Eirik: A Time Travel Romance (Mists of Albion Book 1)

by Joanna Bell

  "You're not taking him," I reply calmly as my dad, who has fallen asleep in one of the uncomfortable hospital chairs, stirs awake.

  Dr. Lawson ignores me and leans over, trying to get a look at the baby. I turn my body away.

  "What are you doing here?" My father asks when he sees who it is. "Get out of here. My lawyer should have called the –"

  "Mr. Renner," Dr. Lawson cuts him off. "Yes, your lawyer has been in touch with us. Don't worry, I'm not here to do anything nefarious."

  She pronounces the word 'nefarious' like one would pronounce the word 'scary' to a small child – as if it's a joke. But it's not a joke, and her tone just infuriates me.

  "Not here to do anything nefarious?!" I hiss. "You've been telling me for weeks that I'm not fit to care for a baby, that you're going to take him away from me!"

  Dr. Lawson gives me the gently confused look you would give a crazy person who is ranting about nonsense. "Oh dear," she says, pretending to be concerned. "Paige, if you thought I meant I was going to take away your baby, I can assure you that was never the case. I'm just the psychiatrist, I can't just arbitrarily decide to take away a baby. Besides –"

  "You know what I mean –"

  "I'm as concerned for your son as you are, Paige," she continues, totally ignoring me. "I understand this is a very emotional time for you – all women are emotional during pregnancy and after giving birth. But I think if you take a step back and really think about this – about the situation you find yourself in at this point in your life, you might come to see that maybe I have a point."

  Dr. Lawson's tone is totally different to anything I've ever heard from her before. She's trying to persuade me now, rather than straight-up accusing me of things. Instantly I know that the lawyer has contacted the hospital – and it sounds like she has had an effect, too.

  I laugh bitterly. "I know you think I'm crazy," I say coldly. "But do you think I'm stupid, too? Do you think that any part of me buys anything you're selling, after all these weeks of you telling me I'm insane, a danger to myself and a danger to my baby?"

  "Paige," the doctor responds, still using that same tone. I look at my dad, anger tightening into a red hot ball in my chest and he pulls his phone out of his pocket. "Mr. Renner," Dr. Lawson says, changing her focus. "There's no need to –"

  My dad holds his hand up. No one says anything for a few seconds until my dad speaks to whoever has taken the call.

  "She's here," he says, and I can tell, at once, that he is as close to violent rage as I am. "The fucking doctor! She's in the room right now! I need you to –" he pauses, listening. "Uh-huh. OK. OK. Two hours?! OK. Alright. Thank you. Bye."

  He hangs up and looks right into Dr. Lawson's eyes. "You need to get out. Right now."

  I watch as the faux-sincerity on the doctor's face curdles into anger. "Your daughter is not fit to care for a child," she sneers, not even looking at me. "She's a pathological liar, Mr. Renner, a borderline personality. Don't you ever wonder –"

  "GET OUT!" My dad shouts. "NOW! Lady, I swear to God, if –"

  A man in a suit and two worried looking nurses burst into the room.

  "Sheila," the man says, stepping between Dr. Lawson – Sheila – and my dad. "I asked you not to come in here. Come with me, we can talk –"

  "Don't touch me!" Dr. Lawson screeches, even though no one has touched her. "John, you're making a mistake. You're really going to cave in to some celebrity lawyer over this? This baby is in danger! You're going to have blood on your hands if –"

  At that point, my dad loses it completely. He lunges at Dr. Lawson but the man in the suit and the two nurses hold him back.

  "Call security!" The man yells at one nurse, and she disappears out of the room. Then he turns to my dad. "Mr. Renner! Sir! Calm down, please. I am John Allan, the head administrator of this hospital – no one is going to take your daughter's child away from her. Please. Sir, please calm down!"

  And my father does calm down, as soon as he hears that no one is going to take the baby away. He looks John Allan in the eye. "You better not be lying. You better not just be saying that so –"

  John Allan looks harried and pissed off, but it doesn't seem aimed at my dad. He shakes his head. "I'm not just saying it, sir. Your lawyer has been in touch with our legal team and we realize some mistakes might have been made in the course of your daughter's care –"

  "Bullshit!"

  Everybody in the room looks at the person who has just shouted 'bullshit' – Dr. Sheila Lawson.

  "She's psychotic!" She yells, pointing at me as John Allan moves to escort her out of the room. "She's been here for weeks, John! Weeks and she still hasn't said a thing about what happened to her when she was 'kidnapped!' Everybody knows she made the whole thing up and now you want –"

  "Out," the administrator replies, coldly. "Right fucking now, Sheila. OUT."

  And then they're gone. The argument continues in the hallway, but the loud, angry voices fade as Dr. Lawson is led away, hopefully to the end of her career. I look at my father. He looks at me.

  "Damn," he says. "I guess that lawyer meant it when she said she was going to put the fear of God into this hospital's legal team."

  "So what does this mean?" I ask, still not truly willing to believe I'll be allowed to just walk out, not after everything. "I – we – can just go?"

  Chapter 28

  21st Century

  Less than 24 hours later, I'm free to go for good. I leave with my son and my father through a back entrance to the hospital, so as to avoid media attention. Before we leave, John Allan informs us that Dr. Sheila Lawson has been placed on paid leave, pending the outcome of an investigation into my care at River Forks Hospital.

  The press appear to be breeding like rats, because the crowd outside the house is a lot bigger than I remember it. The presence of a newborn does nothing to dampen their enthusiasm, either, and they film, photograph and scream questions at us as we run into the house. The commotion wakes the baby and he begins to cry. As my father runs around, closing all the curtains and then fussing over the mess in the kitchen, I tentatively raise Eirik's son to my breast and almost melt into a puddle of hormonal emotion as he latches on and gazes up into my eyes, like I might be the most wonderful thing he has ever seen. Which, given he is only 1 day old, might just be true.

  Later, when night has fallen, the baby is asleep and the house is in a much cleaner state than it had been when we got home, my dad and I look at each other.

  "We can do this," he says to me. "We can do this, Paige. The interview is tomorrow – they're coming here to do it but they don't have to know you're here. You don't have to appear."

  "You're still doing that?" I ask, barely looking up from my sleeping child's sweet face.

  "Yes," my dad replies. "I have to – I agreed to do it, even if they've let you out of the hospital already. Besides, the interviewer says we can use this as an opportunity to – what did he say? 'Frame the narrative.' We can explain that you're a new mom, that we need peace and quiet, that you might talk about what happened when you're ready. Or not. Hopefully we can get those reporters to leave and we can get back to some kind of normal life here."

  Bless my dad. He's not even that old, but he seems to live in an older world than the one I'm used to. A world where the presence of a newborn baby in a house is enough to get a crowd of desperate, ruthless media types off the lawn. We don't live in that world anymore. I know it and my dad doesn't.

  "I'll stay upstairs," I tell him. "During the interview, I mean. I don't want to be on TV."

  ***

  Time itself seems to have taken on paradoxical new qualities with the presence of my baby. The minutes themselves pass as if slowed, each second looming past as I do next to nothing beyond staring at him, running my fingers over the contours of his tiny, sleeping face, marveling at a soft hand as it wraps itself tightly around my thumb. And even as the lovesick haze of new motherhood seems to have delayed the ticking of the clock itself, time r
aces by. I sit down at just past five o'clock, with the baby on my lap, and when I next check my phone – expecting it to read 5:30 or perhaps 5:45 – it reads 9:10 and I'm baffled – where have the hours gone?

  My dad hovers sweetly, as enchanted as any grandfather would be. I feel him holding back, though. He comments at one point how he thinks he can see a bit of my mother in the baby's mouth and chin and then I notice him biting another comment back – a comment I'm almost certain would have been about the man my dad doesn't know – my son's father.

  I desperately want to tell my dad about Eirik. I want to tell him so badly I'm near bursting with it. Not yet, though. I haven't figured out what I'm going to do, and I can't very well go telling half the story, can I? I can't say oh, yes, my baby's father is named Eirik and I love him, because that will inevitably be followed with questions about where Eirik is and why isn't he here with his child and how did I meet Eirik etc. etc.

  I'm going to give myself a few days. To think. To be with my son. To settle in. I won't make any rushed decisions. I won't allow these precious first days to be tainted with stress – not anymore than they already are, anyway.

  The media crew arrive earlier than expected and I disappear upstairs before they come in. Then I sit on my bed, with the bedroom door open, straining to hear what's being said. It sounds like a whole bunch of people, there are a lot of voices and sounds – furniture being moved, equipment being placed, preparations being made. The baby, his belly full, mercifully does not stir.

  A couple of hours and two feeds later, my son sleeps again and my boredom and curiosity grows. I walk to the doorway and stand there cocking my head towards the stairs, but I still can't make out anything that's being said.

  I look back at the baby. Still fast asleep. It's just a few steps down the stairs.

  When I get to the bottom I lean my ear gently against the door. That's better. Now I can hear everything. A woman is speaking, her voice serious and authoritative. I recognize that voice – Joyce Williams, the 'prestige' interviewer. Wow. She's asking my father about the baby.

  "He's beautiful," my dad us saying, and I can hear the pride in his voice. "Almost 9 pounds, beautiful and strong. I love him very much."

  "And your daughter," Joyce Williams asks, "how is she?"

  "She's great. She's like any new mom, just completely engrossed in her baby."

  There's defensiveness in my dad's tone when he says that and I realize that's partly why he's agreed to do the interview – to try to introduce a different narrative to what has become a sensationalistic and negative story.

  Joyce Williams pauses briefly before asking the next question. "And do you, Mr. Renner – or your daughter – have any comment on the statement given by Dr. Sheila Lawson just over an hour ago?"

  My father has been caught off guard – so have I. Dr. Lawson is giving statements now? Is that legal? I lean harder against the door.

  "Uh, Dr. Lawson?" My dad asks. "I – er – I didn't know that she, uh –"

  "Of course Dr. Lawson is barred from discussing your daughter's case, Mr. Renner, but it was reported a few hours ago that she has been fired from her job at River Forks Hospital. When we caught her outside her home she – actually, Jim, do we have the tape?"

  My stomach sinks. What has that awful woman said? She's smart, it's almost certain she's found a way to say something without actually, legally 'saying something.' There's a small commotion going on in the living room and I can't help but crack the door, just an inch. I have to hear what Dr. Lawson said.

  My father is on one of our sofas, which suddenly looks very worn and old under the intense lights which have been set up behind the cameras, most of which are pointed right at him. Joyce Williams is seated facing him, slightly off to the side. A man wearing headphones is handing my dad a phone.

  A few seconds later, Dr. Lawson's voice fills the room.

  "As you know, I'm not legally allowed to talk about Paige Renner or anything to do with her care," she says, in a voice dripping with faux concern. "And I'll need to speak to my legal team before I can give you a more official statement. But what I will say right now is that I have spent my entire career protecting vulnerable children and young people from those who would do them harm. Sometimes it's their parents, sometimes their teachers, school bullies, anyone. And sometimes, it's themselves."

  Dr. Lawson pauses dramatically after that statement and I feel the first bubbles starting to boil up in my blood.

  "Some young people are a danger to themselves, through no fault of their own. Mental illness, personality disorders, the consequences of past trauma – it can be anything, and we should be compassionate in our approach to them. But if you were to ask me what I think about allowing an infant to be cared for by one of these damaged –"

  "That's enough!"

  My father, holding the phone, has stopped the video playing and is glaring angrily at Joyce Williams. I can see how hard he's trying to hold it together. I myself am lightheaded with rage. How was that comment from the doctor not about me? How is anyone listening to that ever going to think she's not talking about me? Of course she is!

  "You're upset, sir."

  Joyce Williams is addressing my father, whose face is bright red now. He looks to his side, at the man who handed him the phone. "You said this wasn't going to be a 'gotcha!' You said this wasn't going to be hostile!"

  The man, off-camera, signals something to Joyce Williams and she turns to one of the cameras and announces a commercial break. Seconds later, my dad jumps to his feet and rips the microphone off his lapel.

  "What is this?!" He shouts, at no one in particular. "You can't just ambush me with something like that, like I'm some goddamned rube! Get – get the fuck out of my house. Right now. All of you. Out. OUT!"

  Immediately, Joyce Williams and about three other people surround him, speaking softly and kindly, assuring him they didn't intend to cause any upset, that this is his chance to defend me, that unless he continues the interview, he's wasting his chance to 'change America's mind.'

  My father, bless him, knows bullshit when he smells it. He brushes off the entreaties of the perfectly coiffed, perfectly unctuous Joyce and her flunkies and shakes his head. "No. I'm sorry, don't touch me. That was an ambush – you should have warned me that you were going to play that tape – live – of Dr. Lawson. We're done here. You do have to leave right now."

  And as I watch the media team continue their efforts to convince my dad to finish the interview, something happens. Something like the camera suddenly being pulled way, way back in a movie. A new, wider perspective is suddenly laid out in front of me.

  Even if these people leave, right now, they're not going anywhere. Not really. This is 2017, where scandals never die. They live on, zombie-like and constantly mutating online, in all those discussion forums and comment sections and Youtube videos. No, the media isn't going anywhere. Nor is the interest. I've barely glanced at my phone since coming home, and even I've seen enough to realize that this is the biggest story in the country – and that the interest in me and my story is not the kind, concerned interest of a loving friend or relative. It's viciously intense and, terrifyingly, not really interested in getting at the truth, so far as I can tell. No, it's become something else, some kind of cultural monster that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with reflecting people's own narratives about their own lives, about themselves, back to them. To one group I'm an innocent victim – ruined, of course, utterly ruined, destroyed by the unspeakable things they're certain have happened to me – but innocent. To another I'm the worst kind of manipulator, a brainless, heartless young woman desperate for attention and fame, toying with the media and using my own child as a way to keep the spotlight focused right on me. Those are the two main stories. Believe me, there are others. Countless others, from the mildly wacky to the truly insane.

  I look back up the stairs, listening for any sound of fussing. It's not just me who's going to have to deal with this scrutiny, eit
her. It's my father, my friends – my son. And he won't have his father around to guide him through it.

  I peer back out through the door as the CNN crew continues to cajole my father, and I can almost feel it – the cold certainty of steel infusing my spine.

  You can stop this.

  Maybe it's Eirik, maybe he's the trigger for this sudden surge of strength – the thought of him, of what he would do in this situation. Maybe it's coming purely from inside me, a natural reaction of boiling anger to the whirlwind of lies and bullshit swirling around not just me, now, but my family – my baby and my father. I can't know, in the moment, what the cause is. All I can know is that I've had enough. Of everything. Something has to be done, a decision has to be made. I take a deep breath and step out into the living room.

  It takes a few seconds for people to notice me. One of the crew members is the first to look up and see me standing there and I watch as her eyes widen and she paws at the man beside her and points at me.

  "Jim, Jim – JIM!"

  Jim, irritated already, almost brushes her off but she grabs his shirtsleeve and he looks up. And then his eyes widen, too. More people look up. A little ripple of whispered excitement runs through the crew.

  "Is that her?"

  "Get the lights back on."

  "Where's the baby?"

  Eventually, it's Joyce Williams herself who speaks directly to me. "Paige!" She smiles, extending her hand out to me. I take it and smile back, not buying it for a second. "Would you like to take a seat beside your –"

  "No."

  Everyone in the room stops what they're doing and looks at me when they hear the tone in my voice. If I'm not mistaken there is a slight edge of 'is-she-going-to-lose-it-right-now' in their interest, too. I don't bother telling them they're going to be disappointed.

  "I won't take a seat next to my dad," I say, my voice firm. "He said the interview with him was over, and it is. I have something to say, and you can film me when I say it, but I'm not answering any questions. And if you want to do this we have to do it right now because my son will be awake soon and he'll be hungry."