She Gets That from Me

by Robin Wells

  “I still do.” She grins. “When you think about it, it’s not as crazy as it sounds. There are lots of things we can’t see—things like air and sound waves and gravity. So why is it so far-fetched to believe that we might get a little divine nudge through a song, or an overheard snippet of a stranger’s conversation, or even our hair follicles every now and then?”

  I smile. “I don’t think it’s all that far-fetched.” I like the fact that she believes in a spiritual dimension. Jessica thinks it’s all baloney. “So how did you end up in interior design?”

  “I had embarrassingly simplistic motives.” She grins. “I loved the idea of creating happy homes—places that are warm and welcoming and beautiful, where families want to spend time together and gather with friends.”

  There’s an honesty about her that touches me. It’s easy to see how her childhood shaped her adult life.

  The waiter brings our entrées, and she starts quizzing me about my family and growing up in Ohio. I end up talking far more than I intend to.

  The waiter is clearing our dishes when Quinn’s cell phone vibrates. She checks it.

  “It’s Sarah. She’s watching Lily, so I need to take this.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Go right ahead.”

  I watch her brows furrow after she answers. “Does she have a fever?” she asks.

  Uh-oh. I signal for the waiter to bring the check. He hustles over.

  “I’ll be right there,” Quinn says, then ends the call.

  “What’s going on?” I pull out my credit card and hand it to the waiter.

  “Lily’s sick.” She gathers up her purse. “I need to go.”

  “Hang on a moment, and I’ll follow you over there.”

  “You don’t need to,” she says.

  “I want to. Maybe I can help.”

  * * *

  —

  QUINN DRIVES LIKE Dale Earnhardt Jr. after six double espressos. I have trouble keeping her in sight; I’m beginning to wish I’d asked for the address when I see her turn into the drive of a little house near River Road that’s nearly hidden from the street by trees and shrubbery. She’s out of her car and inside before I even make it up the porch steps.

  Sarah smiles and opens the door wider. “Hi, Zack. Come on in.”

  Two toddler boys in shorts and striped T-shirts are jumping up and down in the hallway. I find Lily lying on a brown sofa in the living room, looking limp and pale.

  Quinn leans over her. “Hey, Lily.”

  “Oh, Auntie Quinn—I’m so, so glad you’re here.” Lily’s voice sounds as wan as she looks.

  “Poor baby girl.” Quinn perches on the edge of the sofa and strokes Lily’s cheek. “I hate it that you don’t feel well.”

  “I hate it, too.”

  Quinn lays a palm on her forehead. My heart gives a strange lurch at the familiar motherly gesture. Lily closes her eyes for a moment, then abruptly opens them. Her face has a weird expression.

  “Uh-oh,” Sarah says. She surges forward, grabs a plastic bucket off the floor, and thrusts it under Lily’s chin, just in time.

  “Good save,” I say as Sarah pulls back the bucket and takes it in the other room.

  “Urpity urp!” says one toddler, peering over the back of the sofa.

  “Big barf!” says the other. They collapse on the floor, laughing, then stand up and run around the sofa.

  “Boys, leave Lily alone,” Sarah calls. She returns in a moment with a wet washcloth. She hands it to Quinn, who gently wipes Lily’s face.

  Lily looks up, obviously feeling better, and notices me for the first time. Her face brightens. “Daddy!”

  Delight pulses through me at the effusive greeting. “Hi, Lily.”

  “I’m sick.”

  “I see. I’m so very sorry.”

  Quinn finishes wiping Lily’s face and folds the washcloth. “When did it start?” she asks Sarah.

  “Lily didn’t want any dinner,” Sarah replies. “She said she didn’t feel well, so I put her on the sofa and fetched the sick bucket. I barely made it to her in time. I called you right after that.”

  “Poor darling.” Quinn strokes Lily’s hair. “Does your tummy hurt?”

  “It did, but I throwed up and it’s better.”

  “Can I touch it?”

  Lily nods and lies back. Quinn gently presses her abdomen. “Does this hurt?” she asks. Lily shakes her head. Quinn repeats the press-and-question sequence several times, without discovering any tender spots.

  “It’s probably a stomach bug,” Sarah says. “It’s been going around.”

  “I hope your twins don’t get it.”

  “Oh, Lily probably got it from them,” Sarah says ruefully. “They were sick last week. If it’s the same thing, it lasts about twenty-four hours.”

  “Do we need to take her to an emergency room or a doc-in-the-box?” I ask.

  “I think we just need to take her home,” Quinn says.

  “I’ll give you some Pedialyte and Children’s Tylenol,” Sarah said. “That’s what the twins’ doctor said to give them.”

  “And I can call her pediatrician if she gets worse,” Quinn says. “I have the number.” She turns back to Lily. “Let’s get you home, sweetie. Can you stand up?”

  Lily sits up, slowly stands, and then sinks back on the sofa. “The room feels all wobbly.”

  “Do you want me to carry you to the car?” I ask.

  “Yes, please,” Lily says. She holds up her arms, her eyes so trusting that my heart melts. I pick her up. She seems to weigh practically nothing.

  Sarah bustles to the kitchen, the twins following her like loud, raucous ducklings. Quinn goes with her and washes her hands.

  “Here’s the Tylenol and Pedialyte,” Sarah says, placing the bottles in a grocery tote. “I’m putting in some paper towels and a plastic bag in case she gets sick in the car. Better safe than sorry.”

  “Good thinking,” Quinn says as she dries her hands. “Thanks.”

  “And here’s her book bag. And Sugar Bear.”

  Quinn takes the bags and the stuffed animal, and heads for the front door. “Thank you, Sarah. I really owe you.”

  “Just take care of Lily, yourself, and that baby.” Sarah gives her a hug. “You don’t need to get run-down and sick yourself.”

  “Will do,” says Quinn.

  I carry Lily down the porch steps to Quinn’s car. Quinn opens the back door. I gently settle Lily in the safety seat and fasten her seat belt.

  Quinn pauses by the driver’s door and looks at me. “Thanks for everything,” she says, as if this were good night.

  “I’ll follow you home,” I say.

  She hesitates. I’m afraid she’s about to tell me, No, thanks. I’ve got this. “You might need help getting her into the house,” I say. “And I can run to the store to stock you up on extra Pedialyte or anything else you might need.”

  I can see her weighing things. “Okay,” she says, her eyes grateful. “Thank you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Quinn

  LILY IS FINE during the drive home, but she gets sick again as I unfasten her seat belt. I silently bless Sarah for sending the plastic baggie.

  Zack comes around and lifts Lily out. We walk to the front door and I unlock it, gingerly holding the barf bag. Ruffles barks.

  “Ruffles, this is my daddy,” Lily says from her perch in Zack’s arms.

  “Where should I put her?” Zack asks me.

  “On the sofa,” Lily replies. Amazing, how emptying her stomach immediately perks her up. I head to the kitchen, throw the sick bag in the trash, wash my hands, and then grab a big plastic bowl and place it on the floor beside Lily.

  “What can I do?” Zack asks.

  “Why don’t you bring a couple of warm, damp washcloths? There are so
me clean ones in the bathroom cabinet.”

  He returns in a moment. I wipe Lily’s face with one and her hands with the other, then notice her shirt has not come through her sick spells unscathed.

  “Let’s get you into your jammies,” I say.

  “Okay,” she agrees.

  Zack fetches another couple of warm washcloths as well as Lily’s pajamas from her room, then feeds Ruffles while I clean and change Lily. He’s at ease in my house, helping out as if it’s no big deal. I could get used to this, I think. I immediately censor the thought. He’s married. He’s moving to Seattle. Stop that right now!

  I turn on a Disney movie and give Lily some Pedialyte, but she can’t keep it down. I decide to call her pediatrician. I get the answering service, then wait for the doctor to call back.

  “It sounds like a virus,” Dr. Zegetti says when she returns my call. “Let her stomach settle for thirty minutes to an hour, then give her a few sips of Pedialyte. If she keeps it down, slowly rehydrate her. If she gets tired of Pedialyte, ginger ale or Popsicles will work. If she’s no better in the morning, bring her in.”

  Zack runs to the store and brings back everything Dr. Zegetti suggested. We both sit on the sofa with Lily, her feet on his lap and her head on mine, and watch Disney princess movies.

  It’s a long night of bodily functions gone awry. Through it all, Zack is patient, gentle, and easygoing. Lily dozes off sometime around one in the morning, reclining against him.

  “I think you missed your calling as a health care professional,” I tell him.

  He shrugs his shoulders. “Life put me through basic training.”

  “With your mom?”

  He nods. “She had a lot of internal injuries. I took a six-month leave of absence from work and went home to help Dad care for her.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Wow. Didn’t that throw a wrench in your career?”

  He nods. “One of the firm’s partners warned me it would probably set me back a couple of years.”

  “And you did it anyway?”

  “Sure. Family comes first.”

  I don’t know many men who’d deliberately take time out from a promising career to go home and help care for a sick mother. Correction: I don’t know any. I don’t know if it’s pregnancy hormones, worry about Lily, or fatigue that makes me emotional, but my eyes grow teary. “That was noble.”

  He gives a little laugh and looks embarrassed. “It’s what families do. My sister tried to help out, but she had two toddlers and lived two hours away. Anyway, I think Dad was in worse shape than Mom. She was his whole world.”

  “Your family sounds wonderful.”

  “Yeah.” He looks down at Lily, then back up at me. “You know, watching you with Lily tonight reminded me of Mom. The way you put your palm on her forehead and smoothed back her hair and cleaned her face—it was just like she used to do when my sister and I were little.”

  I realize he’s paying me the highest of compliments. “Thanks,” I say. My throat feels strangely thick. “I only did what I always wished my mother would do for me.”

  “And she didn’t?”

  I shrug. “There were little stretches of time when she would, but it always seemed like she was performing in a production called The Really Good Mom, starring Deirdre Langston. After half an hour or so, she’d get tired of the part.”

  And if she didn’t have an audience, all bets were off. I decide that’s TMI.

  He blows out a soft whistle.

  “She wasn’t all that bad,” I backtrack. “She just wasn’t cut out to be a parent. Maybe that’s the difference between having a child you want and a child you don’t.”

  “Love isn’t always something you know you want in advance,” Zack says. He looks down at Lily, his eyes soft. “Sometimes it’s what you choose to open your heart to.”

  His words seem to echo around the room. They bounce off the walls and ceiling, and ricochet dangerously in my mind. Goose bumps rise on my arms.

  We sit there in silence for a moment. On the TV screen, Aladdin kisses Jasmine. It’s a sign! I think.

  No, I immediately reprimand myself. It’s not a sign; it’s a Disney movie. And Zack is not a guy you can open your heart to. He’s married.

  “You need to take care of that baby you’re carrying,” he says. “I’ll stay here with Lily. Go get some sleep.”

  I don’t argue; I’m too fatigued to even pretend I’m not. Fatigue must be the reason I’m having these unnerving thoughts about Zack, because I have no interest—none at all—in harboring even the slightest romantic feelings for a married man. I head to my bedroom, pull off my clothes, put on a T-shirt and yoga pants, and fall into bed.

  * * *

  —

  I AWAKEN TO the smell of coffee. When I roll over and look at my bedside clock, it’s five minutes after eight.

  I wash my face, brush my teeth, and peek into the living room. Lily is still sacked out on the sofa. I head into the kitchen and find a shirtless Zack on a barstool at the island, looking at his phone.

  I stop and gawk. My pre-coffee brain can’t process the sight of this half-naked man in my kitchen. He’s fit, with defined biceps, taut abs, and muscled pecs. He has just the right amount of chest hair that narrows to a happy trail that disappears into his jeans. My mouth goes dry.

  He notices me staring and self-consciously runs a hand over his chest. “I, uh, wasn’t fast enough with the sick bowl around two this morning,” he says apologetically. “I threw my shirt in the washer. It’s in the dryer now.”

  “Oh, good. Great. I’m glad.” I realize I’m not making a lot of sense. “I—I don’t mean I’m glad you took a hurl hit. I mean I’m glad you helped yourself. To using the washer. And the dryer. And that you found the detergent.” Jeez, why can’t I stop babbling? “How was Lily the rest of the night?”

  “She drank some Pedialyte, kept it down, and conked out. She’s been asleep ever since.”

  “Oh, thank heavens! The active-volcano stage is over.” I pour half a cup of coffee. My ob-gyn okayed a little caffeine, and I really need some this morning. Zack seems to have made himself right at home, I note, finding the filters and brewing a pot in my ancient drip coffee maker. I don’t mind at all. In fact, it’s really nice. “And thank you. You were a godsend last night.”

  “Glad I could help out. I hated seeing her so sick.”

  “Me, too. It was scary.”

  “Yeah.”

  But something else scares me even more: how easily Lily took to him. She relied on him and trusted him as if he really were her father—a father she’d known all her life.

  Just as scary is something I don’t want to admit, much less really look at: how very much I relied on him, too. And how easily he seems to be fitting into my life.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Jessica

  “BUT, JESSICA, I don’t understand.”

  “What don’t you get, Mom?” I’m sitting in my hotel room in Seattle on Saturday morning, my cell phone set on speaker. My sister sits across from me on the bed, giving me an encouraging look. She insisted that I needed to tell Mom what’s going on in New Orleans, and I know she’s right. I can’t keep Zack’s child and baby a secret from my family forever.

  “How could Zack have been a sperm donor? Wasn’t he thinking about the future?”

  “No, Mom, he wasn’t. He was nineteen years old. All he was thinking was that his father’s business was in trouble and he wanted to pay his own way through college, which is completely commendable.”

  “But you said you knew this when you married him. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I knew you’d be upset, and I wanted to marry him anyway.”

  “But I’m your mother. You should have told me.”

  My sister rolls her eyes.

  I cross mine back at her. “Sorry
, Mom. I guess I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

  Erin whispers, “Welcome to my world.”

  “There’s something else I don’t understand,” my mother continues. “Why on earth did you stir up this whole hornet’s nest now?”

  I blow out a sigh. I thought I’d already adequately explained how I screwed things up, but apparently I need to admit my failure yet again. “I didn’t mean to, Mom. Things spiraled out of control. It was a mistake.”

  “Oh, Jessica.” The disappointment in her voice makes my stomach squeeze. “I could expect something like this from your sister or brother, but you, Jess . . .”

  My sister stabs her index finger at me. “See?” she hisses.

  “I messed up,” I say. “I’m furious at myself, and I’ve got to figure out what to do. I just called to explain the situation and to let you know I’m back in town.”

  “Yes, well, I appreciate that. Oh, honey.” Her voice is so sympathetic that tears well up in my eyes. “This is so unlike you. I hate that you’re going through this.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Don’t you want to come home instead of staying in that cold hotel?”

  “No, this is a lot more convenient. I have several early and late meetings this week, and I don’t want to fight the traffic.”

  “Plus there’s room service and a Starbucks in the lobby,” my sister says.

  “What?” Mom says.

  I shoot my sister an evil glare. “That was the TV in the background.”

  “Well, do you have any time to see your family in that busy schedule of yours?”

  “I’m free tomorrow night.”

  “Can you come for dinner?”

  “I’d love to,” I say.

  “I assume your sister knows all this?”

  “Yes. But I only told her a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Still, that’s two weeks sooner than you told me.”

  I blow out a sigh. “I don’t worry as much about Erin’s opinion of me.”

  “Oh, honey! I just want the best for you.”