T-shirt.
She pulled back with a weak smile. “You’ve seen her, then.”
“Yeah. I went in and … yeah.” I could feel my loopy grin taking over. “I’m already completely in love.”
Her smile disappeared. She looked at the blanket in abstraction, while Sebastian tipped his chin to glower at me from a slightly different angle. He exhaled loudly through his nose.
“Sorry,” I said. “I … am so impressed. Seriously. You have bragging rights for life, going through something like this.”
Like she’d be bragging about it. God, I sucked at comforting people.
Sebastian cleared his throat, even less impressed with me than I was with myself.
Fiona touched a bandage on the back of her hand—they’d likely given her an IV there. “I don’t plan to do it again anytime soon, that’s for sure.”
“I bet. Oh, I met your mum. Briefly. She’s, uh, nice.”
Sebastian snorted. “Queen of insensitivity, more like. Which is irritating, because that’s my title and she’s nicking it.”
Fiona smiled at him. “As if anyone could take that crown from you, darling.”
“She did seem like she was sorry if she said anything rude to you,” I added. “I don’t know what it was, but …”
Fiona sighed. “Oh, only that I ought to leap out of bed, and get to work, dance about being happy that it’s all over, and stop this quote-unquote ‘moping.’”
“Ah,” I said. “Well. She did sound sorry. And hey, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll tell you some of the things my parents have called me lately.”
“It’s not a contest,” Sebastian snapped. “And if it is, I’m going to win that one too.”
Fiona set her hand on my leg. “Sinter’s just sympathizing. And I know my mum meant well. It’s just … I rather feel like everything I’ve gone through is pointless, and on top of that, my mum finds me pathetic.”
“I don’t think she does,” I assured. “Anyway, we don’t, which is what matters.”
Sebastian opened his mouth, then apparently realized he agreed with me for once, and sat back, arms folded. “And hardly pointless,” he added.
“Definitely,” I said. “To me it’s … well. Anyway.” No use making her feel bad again by telling her how happy the baby made me, when that wasn’t how she felt about Verona, or at least not how she could afford to feel. And probably she felt guilty for not feeling that way. Or something. It was complicated, in any case.
She gave my leg a pat. “No, but this is good. Seeing how you look when you talk about her, it doesn’t feel pointless. I’ve done something for you, at least.”
I slid my hand under hers and held it, careful not to press on top of the bandage. “You have. You so have. I mean, ‘thank you’ is never going to be enough, but thank you.”
Sebastian smirked. “See how much you’re thanking her when it’s three a.m. and the tyke won’t fall asleep, you’ve changed your tenth nappy of the day, and you haven’t bathed or slept all week.” He was clearly enjoying this future prospect.
“I hope you guys are out partying and having a great time while I’m doing that,” I said, truthfully.
“That we will be.” Sebastian rocked forward onto his feet and stood. “You fancied a hot chocolate,” he said to her. “I’ll go find you that, yeah?”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
He strolled off. After the clack of his boots on the tiles had faded down the hall, I looked straight at her. “Dude. He loves you.”
She emitted a weak chuckle and fell back onto her pillow, resting her forearms over her eyes. “Of all the times and places to make me think about that. When I look and feel my absolute worst.”
“You look awesome, all things considered. And you know I’m right about him.”
She rubbed her eyebrows, eyes closed. “I’m willing to say you are perhaps right.”
“Good.”
We lapsed quiet. I stayed perched on the edge of her bed. She opened her eyes and looked at the window. “A social worker’s coming this afternoon. I’m not sure of the exact time. If you’re able to be here, we can start the paperwork.”
My hands started tingling. Ready to be a proper adult, Sinter?
“My hotel’s just down the street. I might go drop things off, have a shower, but I can be here whenever you text me.”
“You’re sure?” She gazed at the outside world, not at me. “You take her, and I pay some standard child support until she’s eighteen or gets adopted by a partner of yours, whichever comes first. I get news or visits only as approved by you. This is what you want?”
“I’m fine with all that. Except you don’t have to pay child support. Your parents already plan to, and you’ve gone through enough.”
“It’s no hardship, and it’s the normal thing to do, legally.” She picked at the edge of the bandage. “Just a mo
dest amount, let’s say. I want to.”
“Okay. Then … I guess this social worker will tell me what I need to do before they let me take her out of the country.”
“I imagine you’ll have quite the week of filling out forms. I don’t envy you.”
“It’s worth it.” I looked at the doorway, my mind traveling down the hall to where my kid slept. “Nothing has ever been more worth it.”
“Then I’ll let you know when the worker gets here.”
“Okay.” I kissed her forehead and got up. “I’ll go check in at the hotel.”
She nodded. Her smile didn’t extend far, but I saw the steel again in her eyes, the determination to live and thrive. Thank God.
I couldn’t leave without visiting Verona once more. She was asleep in her nursery crib, all swaddled up like a burrito. I stood by her side a long time, watching her take quick, tiny breaths. The top of her head was warm and soft when I (so, so carefully) rested my finger upon it, touching the wisps of hair.
Finally, I told the nurses I’d be back within a few hours, and went out.
Sebastian was coming down the hall with a pair of empty paper cups. Evidently, he and Fiona had finished their hot chocolates. He lifted his chin to me, and we stopped as our paths crossed.
“Well,” he said. “I wanted Bradley MacCrossan to be the father, but I suppose you’ll do.”
“That joke’s never going to get old,” I told him.
“Never.” He stacked one cup inside the other. “So you’re in the city awhile?”
“Yeah. All the bureaucracy stuff is likely to take a couple of weeks.”
He poked me on the shoulder. “Let me babysit while you’re here. Text me when you’re knackered. I’ll come help. I mean it.”
“Thanks, man. I will.”
“Promise,” he threatened.
“I promise.”
He pointed at me, then walked off.
CHAPTER 39: DRIVE
AT MY HOTEL, I CRASHED ON MY BED FOR WHAT I INTENDED AS A BRIEF NAP, THEN WAS AWAKENED three hours later by Fiona texting me to let me know the social worker was there. I flung myself in and out of the shower, changed clothes, and dashed down the street. On the way, I ate a cereal bar I bought at a newsstand and checked messages. Still no answer from Andy, who should have been awake. But then, he was leaving for Tokyo in three days, so he’d be busy. Besides that, it had to be difficult for him to know what to say to me.
I’d make it easier soon. I hoped.
At the hospital, I longed to see Verona first, but this time I couldn’t; Fiona and the social worker were waiting.
In Fiona’s hospital room, I sat amid an array of papers and gave the social worker my driver’s license, passport, and answers to all manner of details about my life. The worker discussed parental responsibility and made sure I understood what it entailed and was ready to take it on alone. I promised I did, and babbled about all the research I’d done so far, and how much I wanted Verona and was ready to bend my life into a pretzel to accommodate her.
I approved the names and spellings on the birth certificate and felt myself grow up by a significant margin when seeing “Verona Taylor Blackwell” typed out upon it, not to mention my own full name under “Father.” I agreed to Fiona’s child-maintenance payments (I coaxed them down to a lower amount than she originally proposed), and contact-and visitation terms with Fiona and her parents: news at least yearly, contact info to be kept up-to-date on both sides, and in-person visitation only if approved by me, though of course I would approve.
My heartbeat blocked my hearing as I watched Fiona sign the agreement that gave me permission to transport our child from the country and take full responsibility for her. She had shadows under her eyes, her hair was pulled into a ponytail, and the hospital gown was a sickly pale green against her skin, but her hand stayed steady as she signed her name.
I signed too. The social worker explained the next steps, which basically would involve waiting a week or so until our arrangement was officially registered, then I’d cart Verona over to the US Embassy to procure an American passport for her.
“’Cause I mean, she’ll want to be president someday,” I remarked, daft by this point with sleep deprivation and gigantic life changes.
The social worker laughed, and Fiona did too.
With the feeling that this was all a crazy dream, I hugged Fiona again (who stayed sitting in bed, but wished me luck), gave her the crème de menthe, and shook hands with the social worker. Then I rushed down the hall to the baby who was my responsibility and no one else’s, and holy crap, who could sleep or get anything else done with that weight falling on their shoulders?
They discharged both Fiona and Verona the next day. I took Verona to the hotel and spent every waking hour learning how to care for her and dealing with my bureaucratic paperwork. Chelsea helped me buy interim supplies such as a front carrier, bottles, and diapering paraphernalia. Daniel and Julie paid me visits too, and occasionally took Verona on a walk when I needed a nap.
As I walked around London with Verona strapped to my chest, I saw the world through shocked new eyes. Dangers to a little kid were everywhere. Traffic, dodgy people, sharp objects, germs! Nonetheless, most of us had survived growing up somehow, so I supposed we’d manage.
Andy still hadn’t answered my text. I sent one more.
Sinter: Fiona’s signed Verona over. She’s mine. It’s surreal, but I’m happy. How are things? I know you leave tomorrow, hope it’s going ok. Let me know if we can talk soon. I really want to
Then I told Verona, “What do you think? Want to visit Tokyo in a month or so? We’ll find out soon how you like plane rides.”
Back in Seattle, Kam and Chris leaped into action, buying baby gear and stocking my duplex with it. I sent them a picture of Verona in the “Someone in Seattle loves me” onesie to cheer them on.
Even though she hated wearing socks, didn’t let me sleep more than three hours in a row, and was so loud in her crying fits it was a miracle the hotel hadn’t kicked us out, I loved her to complete absurdity. I went overboard taking photos of her on my phone, kept sending them to Kam and Chris, and waited impatiently for Andy to respond and request some too.
He didn’t.
His social-media pages didn’t have any new posts either.
As for telling my parents about her, I couldn’t process that yet. Not until I’d brought her home and settled things with Andy. Until then, there was nothing they could possibly tell me that I would want to hear.
The day before Andy was supposed to leave for Tokyo, I got a call from his dad, Carlos. “Sinter, hi.” He sighed heavily. “Well, I … have some bad news. Andy’s been in a car crash.”
I’d been pacing around the hotel room holding Verona, trying to lull her to sleep, but I sat with a thud on the bed, my legs unable to support me. “What?”
“Yeah, he … another car hit his, right on the driver’s-side door. This morning, in Seattle.”
“Is he okay?”
Common sense told me Andy’s own father wouldn’t be sounding this composed if Andy were dead. But Carlos did sound upset compared to his usual jovial self, and …
I wish you could have known him, I said to Verona in the future. He would have loved you so much. I should have asked him to marry me when I had the chance.
“There’s some broken bones, and he’s unconscious—they’re saying a closed head injury. They’re stitching up his face …”
“His face? A head injury?” My voice jumped an octave. “He’s unconscious?”
“Yeah, he … sorry, we don’t know everything yet. We’re on the road, on our way up there. I guess he’s going to have to postpone his Tokyo trip. I’ll tell you what we find out, but we wanted to let you know.”
Because they probably didn’t know our friendship was under strain lately. They were just doing the nice thing, telling his BFF.
Verona was crying. I bounced her in my free arm. “Oh my God. Um. Tell him … when he wakes up
tell him we’ll talk as soon as he can. When can I talk to him?”
“I’m not sure. They’re keeping him under sedation.”
“And what’s broken? You said broken bones?”
“His nose, his left arm, and they’re seeing about ribs and anything else. They’re going to have to do some scans for that and the head injury to tell us more.”
Verona rose to a full wail. I got up automatically to pace again with her. “Okay. Uh. I can’t come back yet, but I will as soon as I can.”
“It’s okay, Sinter,” he said. “I know you can’t. We heard you were over in London.”
“Yeah, I’m—yeah.” He had to be able to hear the baby crying. Had to be wondering.
But he didn’t remark on it. He did have more pressing things to worry about. “We’ll stay in touch. Here’s the hospital.” He gave me its name and promised to touch base soon.
We hung up.
Pacing with Verona, I found the number for the hospital in Seattle and called, telling them I was looking for Andy Ortiz, who had recently been brought into the ER. After putting me on hold for approximately centuries, a woman came back on and told me he was unable to be reached for the time being.
“What’s his condition?” I begged.
“Are you family?”
“Yes. Well—we’ve been best friends since we were kids. We’re basically family.”
“I can only give out details to family or spouse; I’m sorry.”
“But—no, you can ask his parents. They’ll say you can tell me. I promise.”
“Unless you’re a spouse or legal relative, we aren’t allowed. I really am sorry.”
She did sound sorry. I shouldn’t rant at her like a maniac. The policy wasn’t her fault.
My not being Andy’s spouse was also not her fault. It was mine, if anyone’s.
I snarled “Fine” through gritted teeth and hung up.
Verona was still crying, louder now. I made shushing noises and kissed her on the head.
All the Better Part of Me Page 24