Dina Santorelli
Page 30
"I'm perfectly capable of signing my own paperwork," Edward said, raising his arm, but then stiffened.
"No, that's all right," Doctor Tucker said. "You go. We'll take care of things here. And I expect a full recovery, young man."
"Thank you, Doctor Tucker."
"You're welcome."
"And don't take too long," Edward said to Jamie as the orderlies maneuvered the gurney out the door.
"I'll be right there," Jamie said.
Tricia threw her handbag strap over her shoulder and took the drawings and cards that Peter and Sara had made for Edward down from the wall. Jamie surveyed the room, which had been filled with flowers when Edward first arrived—gifts from the Grands; the Garcias; the Manhattan DA's office; Worcester, Payne & Leach; her aunt in Arizona; and all sorts of well-wishers. Weeks later, nothing was left but a white-bloomed gardenia, which arrived accompanied by a plush monkey wearing a "get well" T-shirt. Tricia picked it up.
"I'll see you downstairs," she said. No sooner had she rounded the corner of the doorway did Jamie hear Edward bellow, "Where is she?" from the corridor.
"She's coming, Big Brother," Tricia's voice echoed in response. "Here, hold your monkey."
Jamie smiled at Doctor Tucker. "I guess some things never change," she said with a shrug. "Where do you need me to sign?"
"Oh." Doctor Tucker appeared lost in thought. He indicated the signature lines. Using the flat surface of Edward's tray table, Jamie signed and dated the forms as Doctor Tucker gave her some instructions regarding Edward's care. She handed him the paperwork.
"Jamie, there's actually another matter I'd like to discuss with you."
"Sure, what is it?"
The doctor seemed troubled, at a loss for words, unlike the self-assured, good-natured man who had gotten them through these last few weeks. "It's rather difficult to say..."
"About Edward?"
"No, no, Edward is recovering nicely. There will be lots of rehabilitative therapy, of course, and hopefully he will regain much of his flexibility and strength. This actually has to do with you."
"Me? How do you mean?"
"Well, you understand that for your brother's transfusion that all donated blood had to be subjected to a series of tests so that we could check for a variety of infections," he faltered, "you know... so we could keep your brother safe."
"Yes, I understand." The gravity of what the doctor was trying to say began to weigh on her. "Did you find a problem with my blood?"
"Not a problem, exactly..."
He put his hand on her arm. It was the first time that Jamie could remember that Doctor Tucker, for all his kindness, had made physical contact with her; she flinched at its unexpectedness, and a memory came to her: When her nephew Peter was three years old, she and he had been walking in Eisenhower Park on Long Island after a game of miniature golf. A small sparrow came to perch on top of a nearby bench, and Peter had screamed, terrified, at the sight of the tiny thing; the startled bird flew away immediately, but Peter was inconsolable. "There's nothing to be afraid of," Jamie said. "It's only a bird. It can't hurt you. Look around. They're everywhere. No one else is afraid." But Peter shook his head and said, "No one else sees the danger. Only me."
Jamie looked past Doctor Tucker through the rain-speckled glass window. Across the parking lot stood the towering west wing of Albany Memorial Hospital where, somewhere, up on the third floor, healing on a hospital bed, was Don Bailino. She had spent many nights, in the relative quiet of the hospital, looking out that window and wondering if the fear and the anxiety would ever go away. Since Bailino's arrest, everyone—Wilcox, Governor Grand, Mrs. Grand, Reynaldo, and Edward among them—had been assuring Jamie that Don Bailino would no longer be able to hurt her, that she would be safe, have protection. Years later, her nephew, who has learned that birds cannot hurt him, still flinches when a sparrow flies too close. And for the first time, Jamie felt as if she knew why. No one else sees the danger.
But if she had learned anything during this time, it was to take things day by day, to trust herself and hope for the best, to learn from mistakes and try again. She imagined that trauma did that for people, reminded them of all that they had instead of the things that they lost. She remembered her mother's words: "You don't always need a doctor, or people, to tell you what's going to happen, sweetie. Some things you just know." Jamie knew that despite all the assurances there was still a real danger out there, but she hoped that by concentrating on the good, the bad could one day fall away. And she hoped that she could one day live a life free from fear. In the meantime, she would keep trying.
Jamie put her hand over Doctor Tucker's, which was still on her arm. "It'll be all right. Whatever it is," she said. And she meant it.
Then Doctor Tucker said the unexpected words, and everything changed.
"You're pregnant."
THE END
Acknowledgments
For many years, the idea of this book settled comfortably into the background of my life, and I'd like to take a moment to acknowledge those individuals who helped me yank it to the fore. A heartfelt thank you:
To Judy Linden, Ellen Scordato and the entire team at Stonesong, which signed-up Baby Grand back in January 2010 when the manuscript was merely a third completed. Thank you for your dedication and for being staunch supporters not only of this book, but of me.
To Julia Markus, Martha McPhee and all my graduate professors at Hofstra University, the place where this book grew from a notation in a Word document to a partial manuscript. I am grateful for your advice and your encouragement.
To all my writer-friends and the "Making 'Baby Grand'" community on Wordpress, Facebook, Twitter and beyond, who have had a front row seat throughout the entire writing, editing and publishing process for this book. Thank you for cheerleading Baby Grand and for all your words of wisdom. I am proud to be in your company.
To Ma'am and Sir, who, although you are amused by "this book business" I've gotten myself into, are there whenever I need you — unless, of course, Murder, She Wrote is on. (Is it Wednesday already?)
To Viki, my person, for listening to me whine "I have no talent" during the dark days of the writing life and for calling me the next day to ask, "Well, do you have talent today?" and reminding me that I do. Thank you, as always, for being my friend.
To my Grammy, who taught me to always see the good in people, and to my Pop, the first writer in the family, who taught me how to drive with one hand. I miss you both very much.
To my Dad, a lover of thrillers. If I could target my audience for this book down to one person, it would be you. It was through your eyes that I imagined reading Baby Grand as I typed its pages.
To my Mom, who has always been my greatest champion and told me she would read my book even if it were written on a napkin. You have made me everything I am and truly are the wind beneath my wings.
To Tommy, who has been with me every step of the way. You help keep me grounded, while encouraging me to fly. I am so glad you are with me on this journey.
To Griffin, Helena and Jack, for being so understanding all those times the laundry wasn't done, dinner wasn't ready and I had to pull over to the side of the road in order to jot down an idea. A big part of the reason I became a writer was so that I could spend my days working at home and watching you grow, and I am so very proud of the smart, kind and loving people you have become.
About the Author
Dina Santorelli is a freelance writer/editor who has written for many print and online publications, such as Newsday, First for Women and CNNMoney.com. She served as the "with" writer for the nonfiction title, Good Girls Don't Get Fat (Harlequin, 2010), and is the current Executive Editor of Salute and Family magazines for which she has interviewed many celebrities, including James Gandolfini, Tim McGraw, Angela Bassett, Mario Lopez, Gary Sinise and Kevin Bacon. Dina also blogs about the writing life at http://makingbabygrand.com. Baby Grand is her first novel.
br /> Baby Grand, Dina Santorelli