Chapter 9 #2
If she’s dropped the rope, well, that’s understandable.
She should never have been forced into a game of tug-o-war in the first place.
I should have been there for her from day one, the moment she told me about the baby.
I should have figured out that I was in love with her before she was gone.
I should have faced my demons sooner, so I was ready for an angel when she showed up at my door.
But I can’t change the past.
The best I can do is be here for her now, in whatever way she needs me. As a co-parent, as a friend, or as just the guy who handles whatever she needs handled to make her life—and raising our child—easier.
The parking garage looms ahead, muddy gray concrete and exhaust fumes so thick the stink floods the cab even with the air on recirculate.
I wedge the truck into a spot on the third floor, kill the engine, and jog for the doors.
I skip the elevator line and take the stairs two at a time, hit the crosswalk at a near sprint, and grind to a halt just short of slamming into the automatic doors.
They slide open with what feels like ridiculous slowness, revealing the main floor.
It seems like a quiet day, thankfully, just a few wheelchairs parked near the entrance waiting for rides and a handful of patients drifting toward various wings. I head straight for the information desk, cutting around a cluster of people hunched over coffees and talking in low, urgent voices.
The woman behind the desk glances up at me through purple-framed glasses. She’s got the patient but worn-thin look of someone closer to the end of her shift than the beginning. “Can I help you?” she asks, bayou twang thick in her voice.
“Yes, please. I’m here to see Beatrice Nix. She was in a car accident this morning?”
She arches a brow. “Are you family?”
For a beat, I’m tempted to say “yes,” to claim I’m her brother just to speed things along. But before I can speak, the thought makes me realize I’ve dropped an important ball.
Again.
Fuck, I should have contacted Nix the second I realized Beatrice was in an accident. Maybe a part of me assumed that he already knew, but still, I should have made sure of it.
I will make sure, as soon as I see with my own eyes that Bea’s okay.
“Close friend,” I say, wishing it were still the truth, praying it will be again someday. “I’m a good friend of Clover Cummings, too. She was the driver, I think. She might be here, too? If so, I would love to check in on both of them. Just to make sure they’re okay and to help any way I can.”
The woman’s expression softens. “Of course. Let me check both of those for you. Clover Cummings and Beatrice…what was that last name again?”
I give it to her, not surprised that she doesn’t know who Beatrice is.
That’s country music drifting from the portable speaker on the counter behind her.
Country lovers don’t usually cross over to the hardcore music Bea used to make when she was still with Violet Widow.
But I bet this woman would love Beatrice’s new stuff.
I can’t imagine anyone not liking her new music.
It’s so pure, so brave and honest. So beautiful, just like Bea.
Please, let her be able to keep making music. Let both of them. Clover’s a talent in her own right, though she hasn’t found a band where she fits just yet.
I keep up a silent, steady stream of begging for the universe to show mercy as Purple Glasses types.
Clicks.
Scrolls.
Every second crawls. I chew the inside of my lip. Brush sawdust off my jeans. Realize there’s sawdust trapped in the hair on my forearms and brush that off too before curling my hands into fists and fighting the urge to fidget anymore.
Finally, the woman says, “Ms. Nix is on the third floor, maternity wing, room 314. You can take the elevators right over there.” She motions to her right, her forehead creasing with compassion as she adds, “Ms. Cummings appears to be in surgery right now, but if you check in at the nurse’s station upstairs in about an hour, she might be out by then, and they’ll be able to tell you more. ”
“Thank you so much,” I say, already moving toward the elevators.
I’d take the stairs, but I can’t spot a clearly marked stairwell, which is a shame because the elevator is packed.
A small gaggle of weekend visitors streams into the cab just as I arrive, carrying flowers and balloons and gift bags.
I squeeze in anyway and press myself into the front corner, earning a dirty look from the man next to me, who shoves his backpack against my arm in petty revenge.
Someone’s too-sweet perfume stings my eyes as we lurch to the second floor, where two gray-haired women with balloons take their sweet time chatting and laughing their way out the doors.
Once they’re through, more people pile on. A woman with a crying baby. Two teenagers arguing about whether they should get their mother the tuna salad sandwich she requested from the cafeteria or force her to eat a grilled cheese because “tuna is stank ass.”
The space compresses again, and the air grows thick. Impatience claws at my throat, but I swallow it down.
When the doors finally open on the third floor, I dart out into a hallway that looks like every other hospital hallway I’ve ever seen in my life—white walls, fluorescent lights, confusing signs.
Maternity wing to the left, but also maternity wing straight ahead.
Which is it, and why the conflicting signals?
As if women in labor need a puzzle to solve on their way to having their bodies turned inside out.
Trusting my gut, I head left, moving swiftly down the long corridor. As I progress, so do the numbers—301, 303, right up to 315—but no even numbers. No 314. I backtrack, trying the straight arrow route, but there, the numbers go down into the 200’s instead of up.
A nurse in pink scrubs gives me a suspicious look as I pass her station for the third time. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Room 314,” I say. “Beatrice Nix. The woman at the front told me to come to the third floor?”
Her furrowed brow smooths as she points behind me. “In the observation wing. Through those doors, take a right, follow the yellow line on the floor. Ignore the pink and white lines.”
Yellow line. Got it.
I follow the painted stripe like a lifeline, pulse speeding faster as I pass 308, 310, 312.
Then, finally…
I stop outside the open door of 314, close to the wall so I’m out of sight of whoever’s inside, my palms sweating and mouth dry.
Nix is in Canada, but if Charlotte is here already, I’ll have to play it cool.
She doesn’t know about Beatrice and me. She knows that we’re friends, so it wouldn’t be strange for me to be here, but she doesn’t know about the baby, let alone that I’m the father.
For the first time since my skull hit the ice, my head starts to ache again.
My pulse thuds in my ears, and my hands shake as I drag fingers through my hair.
What if Bea doesn’t want me here?
What if she tells me to leave?
What if I’m too late to make things easier or better for her? Too late for anything but goodbye?
“Then you’ll handle it,” I whisper.
I will. Because that’s what you do in life. You handle whatever comes as best you can, learning from your mistakes and being grateful for the moments when you get it right.
But fuck, I really hope I get it right this time.
For Bea’s sake. For the baby’s.
Drawing a breath, I knock softly on the doorframe.
A beat later, Beatrice calls, “Come in.”
I step around the corner, heart in my throat as the room comes into focus.
It’s small, dim, the blinds drawn against the sun, filtering the light to a soft amber.
Beatrice sits propped against pillows in a narrow hospital bed with her hair in two long, fuzzy braids.
Her left foot is bandaged and elevated on a foam wedge of some kind.
Her gaze meets mine.
Her lips part.
My heart shoves higher in my throat.
And then, her shoulders sag with relief as her eyes fill. “Blue. You’re here. How are you here?”
I don’t answer with words. I can’t.
My throat is too full, and my chest is overflowing.
I cross the room in three steps and fold her into my arms. I cradle her close as she buries her face in my shirt, wraps her arms around my ribs, and gives me a squeeze that sends gratitude surging through my chest.
She trembles. I do, too.
We stay that way for a long time before my throat loosens enough to ask, “You’re okay? You’re both okay? Clover, too?”
She nods. “Yes. Bean and I are fine. Clover is in surgery, but the nurses promised that she’s going to be all right. They’re going to update me as soon as she’s in recovery.”
I hug her tighter, eyes sliding closed for a beat. “I’m so glad. So glad.”
“Me, too,” she whispers.
“Can I stay? Wait with you? Help you?”
“Yes, of course.” She pulls in a breath, her muscles tensing beneath my hands as she exhales. “But, I… I just…” She breaks off with a sneeze, then another, and another.
I pull back, wincing. “Sorry. I was sanding. Before I saw the wreck on the news. I ran out the door without changing my shirt. I probably just gave you a nose full of sawdust.”
Her lips twitch. “That’s okay. You don’t have to apologize. I’m so glad you came, I just…”
I watch her walls go up with a sinking feeling as she pulls fully out of my arms. She settles back against the pillows, her hands resting on her belly in a protective way that makes me regret every choice I made between Elly’s shower and when Beatrice left town all over again.
“I mean, we obviously have some talking to do,” she adds, her voice kind but guarded.
But that’s okay. She was happy to see me. More than happy.
There’s still hope, and as long as that’s true, I refuse to give up on her. On us.
“I’d love to talk,” I murmur.
She motions toward the chair in the corner. “Then, sit. Take a load off. Charlotte’s on her way here, but she was in Mobile for a conference and won’t be here for a few hours. We have some time.”
I nod. “Good. Time with you is all I want, Bea. It’s all I’ve wanted for months. I’m so glad you’re home.”
Something flickers across her face—there and gone before I can read it—that makes me think that might not have been the right thing to say. But she doesn’t change her mind about the chair.
She just watches as I pull it over and sit, and for now…
Well, for now, that’s enough.