5. Subtle Signs
5
SUBTLE SIGNS
VIVIAN
I almost slipped on an icy patch while clearing the sidewalk outside of my bakery, my hand landing on the new van as I steadied myself. She was pretty painted all white almost like the snow. Even Paris said how much she loved the new car smell on the drive to school this morning. But I hated taking a handout like this from Richard, and I didn’t know what to make of it. I wished Chelsea was back from her honeymoon so we could chat about it.
With a sigh, I returned to shoveling the foot of white stuff from the walkway, all part of January in Holly Creek. Famous for its twice-a-year Christmas-themed entertainment, shopping, and festivities, now the town slept under a heavy blanket of snow like most of the upstate. At least this quiet spell of the new year meant we shopkeepers could finally take a breather and prepare for spring when the crowds would return.
After I finished that chore, I headed inside to heat a kettle of water for a hot drink. I reached for a pretty tin tucked behind the sugar bin—the one from Angelina’s in Paris that held a special batch of chocolat chaud , rich cocoa from Africa. Sadly, it held just enough left for one more cup. With Paris at school, I allowed myself a little indulgence.
Finally, my hot mug in hand, I sat down in the dining area of my bakery at one of the charming wrought-iron tables and chairs. I gazed upon the wall mural depicting the markets at the quaint rue Cler in Paris, like I was magically there. Sometimes the famous street called to me, leaving me longing for my French life. But this small town had suited me well. After my divorce, and my mother’s sudden passing, returning here to raise Paris had been an easy decision.
I loved growing up here and wanted the simplicity of that life for my daughter, too. Thankfully, Adrien had agreed to let us move here, probably all too happy to not have us cramping his style with the return of his bachelor life. We never meant that much to him.
Enough about the past. I had a long list of things to do today and dwelling on the disappointment of our marriage wasn’t one of them. Before I could open my laptop, though, Paris’s school suddenly called.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Bardeaux? This is Principal Karen Allen calling,” the authoritative voice boomed over the line. I winced at her use of my ex’s last name.
“Please. Just Vivian is fine.” I’d already informed her and the teachers that was my preference. The only reason I hadn’t reverted to my maiden name was that I didn’t want Paris to feel like she didn’t belong to me—silly, since of course she was my baby, regardless of the name.
“I’m afraid Paris collapsed during gym class this morning.”
“Collapsed?” Panic tightened in my throat.
“The nurse has her now, and detected a slight fever present. Could you please come get her for the day?”
She didn’t need to say more. “I’ll be right there.” I grabbed my coat, scarf, and keys, locked up the shop, and drove the van as fast as I could. The entire five minutes to the school, guilt gnawed at me. I had ended up canceling Paris’ pediatrician appointment last week because she seemed fine, and I dismissed it as just a bug, a bit of overexcitement during the holidays, or normal growing pains. But collapsing? That was different.
Then it hit me. I banged my hand on the steering wheel—she’d barely eaten breakfast because she said her tummy hurt. That might explain it; her appetite always fluctuated, sometimes plenty, sometimes none. I hated constantly nagging her about eating, afraid she’d develop a disorder.
Seeing her carried out by the school nurse to the front entrance made it clear this was something more serious. Gone was the usual sparkle in her eyes—pale and tearful as she fell into my arms, her whole body trembled. My maternal instinct screamed that this wasn’t normal. I needed to get her to a doctor right away.
“Mommy, are they going to give me a shot?” Paris asked, her voice a shaky cry from the booster seat as I drove us to the local clinic. I wasn’t entirely sure of the answer, but mustered up my courage and cleared my throat, determined to appear strong and upbeat for her sake.
“I’m sure it’s nothing. Whatever happens, you’ll be my brave girl, right, ma chérie?”
She nodded and met my gaze in the rearview mirror.
I forced a brave smile, exaggerating the happy crinkles appearing at the corners of my eyes, and brightened my tone as I added, “Guess what? When we get back to the shop after seeing the doctor, I’ll warm you up a cup of Angelina’s hot cocoa. Okay? I’ll even top it with Chantilly cream, your favorite.”
I hadn’t finished that cup before leaving the shop; I’d gladly swap my last mug of it for her to have a healthy diagnosis from the doctor. A small spark lit up in her eyes as she offered a faint smile. I loved how we shared a delight for those little Parisian touches just between us—special traditions, French words, and favorite foods.
At the clinic, I kept our hands laced together throughout the thorough exam by Dr. Stillman, a well-regarded local physician. He had already conferred with our usual pediatrician, Dr. Adler, and together they ordered tests. When the nurse came to draw the blood, I held my little girl tightly and whispered continuously in her ear about how strong she was.
They sent us home, rewarding Paris with a lollipop and stickers for not crying through the ordeal. Dr. Stillman promised to call a few hours later once the lab results were back.
How did other mothers handle this nail-biting wait? Since I couldn’t drop to my knees and pray for hours without alarming my daughter, I did the next best thing—baking, nearly a religion to me.
“Let’s make your favorite French Lace cookies,” I suggested, reaching for our matching aprons. Paris clapped her hands, always delighting in donning the frilly pink accessory and hat, imitating me at the large butcher block island that served as the heart of my kitchen at the shop. Although we lived in the apartment above us, which included a decent kitchen, we always did our baking here, where all the ingredients and tools we needed were right at hand.
We put on my playlist of French music, and, while La Vie en Rose serenaded us in the background, she sipped her cocoa and ate some scrambled eggs while sitting on a stool beside me. The rich, buttery rounds with a layer of chocolate frosting sandwiched in between came out perfectly. Watching her smile and giggle snacking away on one with me made it hard to believe that just a few hours earlier, she had collapsed.
Convinced that Dr. Adler’s forthcoming call would bear only good news, I closed the shop for the day to spend quality time with Paris. I’d have her off to bed early so she’d be fresh for school the next morning. Everything would be fine.
Only when the call finally came from Dr. Adler, her voice hinted at concern. “Vivian, how is Paris now?”
“She’s napping next to me on the couch, and seems fine. It’s nothing, right?” I asked.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, but Paris is severely anemic. We aren’t sure, but it could indicate a more serious issue like kidney disease, and further tests are needed. She’ll need a blood transfusion immediately,” Dr. Adler stated. Only the news didn’t register at first, like I was suspended between the perfect little world we had created and the intimidating reality beyond this moment.
“Oh. Okay. I could have her back to the clinic in an hour.” I peeked over at her, cozy under a blanket. Her tiny snores filled the space. We could head to the clinic, deal with that, and be home in time for dinner when I’d make her favorite croque monsieur .
Wait. Did the doctor say something about kidneys?
“Actually, Paris is AB negative, a very rare blood type, and our supply here is depleted. In her condition, fresh whole blood from a live donor is the best option,” she explained.
I offered mine, as casually as offering a pastry sample to a new customer, saying, “I believe I’m type A positive. Would that work?” After all, what did a transfusion really involve?
The doctor clarified that Paris could only receive AB negative or another negative blood type. “Your daughter needs this right away, Vivian. I’ve arranged everything for you at Albany Medical Center, where they’ll manage the procedure along with additional testing and treatment.”
“What?” I stuttered as the weight of all the words finally hit me, dragging my thoughts from a brief detachment straight into deep worry. Tears welled up as I yearned to reach for my precious child, to shield her from this ordeal. “But she seems fine. I mean, sometimes she doesn’t eat much, but?—”
“The signs were probably there, but too subtle and easy to pass off. Fatigue, lack of appetite, fevers, nighttime bathroom trips.”
“Oh, my God. All of that…” My heart sank. “Why didn’t I question any of these things?”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. We’re here now, and we’ll figure this out. I’ve already sent her records to Albany, and I’ll be available to coordinate with the doctors as needed,” she continued, though all I could do was stare at my sleeping daughter and wish I could trade places with her.
The next hour became a blur. With Paris’ condition deemed too weak for me to risk driving her, just in case, the doctors arranged for a life flight to transport us to Albany Medical Center.
Once again, I found myself aboard a helicopter. This time, however, I clutched Paris’s hand as if it were my lifeline, mindful of the IV the EMTs had inserted into her. While I was nervous on the inside, my daughter faced everything like it was one big, thrilling adventure. She stared out of the window on the left side of her bed, her eyes wide with wonder until the constant drone of the machine lulled her back to sleep.
I used the quiet time to quickly send a text to my ex in France—Adrien deserved to know what was happening with our daughter. Of course, I didn’t get an immediate reply, but that wasn’t surprising. Besides sending money on rare occasions, he’d mostly stepped aside, barely involved in our lives.
He’d flown to the states twice on business since we moved here, each time meeting us in the city for dinner. When I took Paris to France last summer, he was hardly around, sparing little time for her. He’d call on holidays, and Paris knew him as her father, addressed him as such, but she’d never really had a relationship with him of any substance.
I could have taken him to court for more money over the years, but his business ventures never did well. Besides, the energy it would take to fight him was more drama I didn’t need in my life. There were so many regrets I had about marrying him, but now wasn’t the time to dwell on the past.
Next, I texted my brother. Keaton was away skiing near Denver over the New Year with friends. He sent a text back assuring me he would fly home immediately if needed. He was set to return in a few days anyway, so I told him not to worry, and I promised to keep him updated on Paris’s condition.
Besides, he had his own venture to tend to, the Holly Creek Hops Brewery which had fast become a popular establishment when he opened it a few years ago. It didn’t hurt the business at all that he was one of 8 bachelors in the reality TV show, Brewed for Love, last year, which featured micro-brewery bachelors competing for beautiful bachelorettes. He came in as a runner up, but with his good looks and charm, his internet celebrity status prevailed.
Someday, he’d find someone and start his own family. He deserved that. So I would never want us to be a burden to him.
After that, I reached out to Chelsea, though I hated to interrupt her newlywed bliss. She and Rex were enjoying an extended honeymoon in the Maldives, sailing and living their dream. Who knew when she’d receive my messages? I wouldn’t blame her if I didn’t hear back for a while—if I had just married a man like Rex, my phone would be the last thing I’d give attention to.
Aside from Keaton, Chelsea’s family was my closest connection. I loved her siblings, Maisy and Colt, too, but they no longer lived in Holly Creek, what with Maisy working somewhere in the Southern Hemisphere on a science vessel, and Colt in the military.
I thought about texting their mother next, but knowing that Aunt Flora would worry excessively, I decided to wait until I had more details. As my mother’s sister, she was like a second mother to me and Keaton, and Paris called her Gramma Flora. We made it a point to see her for dinner at her Flora’s Diner in town at least once a week.
That was all. With just a few texts, my entire family was informed of the situation, leaving me on my own again. A less resilient woman might have buckled under the pressure and stress of single motherhood, but not me. I didn’t have the luxury.
I’d made the mistake of falling in love with a man who I shouldn’t have, but I survived it. Somehow, I would get through this too, taking care of my daughter by myself.
“We’ll be landing in about five minutes,” the EMT announced, waking Paris.
“Hi sweetie. Almost there,” I said, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. The day I took a pregnancy test about a month or so after I’d returned to Adrien, I was so ecstatic. In the midst of our reunion, falling madly in love all over again, he and I hadn’t been careful enough with protection.
At first, Adrien seemed hesitant about my pregnancy, but soon he became fascinated by the changes in my body. He promised things would be better between us. Before the baby came, he swept me off my feet with a whirlwind wedding, and things were grand at first. It didn’t last.
Tears welled up in my eyes as the bad times reared their ugliness in my thoughts, but I quickly brushed them away before Paris could notice my sadness. Her attention fixated on the view out the window, anyway.
What was going through her mind? Was she scared? How could a child comprehend all of this? Yes, I’d had to be strong for us for so long, but there were occasional moments like this when I wished for a different life, where I had someone to help share the burden.
If I could ever trust a man again, what would that even feel like to have someone in our lives to care for us like we deserved?
The helicopter touched down on the hospital rooftop in Albany, jolting me. Stop it, Vivian. Right now, my daughter needed me fully present and anchored in the moment, not lost in a past I couldn’t change or a fantasy where the perfect man existed who could love us both.
An hour later, we were settled into a shared room. The family on the other side of us smiled kindly as the nurse drew a curtain between us. From bits and pieces I overheard, I gathered their child, Jessica, was awaiting a kidney transplant. I couldn’t imagine if that was my daughter in their situation…
I sat on the bed and clung tightly to Paris’ hand as she watched a show on TV, all of this too serious and surreal to even comprehend, when a knock came at the door. I expected a doctor, but I gasped—Richard Buchanan stepped inside.