Chapter 11
Brett awoke in the pediatric intensive care unit, a paper gown covering him from neck to calf and the tangy smell of the hospital air ubiquitous in the sterile space. He stared at Toby in the little acrylic bed in front of him, lines and wires draped from the little boy to a series of machines.
If you’d told him a week ago he would care for a child more than himself, he never would have believed it.
But what happened to these babies was far more important than anything else in his life and completely out of his control.
It was a cruel combination of caring and uncertainty that had brought him to his knees in a matter of hours.
His eyes shot to the clock, his neck objecting to the motion, and he cursed under his breath.
It was five o’clock in the morning, the predawn sky beyond the window just beginning to glow.
He pulled out his cell phone and checked the date.
At least it was the day he thought it was, their second in the NICU.
Surreal. He didn’t know how he’d gotten here, how he’d come to be responsible for these children and had his life turned upside down so succinctly in a matter of hours.
He knew the events that had transpired, but his brain had yet to catch up to recent history, his emotions topsy-turvy and wired to self-destruct.
That’s what would happen to him if anything happened to these children.
Please.
How did parents do this? How did they rest all of their hopes and dreams on the well-being of another? It was vulnerability at its extreme, a kind of desperation he’d only glimpsed before in his lifetime.
Grace slept beside Theo’s identically equipped bassinet, her head leaning awkwardly against the wall.
He’d told her to go home more times than he could count, but the woman was stubborn, calling into work and insisting on staying, taking turns grabbing a coffee or forcing him to eat a tasteless snack.
She cared for the boys as much as he did, and truth be told, he was glad she was here.
Maybe more glad than he had any right to be.
He reached into his pocket for his cell phone, his elbow knocking over a plastic basin. Grace’s eyes popped open, locking on his. When she shifted, and it was clear she wasn’t going back to sleep, he said, “Sorry I woke you.”
She stood from her perch beside Theo and arched her back in a stretch.
She was facing away from him, her body silhouetted against the growing light of the window beyond, and he ached to pull her into his arms and bury his face in the warmth of her neck.
It was sexual need, yes, but it was more than that—a desire to gather her close that had more to do with shared experience and his feelings than the cravings of his body.
It should have scared him, should have made him turn away, but instead his eyes were glued to her, his response just as out of control as everything else in that moment.
She turned to face him. “How are you doing?” she asked.
His throat clenched, honesty his only option.
“Not good.” The boys were failing, their little bodies running hot, their organs struggling to function.
It was soul-wrenching. His eyes burned. A nurse entered and checked on the boy in front of Brett.
What he wouldn’t do to hear the twins’ now-familiar cry, to cradle their little bodies while they sucked away at a bottle or slipped peacefully into sleep.
Have you figured out what’s killing my boys?
“Anything?” he asked the nurse.
Her eyes were a piercing blue above the mask she wore and full of sympathy. “Not yet.” She quietly left the room.
Grace crossed to him, placed her hand on his shoulder, and squeezed. He closed his eyes. “I can’t do anything,” he whispered.
“I know.”
“I feel so damn powerless.”
“Shh.” Her hand lifted and he felt the loss of contact as if all air had been sucked from the room, then her fingers threaded into his hair, nails lightly scraping his scalp.
She’d been by his side through all of it.
Felt everything he had felt, wanted everything he wanted.
He reached for her because he had to, turning toward her torso and slipping his arm around her waist, resting his forehead in the softness of her belly.
There were no words, only shared grief for what was happening to the boys.
She smelled like honey and flowers, with a trace of musk that was all her own.
He longed to press his lips against her flesh but kept his head where it was as she stroked his nape.
This was Grace who was touching him, Grace who was awakening his desire.
Grace who was already taken by a better man than he.
His mind flashed back to her angry face, flushed red and dripping with rain water as she pounded on his apartment door.
So fucking beautiful.
That’s what he’d thought when he saw her, had thought it countless times, amused that such a pretty package could have such a sour personality. But he knew now that wasn’t the case. She liked to fight with him, yes, but she was rational and determined and feisty, not sour. And he liked it.
He liked her.
Had that only been days ago? Was that even possible? That Grace had hated him. This Grace might welcome his advances—and he hated himself for wanting to find out if he was right despite her attachment to the preacher.
He grabbed a fistful of her shirt at the small of her back, longing to pull it up and feast his hands on the warm skin beneath. Would she let him touch her there? Lean into his caress and hold him against her body?
Self-hatred rose up within him. It was wrong of him to want her, worse that he was touching her, taking advantage of her kindness and desperately wanting more.
It took every ounce of willpower he had to straighten, gently pushing her away.
“You need sleep. You’ve got to be exhausted.
” He reached for his cell phone. “I’ll get a hotel room. ”
“I’m not leaving the hospital.”
“I’ll stay. You’re dead on your feet.”
He texted Moto: NEED A ROOM NEAR THE HOSPITAL.
She reached for him again, but he leaned away from her. He saw the hurt in her eyes, the discomfiture, and he regretted ever letting himself touch her.
She crossed her arms. “I’m not leaving,” she repeated.
He nodded once, understanding. There was nothing that could pry him away from the twins’ sides, either. He stood, walking to the window and squinting against the burgeoning day that mocked this dark place, this moment that was worse than any other.
Razorback spoke from the doorway, his familiar voice loud and confident. “I’ve got it.”
Brett spun around. “What is it?”
Razorback carried an open laptop and rang the call button several times before continuing.
“The purple urine rang a bell. Took me forever to find the reference. It’s a rare mutation called Damon’s Disorder.
An inability to metabolize certain peptides in milk, which is also found in baby formulas.
It causes a rapid buildup of toxins, localized pseudo infection, loss of muscle tone, and purple urine.
” A nurse entered. “I need the doctor, stat,” said Razorback. “I know what’s causing this.”
“I’ll get her.” The nurse took off at a run.
Hope was sudden and bright. “Are they going to be okay?” asked Brett.
“I’m not sure. There’s got to be something else at play here, and I don’t know what it is.
Damon’s Disorder is a mutation, not a hereditary disease.
Brothers are no more likely to get it than total strangers, but given the exceptional rarity of this disorder, the math alone says something must have caused it.
Whatever that something is may be in the past or it may be an ongoing issue. ”
“Is it possible it’s just a coincidence?” asked Grace.
Razorback walked to Theo’s bedside. “It’s possible like a monkey sitting down at a typewriter and happening to pound out Shakespeare.
Theoretically possible, but in practicality, so unlikely as to be impossible.
This is no coincidence. Something caused these boys to get Damon’s Disorder.
Something other than the standard genetic mutation.
I’ll have to review the research before I can tell you more. ”
Brett and Grace exchanged a look. “Joni was a researcher, a scientist,” Brett said. “If she knew the boys were sick, she would have researched the hell out of this disorder. Maybe even figured out what made them ill.”
“How likely is it she knew they had this?” asked Grace.
Razorback shrugged. “She must have known. Every infant formula on the grocery store shelf would cause a reaction in these boys, even breast milk. You said they didn’t have purple urine when you first took custody of them, so it’s safe to say she was aware and was feeding them special formula.”
The boy closer to the window whimpered, and Brett went to his side, gently stroking the baby’s head.
If these had been his sons, he would have gone to the far reaches of the world to learn what had made them sick.
Joni must have done the same, and another wave of grief crested over him as he longed so desperately to speak to her.
He turned to Razorback. “Will they get better?”
“If no permanent damage has been done, they should improve. But they’re not out of the woods yet, Champ. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”