“It’s not working. Maybe you should take her back.” As Skye spoke, the baby quieted.
“Talk to her. She calmed down while you were talking. She likes the sound of your voice.”
Skye tested the theory a couple of times by talking and then stopping, and sure enough, the sound of her voice seemed to soothe the baby. Instead of feeling flattered, the baby’s response left her chilled and sweaty. She didn’t want the responsibility that implicitly accompanied the attachment.
“What am I supposed to say? I can’t talk for an hour straight.”
“Sing to her or just tell her a story. She’ll probably drift off to sleep soon—they usually do. And hold your hand still, with just a little pressure,” Sherrie instructed.
Sure enough, the baby stopped struggling and making noises. With a little sigh, her eyes drifted shut, and she fell into an exhausted sleep. Sharie raised her eyebrows in an “I told you so” look and backed away, satisfied. “See? No patting, rubbing, or stroking. Their skin is simply too sensitive. Constant touch is best.”
Sharie finished tucking a soft blanket around the baby and turned to Cole, who had started wailing at his sister’s distress.
Skye peeked sideways at Mark. She didn’t want him to see her so unsure of herself and stupid again. Mark sat in the wooden rocking chair facing her, quietly watching with those keen, sharp eyes, taking it all in. Skye wondered what he thought but wasn’t brave enough to ask. He eagerly accepted the baby, who’d worked up into a fine tantrum. The baby turned all red and was shaking with the force of his pitiful, quivering mews. That couldn’t be good for him.
Mark snuggled Cole close, like a natural, making Skye resentful. Her own charge rested quietly on her. The little feet between her breasts were now toasty warm. Skye was already beginning to feel sticky where the baby lay.
She didn’t like feeling of plastic diaper under her hand either but was afraid to remove it. Despite the nurse’s instructions, under the soft blanket, her thumb lightly skimmed the baby’s back, as if it had a will of its own.
Skye watched Mark suspiciously while she rocked—more for something to do than because it was expected when one sat in a rocking chair. Boy, sitting still for hours was going to be dang trying.
Relax, Skye. You can do this. Only, she looked at the clock, fifty more minutes.
“You okay?” Mark asked, once the nurse left and Cole settled down.
Baby Cole probably felt safe and comforted, for he all but disappeared in the warmth of Mark’s large hand. With one last hiccup, Cole sighed and rubbed his little cheek against Mark’s chest before settling off to sleep. Skye could almost feel the pillow of flesh and soft chest hairs beneath her cheek and knew the comfort and feeling of protection to be found when cuddled in Mark’s arms.
“Yeah, sure.” She pulled her gaze from his chest to his relaxed face. “So why’d you really come back early?”
“To be with you.”
Good answer. “And after this?”
“How about I make steak, mashed potatoes and asparagus, with Heath Candy Crunch ice cream for dessert? I’ll light a fire, turn on some soft Christmas music, and serve you at the coffee table in front of the Christmas tree. How’s that sound?”
It sounded like fair compensation for tricking her into this. “Like you want to get lucky tonight.”
Mark leaned back in his rocking chair, shut his eyes, and cuddled the baby close. He opened his eyes and looked at her. “I already have.”
* * *
The next day, Skye waved at Peter when they separated in the hospital parking lot. Instead of his usual smooth, easy gait, Peter clumped along as if the simple process of putting one foot in front of the other exhausted him. New grey hairs streaked his temples, and wrinkles lined his face. The stress of working, unpaid bills, twins’ needs, and disabled wife wore on him more each time Skye saw him.
With each day that passed, it became painfully clear that Faith’s family was disassembling. Like petals falling one by one from a spent flower. Being separated from her family was about killing Faith. Faith was a homebody; she needed to collect her loved ones near. It’s just the way she was. And Skye needed to do something to help them.
Skye clicked her lock open and slid in the car. She stuck the key in the ignition but sat staring, not quite ready to leave. What they needed was someone to take care of the whole dang family full time. It could be you, her conscience whispered.
“No. Not me,” Skye muttered. That much commitment was beyond her. She needed isolation to grieve, not be thrown the middle of a needy family—relatives or not. Caring for others on a daily basis wasn’t a strength of hers, not by a long shot. Skye needed space. She had to find another way.
Chapter 17
The next night, Skye met Peter in Faith’s room at eight o’clock. She brought three éclairs from Faith’s favorite bakery and wine for them to share. Wine for her and Peter; Faith couldn't mix alcohol with her medications. Skye poured the wine, laid out the éclairs, and climbed onto the foot of Faith’s bed.
With her glass raised, she proposed a toast, “To us.”
Faith bumped her plastic water bottle against Skye and Peter’s wine glasses, asking, “What’re we celebrating?”
“My gift.” Skye studied her sister, who snuggled into her husband’s arms. “What would you like more than anything else?”
“To have Niki back,” Faith said.
Me, too. Skye wrinkled her nose and took a little sip of her wine. “I’m not a miracle worker. Try again.”
“To have the twins healthy and ready to go home.”
Skye cocked her head to the side. “Still not a miracle worker. Think smaller.”
“Win the lottery?”
Three strikes. This wasn’t going quite as she’d expected. “Smaller. More achievable.”
“A grilled steak,” she sighed.
Skye frowned.
“Sleep in my own bed?”
“Bingo.” Skye grinned. At last. “Tomorrow.” She inclined her head at Peter. “You might need to beg an extended lunch, but it’ll be worth it. Here’s your schedule.” She handed them a sheet of paper. “You have four ladies lined up to interview as housekeeper/chauffeur/cook/babysitter. And if you don’t like any of those, there are more to interview until you find the perfect person to help out.”
Skye flopped her hands in her lap, well satisfied with her efforts.
Peter took the paper and held it for Faith to read. Both wore expressions of wary curiosity.
“That’s great, Skye, but we can’t afford help like this,” Peter said quietly.
“Sure you can.” Skye tossed them an envelope with a large check in it. “Merry late Christmas. That’s just the first month’s wages. I checked with the agency, so it’ll cover it—and we’ll keep it up for as long as we need to. Three, six months, a year—whatever.” She sipped her Riesling.
Faith and Peter exchanged frowns. Faith held out the check. “Honey that’s great, but we can’t accept this. You don’t have that kind of money.”
“Yes, I do. I picked up a few more nights bartending.” Skye crooked a knee beneath her and leaned forward, ready to convince them. “Look, I want to help. This is something I need to do. Please?”
Faith’s hand with the check in it dropped and she looked at Peter. Skye read the indecision on their faces and knew their pride warred against the temptation to make life easier. And the whole package was complicated by accepting assistance from the little sister they'd helped raise, gotten out of scrapes, and protected.
Accepting Skye’s money elevated their relationship to another level, a more equal footing, and though they’d always encouraged Skye’s maturity and independence, her affecting the family in such a meaningful way took a little getting used to.
“After Dad died, you two became all the family I have. Don’t you remember those long talks hammering into me the importance of family and responsibility? Well, I’m being responsible.”
“That’s whe
n you were staying out all night partying and letting your grades drop,” Faith said. “This is different.”
“You took me in and got me through my ‘wild child’ years. Now it’s my turn.” She grinned. “This is me, being responsible.”
It took Skye a few days to get used to the awesome responsibility of committing to helping her family this way, but she’d gotten over the fear and actually looked forward to it. She enjoyed bartending and it was good money.
“Skye, you don’t owe us anything. You’re family,” Peter said.
“Exactly.” She stared at Faith, then at Peter. “We’re family, and I want to help. I’m not very domestic, and patience isn’t exactly a strength either. So let me help the best way I can. Please?”
Faith looked at Peter and lifted her eyebrows. He pursed his lips and searched Skye’s face the way he used to when she was a kid. As a teenager, Skye hated that scrutiny. She’d been convinced that Peter’s super-cop powers could see the truth running across her brain like bolded ticker tape declaring, “Skye lied. She really cut school to go to the park swimming with her friends.” But now she had nothing to hide.
Eyes wide, Skye stared boldly back, willing him to read the truth.
“You sure you want to do this, Squirt?” Peter gave her one last chance to back out.
She grinned. “I already have.”
* * *
“There is an international scientific consensus that now recognizes that human embryos are biologically human beings beginning at fertilization. Concurrently, the Roman Catholic Church teaches that from the moment of conception—the moment the sperm penetrates the egg and they begin dividing—an unborn life has been created. But this is where some scientists and the church diverge. The Pope is adamant in his belief that God creates human life and all human life must be respected and protected.” Edward paused and glanced at his notes.
“Now some fine people are tempted to believe that the good accomplished in healing a multitude of diseases, such as Parkinson’s, cancer, or diabetes, justifies the destruction of human embryos—human lives.” He paused and made eye contact with several people in the audience. “But it does not.”
Edward waited for the applause to die down. “If we did justify and excuse the killing of embryos, where would it end? It would open the door for somatic cell nuclear transfer, better known as therapeutic cloning. They could take a sick person’s DNA and implant it into an unfertilized egg whose nucleus has been removed, then prod it into growing in a Petri dish such that the sick person could have his or her embryonic twin.” He frowned and shook his head. “Scary.
“I think even people who support embryonic stem cell research would balk at this application, but by then it’ll be too late. The technology will exist and with it a whole host of new moral and ethical headaches. We need to nip it in the bud now. Human life—even in its most primitive form, must be respected and protected.”
Skye stood to the side in the front of the crowded ballroom, wondering if Mark was near. She took a few notes on Edward’s speech, but not trusting herself to take stellar notes or not to get distracted during his speech, she was also taping it.
Skye scanned the far side of the crowded ballroom and then the seats closest to the podium, looking for Mark. He’d had to run into the office for a few hours, but he promised to meet her here for moral support.
Now that Skye had vacationed with the Hastings and gotten to know them a little as a family, it added a layer of complication she hadn’t anticipated. In this interview, she needed to ask unique, significant questions that would establish her as a serious, noteworthy reporter, but her personal knowledge of Edward encouraged her to be more lenient with him.
Skye hoped Mark’s presence at the interview would keep her even-keeled. Mark calmed her. He reminded her to be rational and more focused, and hopefully his presence would cause Edward to let his guard down and make him more reasonable, too. But most importantly, she had to stay focused. She had to put Aspen aside and ask the hard questions and not give up until he answered them. They were back in the real world where he was Edward the Senator, not the sweet husband, totally inept father, and her boyfriend’s best friend.
Edward’s a big boy. He knows what he’s doing, Skye. It's not as if you’re out to harm him, personally. Using his influence to stop stem cell research is wrong. He’s the one potentiating millions of people’s misery by curtailing scientific progress. He’s partially responsible for Niki’s death—and millions more. He needs to be stopped.
She checked her phone for the sixth time in as many minutes. No text from Mark, but email from her PI. It’d been weeks since she’d last heard from him. He’d only be contacting her now if he finally had answers.
Skye bit her lip, took a deep breath, and tapped it open. She read the five paragraphs twice, then slowly nodded. She raised her gaze and looked across the packed room to the podium where the senator stood, speaking so fervently about the irrefutable rights of the unborn and how we must all draw a line and protect them—at any age. And now she knew why. Gotcha.
“Such an argument reduces human life to a matter of usefulness and it assumes that there are no moral absolutes. Both, I believe are unequivocally wrong. Just as it is wrong to kill unwanted or damaged babies in abortions. Just as it is wrong to kill frozen human embryos ‘left over’ from fertility clinics.” Edward leaned into the podium to emphasize his point.
“I believe stem cell research and therapy has a bright new horizon. I believe it has miraculous potential. I also believe,” he paused to make sure he had everyone’s attention, “that all can be accomplished without killing and exploiting the unborn.” Thunderous applause vibrated in the large room.
“Weekly, scientists are making tremendous progress in stem cell research where the stem cells have been harvested from placentas, bone marrow, or umbilical cord blood. Killing the unborn is not necessary. It’s immoral and I will not support it.”
More applause erupted.
“Using embryonic stem cells is the easiest answer—many scientists will tell you this, but the easiest way is not always the best way. In the 1950s and 60s, a drug called thalidomide was thought to be a simple cure for women suffering from morning sickness.” He paused. “It was not.
“While it worked well enough on the illness, it was directly responsible for more than twelve thousand children worldwide, being born deformed. Some without arms or legs. The easiest cure is not always the simplest in the long run.” Edward took a quick sip of water before continuing.
“Lead is a naturally occurring element. It is plentiful and accessible. Lead was widely used to extend protective properties of paints, to help automobiles attain better fuel efficiency, and for many other uses until it was discovered to be a deadly toxin.
“Today, lead poisoning is the number one environmental risk facing our children in the industrialized countries. In the United States alone, one out of every six children six years of age and younger, already contains toxic levels of lead in their bodies.
“Lead is a powerful neurotoxin that damages almost all body organs. Even small amounts can cause learning and developmental disabilities, attention deficit disorders, and behavioral problems. Lead. Another easy solution.
“In 1978, the United States banned the use of lead in paint. Has the quality of our paint diminished? I don’t believe so. Are women dying from morning sickness? Of course not. Have our cars’ fuel efficiency suffered since the demise of leaded gasoline? No. The car manufactures simply took the challenge and developed more efficient car engines. The easiest solutions are not always the best solutions.
“Some of the most amazing discoveries have resulted from having to overcome opposition—perhaps opposition serves the purpose of making us search for better answers—who knows? But killing an innocent is never the right answer to anything.” Edward smiled and nodded. “Thank you.”
After shaking many constituents’ hands, Edward made his way off stage.
Standing o
ut of the way of the milling crowd, Skye turned off the tape recorder and tucked it in her bag. She moved to the side and tried to capture her whirling thoughts and emotions and put sort of order to them.
Aspen had been a mistake. She never should have gone there—not before the most important interview of her career. Even without the PI’s information, it would have been hard, but now—she pushed back against the wall wishing she could melt into it and hide—she needed time to process all she’d learned and plan her strategy. She watched Edward smiling, shaking hands and slowly, but surely, making his exit. She didn’t have time.
Professional, Skye. Do your job. She mentally shoved her memories of Christmas vacation away, slammed that door, and locked it. Rewind to before Christmas. Be objective.
Okay, so Edward was a great orator; that’s indisputable. He’s an impassioned, charismatic leader, who seemed to have tremendous moral integrity. What he said made sense. On the whole, Skye understood how he came to think the way he did. She didn’t agree, but she understood.
And now, after knowing his background, she understood even better…and could sympathize. It’s personal for him, too. That’s why he’s so fervent. But nobody else knew that. Not yet.
Skye started at a light grip on her elbow and turned to look up at Mark. Dressed in a gray pin-stripped suit with a white shirt and pale blue tie, he looked wonderful. Mark’s arms hung at his side, and he stood a little stiffly as if unaccustomed to dressy attire. His keen, warm gaze soothed her nervousness.
“You came.” She smiled. “Shaved and dressed up, too.”
The frank appreciation in her eye made Mark stand a little taller. Skye looked great. “You didn’t think I would?”
“I knew you’d be here,” she replied airily.
The Lives Between Us Page 20