“At Darryl’s house. Mom, what’s wrong with her?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart.” Sheridan spoke with calm, although her heart was pounding its way through her chest. “Get me the phone.”
As Tori dashed into the kitchen, Sheridan lifted Déjà’s head slightly and called her name. “Can you hear me?”
When Tori returned, Sheridan said, “I’m going to call nine-one-one. Get my cell and call Chris at Darryl’s.”
Tori took the steps two at a time, as Sheridan dialed. By the time she had given the information and begged the operator to hurry, Tori was back at her side.
“Chris and Darryl are on their way, Mom.”
A moan stopped both of them. Déjà’s eyelids fluttered and another groan slipped through her lips. She twisted in Sheridan’s arms.
“Déjà, can you hear me?”
Her eyes opened slowly, and Sheridan could tell she had trouble focusing. “Ms. Hart.” She licked her lips.
“Déjà, don’t move. You’re going to be all right. I called the paramedics.”
“What…what happened?”
Her question came as Chris bolted into the house, slamming the door against the wall. “Mom!”
“Chris?” Déjà moved to sit up. “Oh.” Her moan was louder this time, and she clutched her stomach. “Ms. Hart.”
“Don’t move,” Sheridan pleaded. And then she saw the dark stain seeping through Déjà’s jeans. She was grateful that no one else seemed to notice.
“Chris,” Sheridan said, moving into command mode, “stay with Déjà. Tori, call your father. Track him down. Darryl, come upstairs with me.” Sheridan stood. “Chris, don’t let her move.”
It was Sheridan’s turn to race up the stairs. In the bathroom she soaked two towels. “Put these on Déjà’s forehead,” Sheridan told Darryl. “I’ll be right down.”
As Sheridan jumped into a sweat suit, Tori tore into her bedroom. “Dad wants to talk to you. He’s at the golf course.”
Sheridan grabbed the phone at the same time that she heard the front door open. “Quentin, the paramedics are here. I’m going with Déjà.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know,” she said, surprised by the tears she felt coming. “She fainted, I think.” Then Sheridan lowered her voice. “I think it’s bad. She’s bleeding.”
A groan was his response. “Okay, they’re probably going to take her to Daniel Freeman. I’ll be right there.”
Sheridan grabbed her purse.
“Mom! The doctors are here,” Chris screamed.
She hurried to the door, but before she stepped into the hallway, she stopped. “Please, Lord, please. Keep Déjà and this baby safe.” She repeated her prayer once more before she dashed down the stairs.
Chapter Forty-four
“We cleaned up the bloodstains in the hallway,” Beatrice said. “And we’re about to take Tori home with us. Poor thing. She’s still upset.”
Sheridan massaged the bridge of her nose. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll call as soon as we know something.”
“We’ll be praying.”
Sheridan clicked off her cell. She knew she wasn’t supposed to use her phone inside the hospital, but there were no pay phones in sight.
She sighed and sank deeper into the hard leather of the waiting room couch. An hour had passed since Déjà had been admitted, and Sheridan had never felt so helpless. Even though Quentin was with Déjà, Sheridan wanted to be there too—to give her comfort, to tell her that everything would be all right.
“Chris,” Sheridan said, “why don’t you sit down?”
He shook his head. “I can’t. I’m scared, Mom.”
She nodded, understanding his feelings. For days she’d wished this girl and her baby would fade into oblivion. But not like this.
Please, God. This is not what I meant. This is not what I wanted.
“Chris!”
Sheridan looked up as a woman with three children in tow rushed toward them. And then she saw Harold Blue.
“Hey, Bogus,” Christopher said.
Bogus.
Christopher turned to Sheridan. “Mom, this is Déjà’s sister, Bogus. And her dad.”
“Hello, Mr. Blue,” she said. “Hello…Bogus.”
“What happened?” Bogus asked.
Sheridan let Christopher tell all that was known, which was not much beyond Déjà’s being admitted. As her son spoke, Sheridan eyed the twenty-something-year-old woman in front of her. A toddler hung from her hip, and two other children, not much older, stood at her side. She would have been able to pick Bogus as Déjà’s sister without being told—from the jeans that seemed to be dyed on, to the T-shirt that was stretched across her chest. Sheridan read the words painted on Bogus’s chest—“I Did Rashaad Three Times.” She wondered what that meant, and then her eyes passed over the three children. She almost laughed out loud.
“Your husband hasn’t come out yet, Ms. Hart?” Harold Blue asked, as he sat next to her.
“No, but believe me, Mr. Blue, Déjà is in very good care. I can promise you.”
He nodded and clasped his hands. “She’s my baby. I just want her to be all right.” Then he whispered, “I don’t like hospitals much. This was the last place I saw my wife alive…”
Before Sheridan could reassure him, the doors to the emergency room swung open and Quentin, dressed in a white lab coat, walked out. As he stood at the entrance to the waiting room, every eye turned to him. But only Sheridan knew what his eyes were saying.
The trembling began in her toes and climbed through her until it reached her lips. “Oh, no,” she cried softly.
Quentin walked over to Christopher and hugged him. “I’m sorry.”
Harold Blue looked at Sheridan. “What happened? My baby…” He fell into his seat, and Sheridan took his hand.
She swallowed before she asked, “Quentin…” Her voice trembled. “How’s Déjà?”
“She’s fine, although she is taking this pretty hard.”
Sheridan almost collapsed with relief.
“My baby…she’s okay?” Harold Blue sounded as if he was confused.
“Yes. Yes, she’s fine.”
Harold Blue rested his face in his hands. “Thank you, Lord,” he spoke loudly.
Sheridan closed her eyes. She couldn’t have said it better herself.
The black of night was all Sheridan could see as she waited.
“Here you go,” Kamora said, as she returned to the waiting room with two Styrofoam cups.
They sipped in silence until Kamora said, “You doing okay?”
Sheridan nodded. “Just numb. Exhausted emotionally. For the past week, I’ve had every emotion known to man.”
“I can’t believe you kept this from me.”
“I didn’t want to tell anyone until we knew for sure that…the baby was Christopher’s.” Sheridan had to pause. This morning she would have paid any ransom to be told Christopher was not this baby’s father. But now she felt a loss so overwhelming, it knocked all feelings from her.
“I’m really sorry, Sheridan,” Kamora said, taking her friend’s hand.
Sheridan nodded.
“There’s a bright side.” Before Kamora could continue, Sheridan held up her hand. She could imagine the joke her friend was going to share. Something about the Blue crew. Something about Bogus’s shirt. Something that yesterday would have made her laugh but today would make her cry.
“I don’t see too many bright sides, Kamora. I don’t know what this is going to do to Christopher.”
“My godson is smart. He’ll be relieved.”
Sheridan took another sip of her coffee and doubted that Christopher felt relief. He was like her. All week he’d probably begged for this kind of pardon. Today he probably wished he could take back all those thoughts.
The emergency room doors swung open, and Quentin escorted Harold Blue out. Sheridan watched the two fathers shake hands and pat each other’s back. And then Harold walked away, his sh
oulders just a bit lower than when he had come in this afternoon.
“How is she?” Sheridan asked, as Quentin came over to them.
“She’s fine. It’s more emotional than physical.”
“Why did she miscarry?” Kamora asked.
He shook his head. “That’s a question we haven’t been able to answer. The only thing we know about miscarriages is that the baby wasn’t developing normally. Unfortunately, miscarriage is common—almost fifty-fifty—in the first twenty weeks.”
“But she’s so young,” Kamora said.
“That’s the good news,” Quentin said. “She’ll be able to have more children.”
At that moment Christopher stepped into the waiting room, and Sheridan was sure they were all thinking the same thing: Déjà could have more children, just not with Christopher Hart.
“Mom, Déjà wants to see you.”
There was a part of Sheridan that had been waiting to see Déjà, to be there for her and comfort her the way she was sure Déjà’s mother would have. But there was the other side—filled with guilt. The side that Sheridan wasn’t proud of.
“I’ll be here when you get back,” Kamora said, as Sheridan stood.
Christopher took his mother’s hand and escorted her to Déjà’s room. Outside he stopped.
“You’re not coming in?”
He shook his head. “She wants to talk to you.”
But I don’t want to be in there alone.
Sheridan took a deep breath and then entered. Déjà leaned back against the half-raised bed. If Sheridan didn’t know what she’d just gone through, she wouldn’t have believed it. Déjà just looked like she’d been up for a few too many hours. Nothing like someone who had to mourn the death of what would have been her first child.
That thought brought tears to Sheridan’s eyes. She moved to the side of the bed and touched the railing. “How are you?”
Déjà nodded. “I’m fine.” She paused. “I’m sad.”
Sheridan touched her hand. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Déjà cocked her head a bit. “Are you really?”
Sheridan swallowed the lump in her throat. “I am.”
“I didn’t think you’d be sorry. I didn’t think you wanted me to have this baby.”
She didn’t want to lie, so she said nothing.
Déjà continued, “I know you don’t like me, Ms. Hart.”
“It’s not that, Déjà.”
“I know what it is.” She looked down at her hands. “You don’t think I’m good enough for Chris.”
Sheridan pressed her lips together.
Déjà said, “When I first met Chris, I thought he was too good for me too. But my dad told me that no one was too good for me and that I had something to offer every boy.” Her eyes lifted to Sheridan. “And what I offered Chris was love. I loved him, Ms. Hart. I still do.”
It was the first time Sheridan believed her. “I know, Déjà.” She paused, wondering if this was really the time to say what she thought. But then she continued, knowing neither one of them wanted her to hold back. “Déjà, you have so many years in front of you to discover what you want to do and who you want to be.”
“Ms. Hart, it’s not like that in my world. Where I’m from, I knew when I was a little girl what I wanted to be. I’ve known for a long time that I wanna be a mother and a wife.”
Sheridan took her hand. “I think you’ll be a wonderful wife and mother someday. But before then, there’s so much you can do.”
“But what’s wrong with the plan I have? Why can’t what I want be enough? Why do you think it’s not good enough?”
Her questions surprised and startled Sheridan, and she wondered, what was wrong with what Déjà desired? It wasn’t any different than what she’d done—married young, become a wife and mother above all else.
Sheridan took Déjà’s hands into hers. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t be what you want. I just want you to know you have options. Does that make sense?”
She nodded. “I never thought about choices before. Didn’t really think I had any.”
Sheridan tried to smile. “Would you mind if I prayed with you?”
Déjà looked like she wanted to protest, but she nodded.
Sheridan closed her eyes. “Heavenly Father, we come to you, thanking you for being God. We worship you because you are God. We praise you and thank you for all the wonderful things you’ve done for us.” Sheridan felt Déjà pull away, just a bit, but she held her hands tighter. “We thank you, Father, for protecting us, and guiding us. We thank you for caring for us. And we thank you for everything you’ve done for Déjà.” She had to pause for a moment as she felt Déjà stiffen. “And though we don’t understand everything that happens, we know that you are sovereign, you are in control, and everything will move for your glory. So Father, we ask for your peace tonight. We may not understand, but I know that you will hold us, and we will both know that you are with us. Thank you, Father, for this day. And thank you, Father, for all that you do every day. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
When Sheridan looked up, Déjà’s eyes were already open.
“You have a lot of faith, Ms. Hart, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have God.”
“No one’s ever prayed for me before.”
That made Sheridan sad.
Déjà said, “Thank you for coming to talk to me.”
Sheridan squeezed Déjà’s hand. “Just know you’re going to be all right. God will take care of you.”
Sheridan moved toward the door, but before she put her hand on the doorknob, Déjà said, “Ms. Hart, you said God will take care of me.”
Sheridan nodded.
“I don’t know a lot about God. Maybe I can go to church with you one day.”
Sheridan smiled. “I’d like that. If you’re feeling up to it, what about Sunday?”
Déjà nodded.
“I’ll give you a call, okay?”
Déjà smiled, and Sheridan stepped from the room. Outside she hugged Christopher. As she watched him push open the door to go back inside with Déjà, Sheridan had never been more proud of her son. They didn’t know whether the baby had been Christopher’s, but today he’d stepped up to the plate of responsibility.
Sheridan worked her way back through the hospital maze with beds and carts blocking the walkways, while the words she’d shared with Déjà whirled in her head. When she stepped through the emergency room doors, Brock stood on the other side.
He held his arms open, welcoming her, and she rushed to him.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I called this morning, and Tori told me you had just left for the hospital. I’ve been calling you all afternoon.”
“I’m so glad to see you.”
“Kamora and Quentin filled me in a bit,” Brock said, as he led her to the couch. “Are you okay?”
She shook her head. “It’s been a long week.”
He held her hand as they sat.
Quentin stood. “Christopher will only be able to stay another hour or so.”
Sheridan asked, “When will Déjà be released?”
“Tomorrow. It’s really not necessary for her to stay tonight. I just don’t want her taking that long ride home.”
Kamora stood. “Okay, I’m out.” She hugged Sheridan and then turned to Quentin. She faced him for a long moment before she hugged him too. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said to Sheridan, before she waved good night to Brock and sauntered into the night.
Quentin said, “Give me a minute. I’ll let Christopher know I’m going to take you home and that I’ll come back for him.”
Sheridan frowned. “That’s not necessary. Brock will take me home.”
It surprised her, the way Quentin’s lips pressed together as if he needed to keep words inside. Brock took her hand into his.
Quentin nodded slightly. “Well, then, I’ll pick up Tori. Come back. Get Christopher.” He stopped
. “Then I’ll be home.”
You’ll be home? “Okay.”
Sheridan could feel his eyes on them as they walked to the parking lot. But when Brock pushed her against his car and released some of her stress with his lips, all consciousness of Quentin evaporated. And all her thoughts of Déjà and Christopher faded into the cool night’s air.
They had been sitting in front of the house for at least an hour. The quiet felt good. And Brock’s hands over hers felt even better.
“I want you to get some rest,” Brock said. “It’s been some week for you.”
Sheridan leaned back. “This week is just a piece of the puzzle. A puzzle that began at the beginning of this year.”
Brock twisted in his seat. “I hope I’m a good piece of your puzzle.”
She smiled.
He said, “I guess it’s been difficult getting used to Quentin being gone.”
Her smile went away. “Yes, but it’s getting easier.”
She could feel the question coming—the one she was sure he’d almost asked a million times before. “How long have you and Quentin been divorced?”
Time to tell. “Not very long. Actually, not at all.” She spoke faster when his eyes widened. “Our divorce will be final soon.”
He paused. “So, I’ve been sleeping with a married woman?”
“We only did that once.”
“Good thing. Adultery…not my thing.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Are you upset?”
He shrugged. “Should I be?”
“No, because in my mind, I’ve been divorced since January fifth—the day Quentin left. It’s just hard for me to talk about it with you.”
He was thoughtful for minutes. “Was it very difficult? You both seem to be in that place where mature people who divorce find themselves, mostly because they want to do what’s best for their children.”
“Are you a divorce expert?”
“No, but I see a lot of divorce—especially with some of the boys I work with. And rarely does it look as civilized as it does with you and Quentin.”
She thought about all the times when her thoughts had been far from civilized. “Separation is hard.”
“I always wondered why you never talked about Quentin.”
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