by Susan Gable
He groaned. “There’s a big but coming after that.”
The corners of her mouth lifted in a sad smile. “But I’m not marrying you. I’m not marrying anybody.” She leaned around him to look at Jordan, then continued, more quietly. “About my reaction to your proposal… I was married once.”
“What?” His eyebrows shot up. “All those times we talked about my marriages, and you didn’t offer this information? Wait, don’t tell me, you’re still married.” That idea left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“No. My so-called marriage turned out to be a sham in the first place. I had it annulled because it made me feel better about it, but the truth is, it wasn’t real. He’d used a fake identity.” She shook her head. “It’s still hard for me to talk about.”
Finn squeezed her hand.
“He was a con man. He conned me into believing…”
“That he was a prince. That he loved you. That he’d take care of you.” Finn lightly stroked her cheek. The final pieces to the puzzle of Amelia Young were sliding into place for him. “Yeah.”
“Then what happened?”
“He left me standing at a boarding gate at JFK, ready to take off for our honeymoon while he cleaned out my bank accounts and vanished.”
His eyes widened, and his jaw went slack. He stared at her for a few moments. “Seriously?”
She nodded.
“Sounds like a bad made-for-TV movie.”
“Welcome to my life. One bad made-for-TV movie after another.”
“Damn. I swear, I’m going to find this guy and fillet him. I’m so sorry, babe.” No wonder she prized her independence so much. His divorces made him feel like a failure, but he couldn’t begin to imagine how a sham marriage would make him feel. Gun-shy for sure. “But I’m not him.”
“I know that. At least, I think I do.” She shrugged.
“So what happens now?” He wanted to tell her how much he loved her, but after her revelation, realized those words would fall on deaf ears. Screw it. “Amelia, I love you—”
“You don’t even really know me.”
“I know enough. You admitted I haven’t seen you at your best. If I can love you at your worst, don’t you think I’d love you even more in normal times?”
She turned her head toward the doorway.
“Amelia…I’m not going away. I’m not a sperm donor anymore. I’m a real dad now. I love both these kids. Did you fill out Chip’s birth certificate yet? You named me as father, right?”
Amelia sighed. She was so damned tired. Chip’s birth had taken more out of her than she’d expected. “I haven’t filled it out yet, no.”
“But you’ll put me down as his father, right? My sister Cathy says that if you don’t, we can go before a judge to have it amended. Some paperwork, a paternity test and bingo. The state apparently loves to find fathers for children. And I will gladly pay whatever child support the court orders. He’s my son, Amelia. I am not going to vanish from his life. I will be there for visitation, for holidays—”
“Slow down there, sport. Even if you get named as his father, how do you propose visitation with him? Every other weekend, like most daddies? That’s a hell of a drive for you.”
“I don’t care. He’s going to know me. And the rest of his family.”
“And you’re going to breast-feed him, too? Because he’s going to be breast-fed for at least the first year of his life. Dads are important, but they can’t do that.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you going to fight me on this? On being part of his life? Because I’m prepared to fight you. Cathy said we can even file for an injunction to prevent you from leaving the state with him.”
Amelia recoiled. “You would do that?”
“I don’t want to. We can be reasonable about this, right?”
“What about me, Dad?” Jordan appeared on the side of the bed, looking at Finn beseechingly. “You’re gonna fight for me, too, right?”
“Aww…” He embraced her. Then he shifted so he could look at her. He stroked her hair. “I would if I could, sweetheart.”
“But…” Jordan’s bottom lip trembled. “Don’t you want me, too?”
“Of course I do. But I signed paperwork before you were born. Legally, I don’t have any claim to you.”
“You’re my dad.” Jordan’s face blanched even paler. “You’re my dad! And you could fight for me if you wanted to!” She wrenched herself from his grasp and stumbled across the room, slamming the bathroom door. The lock snicked shut.
Chip started to wail.
Head pounding, Amelia pushed Finn off the edge of the bed as she jumped out of it. She lifted the baby—Charles Ian Paul Young, because thanks to Finn she couldn’t stop thinking of him as Chip—from the bassinet, rocking him.
She spun on Finn. “Way to go. Make her think you don’t want her. That’s just what she needs to take with her into this transplant. She has a fight for her life ahead of her, and you’re threatening me about Chip?”
“I do want her. And she’s right. I should fight for her. Give me back my rights to her, Amelia. Amend her birth certificate. Name me her father, too.”
“Are you crazy?”
“If a father wanting to be with both his children is crazy, then yeah, I’m crazy. Absolutely certifiable. I care enough about them both—”
“Save it. If you care enough, you’ll at least give me time to get Jordan through her transplant and back on her feet before we divide up our son. I’m never changing Jordan’s birth certificate.” She pointed at the door. “Go, Finn. I’m leaving tomorrow—”
“You’re driving sixteen hours two days after having a baby? Are you crazy? Why don’t you let me—”
“Sia is flying down this afternoon. She bought a one-way ticket. She’s doing the driving.”
Sia had insisted. She’d been beside herself the whole time Amelia had been in Erie because she hadn’t been able to visit. But Amelia had needed her a lot more in Maine, to take care of everything there.
“We’ll stop in Portland on the way through to do Jordan’s pretransplant testing. After that, depending on what tests they need and the results, we’ll probably be home in Caribou for about two weeks, then back down in Portland for the transplant.”
“You’ll keep me informed about Jordan, right? I can call her? E-mail her?”
“If she wants to talk to you after this—”
He looked stricken.
Good. Served him right. “—I certainly won’t stop her. I intend to give her every tool I can to make sure she wins this battle. Even if that means you.”
Her daughter wanted to believe in him. Amelia could understand that.
She’d wanted to believe in him, too.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
17 days post-transplant
THE ACHE IN HER BREASTS told time better than her watch. Amelia wearily pushed herself up from the recliner in the corner of Jordan’s room at the bone marrow transplant unit.
Jordan’s laptop, open on the adjustable bed table, blared Hawkins movies. Amelia had nicknamed it HTV—all Hawkins, all the time. She’d had no idea her daughter had gathered so much footage during their time in Erie, from the travelogues Jordan and Finn had made, to interviews with almost every member of the family, to Shannon and Greg’s wedding.If it comforted her, then Amelia wasn’t about to protest.
Even if she could now narrate most of them by heart. Even if she suspected it was Jordan’s subtle way of torturing her.
Finn’s smile, his dancing with Jordan at the wedding, the beach scene…
Amelia missed him. Some days she felt as if she’d lost a limb. And the phantom pain sucked.
She paused by the bed. Jordan slept, her face flushed with fever, which thankfully had been lower at last check. Antibiotics dripped into her IV to help combat the mouth sores she’d developed. She’d also been given pain medication. Amelia stroked her daughter’s head, fingers sliding over the silky scarf Jordan wore, even in this private place, to cover her hair los
s.
That had made her sob more than any of the stressful procedures.
Amelia pulled a notecard out of the desk in the room, placed it on the table next to the laptop. Gone to feed Chip. Be back soon.
She struggled to balance her time between the kids, to nurse Chip at least twice for his daytime feedings, since he was getting the short end of the stick. Some days she worried her baby would forget who she was. Without her showing up to nurse him, he might have.
She scrubbed her hands before entering the anteroom, a chamber that acted as a buffer between Jordan’s pressurized space and the outer unit. An additional germ barrier to protect her now even more fragile child. Once the inner doors closed behind Amelia, she could open the outer ones. Her chapped hands stung.
Outside, she gathered her purse and coat, pausing at the nurses’ station to tell them she’d be gone temporarily. Before leaving the BMTU, she removed her blue paper booties, then went through a final set of doors, marked Exit Only. In the elevator, she leaned into the corner, fighting to keep her eyes open.
Outside, a cold wind blew her hair into her face. The afternoon sun struggled to break through the cloud cover. Amelia crossed the street to Daniel’s House, a four-story building that rented furnished apartments to the families of children at the Portland Presbyterian Children’s Hospital. A large portrait of the little boy, Daniel, whom the facility honored, hung on the wall near the elevators.
She joined another couple heading up. The man and woman wore the weary, shell-shocked expression Amelia had become all too familiar with. When the elevator stopped, she followed them off, turning left while they went right.
She slid the key into the lock. But it wouldn’t turn. She wiggled it, tried the other direction, took it out and inserted it again. Finally, she rapped on the door, calling for the nanny. “Charlotte? Open the door. My key won’t work.”
A few moments later the door opened, revealing a middle-aged man with a balding head. He rubbed his eyes, then stared at her. “Can I help you?”
“You’re not Charlotte.”
“Nope. Can’t say that I am.”
Amelia glanced at the number beside the door. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She sighed. “I got off at the wrong floor.”
The man smiled wearily at her. “Happens to us all at some point. The absentmindedness of sleep deprivation.”
Another short elevator ride, one floor up, and this time, as Amelia slid her key home and turned it, Chip’s muffled cries penetrated the door. “I’m sorry, I’m coming.” She draped her coat over the island that separated the efficiency kitchen from the living room, and dropped her purse.
Charlotte, a chubby older woman, paced the floor, bouncing the crying baby in her arms. “Here’s Mommy.” Charlotte was actually her second nanny. Amelia had fired the first after a week when she’d discovered the woman’s tendency to watch television all day and let Chip cry.
Amelia took her son, who immediately turned his face toward her chest.
“I thought we were going to have to tap the milk supply in the freezer again,” Charlotte said.
“I was waiting for Jordan to fall asleep after the pain meds before I left.”
Chip, frustrated by being so close and yet not being fed, scrunched his face up and burst into serious wailing.
Amelia carried him into the bedroom, stretching out in the middle of the king-size bed on her side. Chip latched on to her breast immediately.
Crying gave way to contented gulps.
He watched her, his brilliant blue eyes making her feel guilty every time she gazed into them. Like his big sister, Chip had his father’s eyes.
Amelia was starting to realize she’d made a serious mistake.
She talked to the baby, telling him about Jordan’s day so far, from the three spoons of applesauce and the ice pop she’d managed to get down for lunch, to the video greeting she’d received from her friend and crush, giver-of-the-awesomely-scary-exciting-first-kiss, Tyler. Ty e-mailed new videos on a regular basis, and they did the same, though Jordan preferred being the one holding the camera when she could manage it.
When Chip finished on one side, Amelie gathered him into her arms and repositioned them both on the other, placing a pillow between him and the edge of the bed.
Chip’s sucking slowed. His eyes closed. He’d stop nursing for a few moments, then start again.
Amelia closed her eyes, too. Just a little rest.
In the space of several moments, she was asleep, dreaming about Finn’s face, his smile, his voice.
“I love her because she’s smart and funny. She’s independent and strong—”
The doorbell startled her awake. She got up empty…aching…trying to remember the wisp of the dream, knowing only without doubt Finn had been involved.
Careful not to disturb Chip, she tucked him into the portable crib at the foot of the bed. She knuckled her eyes, then headed out.
Charlotte was closing the door. She held a vase with a bouquet of mini sunflowers, orange roses and lilies mixed with fall foliage. “I’ll say this for him. The man is persistent.” She handed Amelia the card, then set the vase on the counter.
“A little something to brighten your week. Thinking of you. Love, Finn.”
Amelia’s throat tightened. He’d sent flowers with the same message every Monday since Jordan’s admission to the BMTU—where flowers and balloons weren’t allowed because they gathered dust and germs.
“Too bad the goodies haven’t gotten here yet,” Charlotte said. “I’m craving chocolate.” Every Thursday, like clockwork, brownies and other homemade treats appeared at the apartment, delivered by FedEx. He’d sent a football and a teddy bear for Chip’s one month birthday.
Persistent didn’t begin to cover it.
Consistent. Stable. Thoughtful. Wonderful.
Reliable…
Once again the idea that she’d made a horrible mistake, not just for herself, but for her children, gnawed at Amelia. Time away from him, not to mention the lessening of her anxiety and stress from both the pregnancy and Jordan’s situation, had opened her eyes.
Every time he hadn’t been there for her—putting her out of his house, not showing up at Chip’s birth—that had been her fault, not his. She’d been the one to hurt him first. He hadn’t abandoned her. She’d driven him away.
Because she’d been convinced he could be another Ron. That even if he wasn’t, she somehow weakened herself by depending on him. Set herself up to hurt down the road…
A few hours later, after coaxing Jordan to eat some chicken soup and about a quarter of a chocolate milk shake, Amelia found herself rapping on the door of the unit’s social worker, a warm, caring woman who invited her in.
“You just caught me. I was getting ready to head out for the evening.” Though she kept seminormal hours, Helen gave cards with her cell number to all parents upon first meeting.
Amelia slumped in the chair in front of her desk. “I need somebody to talk to. I’m so damn confused.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Is there some kind of patient’s-parent confidentiality here? If I spill my guts, you’re not going to spread it around, right?”
Helen smiled. “As long as no one’s going to get hurt if I don’t.”
So Amelia told her the entire story of Finn. A story that had begun over a year ago, when she’d shown up on his doorstep with a specimen cup and a small—in her opinion—request. She left out the more personal details, like losing her head in his kitchen. She talked about how he’d taken over caring for her, caring for Jordan, the whole thing.
Helen nodded when appropriate, made quiet noises of encouragement when Amelia faltered in the telling.
“So, what’s your question?” she asked when Amelia finally fell silent.
She’d come to realize over the past few weeks that she loved Finn. But love wasn’t the issue. “Is there really such a thing as too independent?”
Helen snorted. “I’ve watched you run yourself ragg
ed, trying to take care of Jordan and that baby of yours, and you actually have to ask me that?” She leaned forward and pulled a pencil from the blue ceramic mug on her desk. “One pencil. Independent. All by itself.” She snapped it in half. “Easily broken.”
She pulled out two more. “Two pencils together. Sharing the load.” This time the veins on the back of her hand stood out, she gritted her teeth, but neither broke. “See?” the woman asked. “They’re stronger together, not weaker.”
Amelia stared at the pencils for a moment, then slowly nodded her head. “Got it.”
“Good. Now I have a question for you. Does this guy have any brothers? And are they available?”
Amelia grinned, her tension easing for the first time in weeks. “As a matter of fact…”
FINN GLARED AT TRACEY as she set a bowl of risotto back on the serving island. “Don’t shoot the messenger.” She raised her hands.
“What’s the message?”“Customer says it doesn’t taste right.”
“What the hell do you mean, it doesn’t taste right?” He grabbed a tasting spoon from the holder and dipped it into the dish. “Tastes fine to me. You taste it.”
He handed her a clean spoon. Her nose wrinkled after she sampled it. “What?”
“It’s a little bland. Needs more salt or something.”
He sighed. Bland had been a complaint lately, but everything tasted right to him.
It was the world that was wrong. Bland. Lacking.
He fired up a replacement, this time adding salt slightly beyond what he thought it needed. When it didn’t come back, he adopted the strategy for the rest of the service.
The kitchen cam and his laptop were both running. In case Jordan wanted to chat. Or just peek in on him. But she hadn’t, to his dismay.
During the lulls, he rewatched the latest video from her on his laptop. Footage Jordan had shot from her hospital bed. The camera wobbled, then zoomed in on Amelia, sprawled in a recliner. Jordan’s narration was hard to understand because of the sores in her mouth. “Here’s Mom,” she said. “Sleeping again.”
He didn’t catch the next sentence. But the images of Amelia tore at him. She’d lost all of the pregnancy weight. Maybe more. No longer radiant, she appeared wan. Pale.
