Chapter 3 Nate
three
nate
Mrs. Swanson was still in Chicago visiting her daughter, had been for three days now, and wasn't due back until later today. Which left me scrambling for childcare on one of the busiest days of the week.
It wasn't ideal—I hated not knowing exactly where Paige would be every minute of the day—but Meghan had promised to text me updates, and the science museum was safe, educational, and would keep Paige entertained for hours.
"Dad, you're doing the thing again," Paige said from the passenger seat, not looking up from her book.
"What thing?"
"The checking-your-watch-every-thirty-seconds thing." She looked at me with amused exasperation. "It's 6:25. We're here exactly on time, like always."
I forced myself to stop looking at my watch. The Metro General parking lot was starting to fill with the day shift arriving, but no sign of a beat-up Honda Civic with the dented front bumper.
"Just making sure we're coordinated," I said, scanning the lot again.
The digital clock on my dashboard flipped to 6:30 AM. No sign of Meghan.
"Dad?" Paige looked up from her book, concern creeping into her voice. "Shouldn't she be here by now?"
"She's probably just running a little late, sweetie." I kept my voice even, masking the anxiety that was already building in me.
Six thirty-two.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Meghan again. Straight to voicemail. Again.
"Hey, Meghan, it's Nate Crawford, Paige's dad. I'm in the ER parking lot waiting. Please call me as soon as you get this."
Paige shifted in her seat, closing her book; "The Giver" by Lois Lowry. She'd been engrossed in it all week, breaking my heart by pointing out that the main character had never seen color until after a special experience. "Dad, aren't you going to be late?"
"I've got a few minutes." The lie rolled off my tongue easily, alongside the forced smile.
I'd been imbued with a rigid sense of duty—show up fifteen minutes early or don't show up at all.
The military had only reinforced that. But Metro General's HR department had reinforced it even further with their new "three strikes and you're out" attendance policy.
Six thirty-five.
I scrolled frantically through my contacts. Mrs. Smith from two doors down? No, she was at her daughter's for her baby's birth. The Thompsons? On vacation in Europe. Every name blurred together as my anxiety mounted.
Six forty.
"Dad?" Paige's voice was small now.
"It's okay, Paige. We'll figure it out." My fingers flew over the phone, sending a rapid text to Mrs. Swanson on the off chance she'd returned early.
Mrs. S - Desperate situation. Are you back in town by any chance? Meghan no-showed, and I'm about to start my shift.
Six forty-three.
My stomach dropped as the reality set in. I was utterly screwed. Call in late and face a potential write-up that could jeopardize everything I'd worked for? Or bring my daughter into an ER filled with HIPAA violations waiting to happen, infectious diseases, and God knows what else?
Some choice.
Six forty-five. My official start time.
I stared at the steering wheel. Sophia would be looking for me. The night nurse would need to hand off report. Every minute I sat here was another mark against me.
Six forty-seven.
"Dad, I can stay in the car," Paige offered, looking so grown-up and serious that it broke my heart. "I've got my books. It's not even hot out."
"Absolutely not, Paige." The thought of leaving her alone in a parking lot made my skin crawl. "That's not safe, not even a little bit."
Six forty-nine.
A desperate plan formed. I'd punch in, find Sophia immediately, explain the situation, and... then what? Take the write-up? Beg for mercy?
"Okay, Paige, here's what's going to happen. We're going inside. I need to talk to my boss, Miss Sophia—you met her at the holiday party a while back—and we'll figure something out. Just... stay close to me, okay?"
She nodded solemnly, tucking her book into her cat-shaped backpack.
Six fifty-one.
We half-jogged across the parking lot, through the ambulance bay, and straight to the time clock. My badge swiped through with a merciful beep.
06:52.
Made it. Barely. But now came the hard part.
I guided Paige through the maze of corridors, hyperaware of every privacy curtain, every exposed patient chart, every potential hazard.
The break room door loomed ahead, and I could hear the murmur of the day shift getting their assignments.
Sophia would be there, clipboard in hand, wondering where the hell her usually punctual nurse was.
My hand on the doorknob, I looked down at Paige. "Remember, sweetheart, just—"
"Stay close and be quiet," she finished. "I know, Dad."
Then we were in, and every eye in the room turned to us.
The sudden silence was deafening. I felt Paige shift closer to my side, and my face burned with shame.
Eight years as an ER nurse, and I'd never felt more unprofessional than in this moment, standing in the staff break room with my eleven-year-old daughter at my side.
Sophia's eyes found mine, surprise quickly replaced by concern. "Nathan. The charge office, please?"
Thank God. At least I wouldn't have to explain myself in front of everyone.
I followed her, Paige trailing silently behind me, clutching her book like a talisman. Once inside the relative privacy of the charge office, the words spilled out in a desperate rush.
"Soph—Miss Mitchell. Ma'am, I apologize for the breach of protocol.
" I felt myself slipping into military formality, a defense mechanism against the crushing embarrassment.
"My babysitter didn't show, no warning, no communication.
I had no alternative childcare options available on short notice. I have no excuse."
Sophia's eyes softened. "Nathan, you could be on fire and you'd apologize for the smoke. Relax. It's okay."
I exhaled sharply, some of the tension leaving my shoulders. Still, the immediate problem remained.
She smiled cheerfully at Paige. "Hi there. I'm Sophia. Your dad's told me a lot about you."
Paige gave a small, polite nod. "Nice to meet you."
"Okay, Nate," Sophia continued, her voice even. "Deep breath. It happens." She paused. "She can't go out there. And you'll be worried sick if she's just tucked away somewhere." She glanced at the schedule. "Can you get someone to pick her up soon?"
I ran a hand over my face. "Working on it. My neighbor usually helps in a pinch, but she's out of town until this afternoon. I'm calling everyone I know."
"You could call out," she offered, though we both knew what that meant. "I can try to cover triage myself for a bit, or ask Maria to pull someone from the float pool, but... it'd count as an occurrence. And a late call-out."
The unspoken "and you can't afford that" hung in the air between us. Even one occurrence and I'd be on thin ice. With Paige, I couldn't risk it. Who knew when she might actually get sick and need me to stay home with her?
I shook my head, feeling the walls closing in. Then a knock at the door interrupted us, and Tasha Williams stuck her head in, coffee in hand.
"Oh my God, hiiiii, is this your daughter?" she asked, her eyes lighting on Paige. "The one who drew that heart valves picture you showed everyone!?"
I blinked, momentarily thrown by her enthusiasm. Tasha Williams, of all people, remembering Paige's science project?
Paige looked up at me, surprise evident. "You showed my drawing to people?"
My ears burned. "It was exceptional work."
Tasha leaned down to Paige's level. "I thought it was soooooo cool how you included the interatrial septum. Most people forget that's technically a fifth distinct area."
Paige brightened visibly, sitting up straighter. "Dad helped me build a model!"
"If you need someone to watch her," Tasha continued, turning to Sophia, "I could stay with her in the break room. Just until Crawford can sort something out." She shrugged. "I'm good with kids. Got a bunch of younger cousins."
I stared at her, utterly dumbfounded. Tasha Williams, the same nurse who'd rolled her eyes at me three days ago when I'd asked for her help with a difficult catheter, was offering to babysit my daughter?
"Are you sure, Tasha?" Sophia asked, her tone neutral but evaluating. "You'd be responsible for her. I'd need to pull you from the floor."
"I can handle it," Tasha replied, a flicker of her usual defensiveness in her voice. "For an hour or so. Give him time to make some calls."
Sophia made her decision quickly. "Okay, Tasha. Thank you. For one hour. Break room. I'll let Nathan and I handle Fast Track between us."
Relief washed over me, so profound that for a moment I thought my knees might buckle. "Tasha, I... thank you. Seriously. I owe you big time."
"No worries, Crawford," Tasha said, already turning to Paige. She gestured to the book in Paige's hands. "Is that 'The Giver'?"
Paige nodded, holding it up. "For school."
"That's one of my favorites," Tasha said, her face lighting up with genuine enthusiasm. "The ending still makes me mad, though."
Paige's eyes widened. "You've read it?"
"Dystopian literature is kind of my thing," Tasha admitted, then looked at Sophia defensively. "What? I read!"
Sophia raised her hands in surrender. "Never doubted it."
I hesitated, then unzipped my backpack and handed Paige her lunch bag. "Your lunch. Protein bar for midmorning. Water bottle's full. Remember your inhaler's in the side pocket if you need it."
"Dad," Paige muttered, embarrassed. "I know."
"Want a juice box, Paige?" Tasha asked, already steering her toward the door. "We've got apple, orange, and prune... mmmmm, we should probably skip that last one."
Once Tasha and Paige were out of earshot, the door closing behind them, Sophia turned back to me with an expression I'd seen too many times—gentle concern mixed with unspoken questions.
"Are you okay, Nate?" she asked, lowering her voice. "Have you heard anything from... her?"
The careful way she avoided saying Sarah's name was deliberate, respectful. But it still landed like a blow. My jaw tightened involuntarily.
"No," I said, keeping my voice even. "Last I heard, a few years ago, she was somewhere in Florida. 'Finding herself.'" I couldn't help the short, humorless breath that escaped. "I still email photos of Paige to her folks, her grandparents. Never hear anything back. It is what it is."
I tried for casual dismissal, but the words tasted bitter.
Eleven years of silence. Eleven years of Paige's first steps, first words, first day of school, science fair victories—all documented in carefully curated emails that disappeared into the void of Sarah's family's indifference.
I'd even included my phone number. Not once had they reached out.
Sarah's abandonment had been clinical, almost elegant in its totality.
No messy custody battles, no child support negotiations.
She'd simply... gone. Left before the postpartum haze had fully cleared, while Paige still smelled of newborn and I was still fumbling through diaper changes with hands better trained for handling battlefield trauma than baby wipes.
"I need to find myself," she'd said, standing in our apartment doorway, a single suitcase beside her. "I told you I wasn't ready for this. I'm not mother material, Nate."
I'd nodded then, numb, Paige asleep in my arms. "The door's always open," I'd told her, the words automatic, dutiful. "She'll always know her mother loved her enough to make the right choice for herself."
A lie I'd perfected over the years, tailored to Paige's age and understanding. The closest I'd ever come to dishonesty with my daughter. But I'd die before I let Paige carry the weight of thinking she'd been left behind as an inconvenience.
Now, looking at Sophia's sympathetic face, I felt the familiar ache of wondering if I was enough. If Paige needed more than I could give her. A mother figure. A woman's guidance. The older she got, the more aware I became of my limitations.
But dwelling on it wouldn't change anything. Sarah was gone. Paige had me. We managed.
"Thank you, Sophia," I said, shifting the subject, my voice thicker than I'd intended. "For trusting Tasha with her. I don't know what I would have done."
"Tasha stepped up. And you needed a solution," Sophia replied with a small smile. "Go make your calls, Nate. Find a real babysitter. And Tasha just earned herself some serious good karma."
My sense of fairness flared up immediately. "I can have HR take an hour or two of my sick time or PTO to pay for her time," I offered. Tasha was doing me a personal favor. She shouldn't lose income because of my crisis.
Sophia waved me off. "Nate, this is real life, and real life is messy.
If we asked corporate or HR, they wouldn't have let this happen at all, but that's why they pay me to figure these things out.
Tasha can stay punched in." Her smile deepened.
"You're an asset to our department. And you're our friend. You'd do the same for any of us."
Friend. The word caught me off guard. I'd spent so long keeping my colleagues at a professional distance—partly from military habit, partly from the fierce need to protect Paige from any more abandonment. But here was Sophia, casually claiming me as one of their own.
An unexpected warmth spread through me… immediately followed by guilt. Did I deserve this kindness? This flexibility? Every minute I spent in this office was a minute another nurse had to cover for me, a disruption to the careful system we all relied on.
I nodded, allowing a flicker of gratitude to show before pulling out my phone. Back to the task at hand. Efficient. Practical. That was my role. That was what I could control.
As I scrolled through my contacts, Sophia slipped out, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I found Mrs. Swanson's number, my thumb hovering over the call button.
For just a moment, I allowed myself to wonder—as I did on the hard nights, the lonely nights—whether Sarah ever thought about Paige. Whether she ever looked at the calendar and realized it was her daughter's birthday. Whether she ever regretted walking away.
Then I shook it off. What Sarah did or didn't feel was irrelevant. She'd made her choice. I'd made mine. Every day since Paige was born, I'd chosen her, would keep choosing her, would build my life around ensuring she never felt the void Sarah had left.
I pressed "call" and pushed thoughts of Sarah firmly away. The present needed my attention. Always had. Always would.