Coffee burned like battery acid in Nick’s stomach. Legs wooden, he plodded back to the private waiting room and checked his watch. Almost 10 p.m. Payton would be in surgery for another six hours, maybe more.
Six hours of not knowing whether his son would live or die.
Breathing deeply, Nick settled into a cushioned chair. His eyes felt heavy. His muscles, once charged with adrenaline, now felt limp. But he wouldn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Not until he knew.
He pulled Tammy’s business card from his back pocket. Organ Procurement Coordinator. Was this a coincidence, or had God brought her here for a reason? The doctor had mentioned possible internal bleeding. Would Jeremy need a heart or lung transplant? Or was God merely providing a friend to help Nick through?
Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He needed this terrible night to be over, for his son to return home, where he belonged.
His phone rang, and his pulse quickened as an image of a scowling Marianne came to mind. She’d make him pay. Somehow she’d find a way to use this against him, to try to strip him of his parental rights.
Maybe he deserved it.
If only he’d taken the boys with him, none of this would’ve happened.
His cell chimed again, and he glanced at the number. He released a shuddered sigh. “Hey, Mom. How’s Jeremy?”
“Lying on the couch watching cartoons. He said he couldn’t sleep. I thought maybe the television could . . . How are you holding up?”
“You find the contact info for the cruise line?”
“I did.” Papers rustled on the other end. “Ready?”
He searched for a pen and paper. Not finding any, he put the call on speakerphone and used his notepad app. “Go ahead.” He typed in the phone numbers—four total along with Marianne’s cabin number—while she talked.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Any news on Payton?”
“No. He’s not out of surgery yet. I’ll phone you in the morning.”
He ended the conversation, then dialed the first number typed into his phone. A voice recording followed. Three calls later he reached a message service.
This wasn’t information he should let a stranger deliver. He rubbed at a knot in the back of his neck. “Yes, I’m trying to get a hold of Marianne Hawke. It’s an emergency. Please have her call her exhusband . . . uh, Nick Zimmerman, immediately.”
With his next call, he reached an automated answering service that provided instructions on how to contact private cabins.
His hand went slick around the phone.
It would’ve been so much easier had he hit a permanent, impenetrable roadblock. One that necessitated leaving a message.
With slumped shoulders, he dialed her cabin directly. It rang three times before connecting. A series of clanks and rustlings followed, as if someone had dropped the receiver. Soundscape music played in the background.
“Hello?” Marianne sounded breathless.
“It’s Nick.”
“Who else would be calling me in the middle of the night?” Her voice was raspy. “What is it? Where are the boys?”
A dull ache throbbed in the back of Nick’s skull. He raked his hands through his hair and started to pace. “There’s been an accident. Payton is—”
“What kind of accident?”
“If you would shut up for three seconds, I’d tell you.” Watch it. This wasn’t the time to start a fight. He clamped his mouth shut and took in a calming breath, exhaling slowly.
“Don’t you tell me to shut up, Nick.” She cursed, her tone reaching near hysterics.
“I’m at St. Paul’s Children’s Hospital.”
Marianne’s hysterics ramped back up. By the time he explained everything, she’d condemned him to hell and threatened to never let him see his kids again.
“He’s in surgery.” And could use your prayers, not your threats. “Good-bye.”
Tammy pulled into Vanessa’s driveway as the sun was poking over the horizon. Light glowed through the living room window, indicating her friend was already awake.
Cutting the engine, Tammy smiled. My sweet friend, what would we do without you?
She needed to find a sitter. One who could show up on short notice without demanding more money than Tammy had.
She’d take out an ad. Today.
Birds chirped as she strolled up the walk. The faint scent of bacon floated on the air, causing her stomach to rumble. Standing on the stoop, she rang Vanessa’s doorbell and waited.
Her friend answered in a thick robe and fluffy slippers. “Hey, there, Miss Night Owl.”
“Thanks for watching the kids, V. I owe you.”
“My pleasure. Keeps me young. And . . .” She wiggled painted fingernails in the air, revealing multicolored stripes and polka-dots. “Stylish.” She giggled and moved aside.
As Tammy suspected, Tylan was already up, stationed in front of the television. He was hunched over a plate of food and shoveled mouthfuls of pancake in his mouth. A milk mustache stretched above his top lip and syrup splotched his Spiderman pajamas.
“Hey, bud.” Tammy stepped toward him. “Whatchya watching?” She started to sit, but Vanessa grabbed her wrist and pulled her forward.
“Oh, no you don’t.” She guided Tammy toward the master bedroom. “You need to sleep.”
“Nope. I don’t want to hear it.” She pushed Tammy in with a “Nighty-night,” and shut the door.
Tammy stared at the closed door until fatigue drew her to Vanessa’s bed. If only she could remain there indefinitely.
Any chance You can solve my problems while I sleep, Lord?
Nestling beneath the sheets, she closed her eyes and let dreamland swallow her concerns.