15. Blake
15
BLAKE
We pile into the car, ready for the hospital visit. This is the first time I’ve been entrusted with such a delicate life, and it’s damn hard to hold it together without my emotions spilling over.
“Are you okay with those bags?” Georgia-May glances back, noticing me struggling to untangle a few straps. Meanwhile, Coco’s chin rests on her shoulder, the baby observing me just as keenly.
“I’m fine, Georgia-May,” I reply, juggling her purse, Coco’s day bag, along with a bag packed with snacks and water, all hanging from my shoulders.
“Not often I score a personal porter for the day.” Her grin spreads contagiously.
“Black!” Coco exclaims, pointing at me.
“It’s Blake,” Georgia-May corrects, pressing a tender finger into Coco’s side to tickle her, eliciting peals of giggles from the delighted child.
After a brief wait, a doctor calls Coco’s name.
Georgia-May locks eyes with me as if waiting for me to get up.
“Do you want me to come in with you?” I ask tentatively, unsure what I should or shouldn’t do—or feel. I’m with a devoted mother who does everything for her daughter. At the same time, this woman stirs up all sorts of wants within me. And then there’s Coco, the little girl at the heart of it all.
“Please, I need you,” Georgia-May says sweetly, holding my frayed nerves together.
The doctor introduces himself as the neurophysiologist who will be overseeing Coco’s therapy. “Today, we’ll start with an assessment to establish a baseline for Coco’s muscle function.”
As he holds up a bundle of cables, Coco’s eyes widen in fear, her small frame trembling as she cries, “Hurt!”
Georgia-May wraps her arms around Coco, whispering comforting words. “It won’t hurt, baby, I promise you.”
Georgia-May still holds in a lot more than she has let out, but that love for her daughter cannot be faked.
Her daughter’s cries amplify, her protest intensifying with each breath.
“I know, baby. But we need to start with this.”
“Hurt!” Coco wails. Among her limited vocabulary, it tears at me to hear that word spill from her tiny lips.
At that moment, as if drawn by my silent urgings, Coco fixes her gaze on me, her eyes begging for comfort. As her distress pierces through my defenses, I muster every shred of fortitude within me, returning her gaze with a pledge that we will get through this together. Witnessing her eyes alight with a spark of courage, she turns her head toward the doctor.
“You’ll be okay, Coco,” he says.
Coco lies still, her hand clinging to Georgia-May’s as the doctor begins the test, carefully attaching the cables to Coco’s head, avoiding the stitches from her operation. He meticulously connects each lead, monitoring her brain’s reactions as he touches her legs.
“Coco, kick,” he instructs, nudging at her leg to make sure she understands. “Kick.”
Her face is determined as she attempts to kick her legs. The doctor feels every movement, though small, perhaps only manifesting as pulses. Georgia-May stands by Coco’s side, her hand resting on her daughter’s shoulder. I stay close, admiration rising within me for their courage. The doctor watches intently, noting the coordination in her movements.
“Good work, Coco! You can rest now,” he says, stepping back from the table, his eyes reflecting pride in her effort. He turns to Georgia-May, his expression earnest. “The signals are weak, but they’re present. Her brain is attempting to communicate with her muscles, though the connections aren’t fully established at this point.”
“So it’s promising, then?” Georgia-May asks, her voice threaded with anxious hope.
“Absolutely.” The doctor grins broadly. “Now, I’ll gently mobilize her legs and provide some therapeutic massage.”
With expert care, he manipulates her legs, bending and extending them, his fingers applying pressure without causing discomfort for Coco.
“She always wants to move, even though she can’t,” Georgia-May observes, watching her daughter with a mixture of concern and admiration. “She gets frustrated, but she doesn’t stop.”
“As long as she’s comfortable and willing, continue to support her and allow her to move her legs as much as she’s able,” he suggests while massaging Coco’s legs, explaining it’ll boost circulation and enhance nerve responsiveness. “Be sure to reward her efforts. It’s crucial that she develops positive associations with movement and therapy sessions.”
“Sure thing,” Georgia-May responds.
“If you have access to a swimming pool, I’d recommend taking Coco there. Does she enjoy being in the water?”
“Oh yeah!” Georgia-May replies enthusiastically.
“Excellent. Use a flotation device and make sure to stay close to her at all times. It will make the experience more enjoyable for her and beneficial for her mobility,” he advises.
As Coco completes her therapy, Georgia-May notices her daughter’s brow glistening with sweat, a testament to her determined efforts. Deciding it’s time for a fresh change of clothes, she gathers her daughter close.
“Tell me what you need,” I offer, preparing the bag for her. Georgia-May rummages into the open bag, retrieving a handful of clothes and a bottle of baby powder. “That’s everything, thank you,” she smiles.
“I’ll wait outside,” I murmur, stepping back to afford Georgia-May and Coco some privacy. The door closes with a click, sealing them away. I lean against the cool, impersonal wall of the corridor, my thoughts lingering on their grace under pressure and unyielding strength.
My phone lights up. It’s a text from Clay, and I call back.
“Hey, big man, how’s it hanging?” Clayton’s voice greets me.
“Not too bad. Just wrapped up a therapy session for Coco, Georgia-May’s daughter.”
“Hope she’s holding up okay.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty calm now, but I’d feel a whole lot safer with them in Cali. She lives with her sister, and their house is hardly secure. Bertram won’t stay quiet for long. Plus, there’s Coco to think about. She’s still just a toddler, Clay,” I say, my voice betraying a hint of the ache I feel at the thought of her frailty.
“You know we’ve got your back. Anything you need, including Wyatt and the jet.”
“Appreciate it, Clay. I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Seriously, just give the word, and it’s done.”
The call concludes, leaving time to stretch as I wait for Georgia-May to finish. I find myself transfixed by the pale blue door, envisioning her inside, tenderly caring for Coco, perhaps coaxing a giggle from the child with a small tickle—a gesture I’ve come to recognize as her own. How does one turn away from such love? Oh, how splendid it would be to entwine my life with theirs?
The word NEVER sprayed in bold capital letters across my chest like bad graffiti has begun to fade with every moment spent with Georgia-May. Perhaps I do wield the power to erase it. But the question lingers. Where do I begin?
Although I never broke Georgia-May with our initial kiss, which withered before it could bloom, I despise myself for the disappointment it brought. At the time, I believed she deserved better than a flawed man like me. Yet, having now tasted the sweetness of her world, I wonder. How would she love me? Could I possibly love her in the way she deserves?
God, how I want to lay it bare to her. I want her—not as part of the fleeting patterns of quick hellos and goodbyes and meaningless sex I’ve known all too well. But after years of solitude, carrying regret that feels like a rain-soaked coat, unlearning a pattern is harder than acquiring it. If I fail, how do I protect her from the fallout?
The two girls under my protection have become my world, reigniting a zest for life in a heart once devoid of any real connections. Not even a pet, with only my robot Poppy for company. Can I offer Georgia-May the love I once felt for Flo? Or is it unjust to compare those feelings with what I now experience for her? Despite the pain these comparisons bring, I find myself hopelessly caught in their grip.
Georgia-May is not Flo. She radiates formidable independence, seemingly invincible. Aside from the danger Bertram poses, she doesn’t need me. Yet I’m drawn to her with a fervor beyond anything I’ve known before.
As the door to the room swings open, resolve settles over me. It’s time Georgia-May knew the real me.