Chapter 36 Spencer
THIRTY-SIX
SPENCER
I stare at the phone for half a second too long before I finally hit Call.
She answers on the first ring.
“Rhea,” I say, and my voice catches. “It’s going to be okay. I promise.”
And as the words come out, I realize I have no right to promise that. But I need to say it anyway. She needs to hear it. And it’s one thing I can give her.
“She’s on her way to the best care available,” I add, steadying my tone. “She’s going to get through this.”
There’s a beat of silence—just breath and background noise—then suddenly I hear it.
Commotion. Movement. Voices raised in the distance. A nurse calling out something I can’t quite make out. A man’s voice saying, “We need to go—now—she’s dropping again—”
“Oh my God,” Rhea says, her voice shaking. “I have to go. They’re trying to get her ready for transport. I—God, I can’t lose her.”
And then the line goes dead.
Just silence.
Then time stands still. I’ve done what I can.
Calls made. Specialists looped in. The helicopter en route. Boston Children’s is standing by.
And now? Now all I can do is get myself there. And wait some more.
It’s late. Traffic is light, which is good because I’m driving like a maniac—cutting corners, gunning through yellow lights, hands clenched so tightly on the wheel they ache.
Every time I blink, I see her.
Esme.
Pale and wheezing in that hospital bed.
The weight of her chest struggling with every breath.
Rhea sitting beside her, her face tight and tear-streaked, trying to stay strong. Trying to hold it all together.
I should’ve been there already. If I’d known…
I don’t let myself finish the thought.
I take the Pike toward Boston Children’s like it’s a runway, the GPS ETA ticking down in tense little minutes, none of them fast enough.
Every second stretches like wire. The only thing keeping me from losing it is the single thought running through my head on repeat:
My daughter is fighting for her life.
I skid into the lobby, out of breath, half-drenched in sweat and stress.
The woman behind the desk looks up—calm. Too calm.
"Hi,” I say, already reaching for my wallet and credentials. “A medivac just landed—Esme Sinclair is on her way. RSV. She's being transferred from Maplewick General. They’re taking her to the PICU.”
“And you are . . .” She looks at me with a hint of suspicion.
“Spencer Devereaux.” I tell her.
“Relationship?”
Relationship? But the words are out of my mouth before my brain can overthink.
“I’m her father,” I say, and as I hear the words, I feel something in me physically shift.
The woman has no idea I’ve just claimed Esme as my daughter for the first time. She doesn’t flinch. All business. Just taps on her keyboard.
I wait, heart hammering, suddenly terrified that someone is going to ask for proof. ID. Guardianship. Paperwork I don’t have. Someone’s going to say I have no right to see her. No access. No standing.
“Her mother is in the chopper with her,” I add. “I need to see them both the minute they arrive,”
“And can you please let Dr. Levinson know I’m here? We had a consult earlier, remote connection with Dr. Harris at the rural facility.”
She glances at the screen again. Nods and types some more. So fucking calm I can hardly stand it.
“Okay. I’ve sent a note to the floor to let Dr. Levinson know.”
I exhale.
“You’re going to go down that corridor,” she says, gesturing like this is routine. Like this isn’t the scariest moment of my life.
“Take your first left. Look for the central elevator bank. Go to the 9th floor. PICU is immediately to your right once the doors open. There will be someone to direct you when she arrives.”
I thank her and hope I can recall the directions.
I’m walking fast, then jogging.
First left. Elevator. Ninth floor.
I mash the button three times, as if it will speed things up, and watch the numbers climb like molasses.
Please let me get there in time. Please let me be allowed to stay.
When I step off the elevator, a young woman in navy scrubs is waiting for me—tall, thin, pale-faced, with a stethoscope slung casually around her neck.
“Mr. Devereaux?”
“Yes.” I nod, my breath shallow.
“The chopper’s due to land in about ten minutes. The team is on standby. Dr. Levinson asked me to reassure you—she’s in very good hands. He’s with the team now, preparing to receive her.”
She gestures down a hallway.
“There’s a private consult room just around the corner. You can wait there. Her mother will join you when she’s able, and Dr. Levinson will come by with an update once they’ve stabilized the girl.”
The girl.
“Her name is Esme.” I say. “She’s…she’s a shining star.” But I can’t say more just then, because I realize that clenching my jaw and fighting my own fear is my only hope.
“I’m sure she is.” She nods. “It’s scary.” And then, “Could I get you some coffee while you wait?”
I nod. Try to breathe.
“Yes,” I say. “That would be nice.”
I don’t even drink coffee.
I pace the room. Look at my phone obsessively. Watch the clock.
Finally, I step out into the hallway to breathe.
That’s when I see her.
Rhea.
She’s coming down the hall, escorted by a nurse. Her eyes find mine—and she runs.
No hesitation. Straight into my arms.
Her grief pours out in low, aching sobs, muffled against my chest. She holds onto me with force. Such desperation.
But the truth is—I’m barely holding it together myself.
My arms are wrapped around her, but my hands are shaking. My breath’s coming too fast and my face is tear-stained. But I will hold it together, because if I let myself feel everything I’m holding back, I don’t know if I’ll stay standing either.
I’m terrified by what her sobs might mean. But I can’t ask the question that’s haunting me. Can’t risk hearing the one thing I’m most afraid of.
So I just hold her. Tighter.
The nurse who walked in with Rhea is still beside us. She waits a beat, then gently touches my arm.
“Esme’s with an excellent team,” she says quietly. “They’ll keep you updated.”
And just like that, I exhale for the first time in what feels like hours.
She’s here. They’re both here.
Esme made the flight.
She’s getting the care she needs.