LEXIE
Daisy’s pediatrician tells me that she’s probably going to be ready for discharge in a few days. This is great news, but it’s also terrifying news.
Forty days have passed since the birth. Forty days that I have not worked, I’ve barely kept up with my laundry and cleaning the house has become a distant memory. Forty days over which Sam has gradually become a stranger I pass in the hallway and share lunch with every now and again. Forty days and my life has shifted from predictable and organized and functional to chaos that I cannot seem to unscramble. I have bonded deeply with Daisy, of course I have; she is tiny and fragile, and she’s been in pain for so much of that time. I’ve wept for her almost as much over this month as I have wept for Annie in the last decade. But now she’s coming into my home. No longer can I just clock out and leave the responsibility behind with nurses overnight—no, once Daisy is discharged, it is entirely up to me to keep her safe and well.
And I have to get it right. I can’t afford to take a wrong step—Daisy has already been through hell, and there’s more to come. If Annie gets herself together in rehab somehow, and we can convince CPS she’s up to the task of parenting Daisy, then Daisy will go home with her mother eventually. But where is home? Is it in my house—further extending the chaos? Or is it in the trailer? I don’t even know who owns that trailer, or how Annie paid the rent...if she has at all. And what if Annie doesn’t make it through rehab, as seems increasingly likely? I don’t have a clue what I’d do then, and I can’t bear to think about it.
Mary Rafferty calls and asks if she and Bill Weston can visit the house.
“There are some formalities we need to attend to before Daisy formally comes into your care,” she says. “Bill and I could come by this evening? Maybe after your fiancé finishes at the hospital?”
“Ah...” I fumble to think of a reason to decline or at least postpone her request. “Of course you can, but...”
I trail off, thinking of the dishes in the sink and the piles of laundry waiting for our attention. Then I think of the room where Daisy will sleep, which is full of boxes—some of which I’ve torn open and tipped onto the floor when I was looking for Annie’s diary.
“I know you’ve been busy with the baby at the hospital, Dr. Vidler. I won’t be expecting a clean house, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Mary says gently.
“It’s just...we haven’t even got the nursery in order yet,” I say hesitantly. “We’ll do it on the weekend but...”
“Oh, that’s not what I’m looking for, either. It’s a safety check—a procedural thing, you understand. There’s a checklist I need to follow. I mainly need to see that Daisy is going to a home where she will be safe. And if there’s a thing or two that still needs doing before she comes home, it’s no big deal, truly.”
I agree to meet Mary and Bill at our place just after 5:00 p.m., and then I sprint to my car and call Sam as I drive home. I spend the afternoon frantically cleaning and trying to restore some order to the house. I hide baskets of laundry and scrub the kitchen, focusing so hard my vision almost tunnels. I spend ten minutes trying to polish out a tiny stain on the countertop that was there when we bought the house, and when I can’t lift it, I sob. When Sam comes home, he finds me in the immaculate bathroom trying to hide my blotchy skin with makeup.
“Uh...” he says, looking at me with visible panic. “What happened?”
“There’s a stain on the countertop,” I say, and I burst into tears again. “What if they say we can’t have her? What if they want to send her to some foster carer who has clean countertops?”
Sam looks at me blankly.
“Can’t we just cover the stain with the fruit bowl?”
But by the time we open the front door, the house is sparkling clean and Sam and I are both wearing our brightest smiles.
“It’s so lovely to see you again, Dr. Vidler,” Mary greets me with a beam.
“You, too,” I say politely, and I step aside to allow them to enter the hallway.
Sam leads the way around our house, giving a laid-back tour, mentioning the layout and the renovations as we walk. Mary scrawls notes, and I twist my neck this way and that, trying unsuccessfully to read what she’s written. We finish at the room we’re planning to set up for Daisy, right across the hall from ours.
“It’s been our storage room,” Sam says wryly. “We’re going shopping for baby things on the weekend.” I hastily glance at Mary and Bill, but neither seems bothered by our lack of preparation. Mary catches my eye and offers me a quiet smile.
“Can we take a seat downstairs and have a little chat?”
My knees are stiff as we walk down to the living room. Bill and Mary sit on the sofa opposite Sam and me, and Sam takes my hand, then glances at me. He must correctly read in my face how terrified I am, because he releases my hand and instead slides his arm around my shoulders.
“The house is fine. There are just a few specifics we need to discuss,” Bill murmurs, then he glances at Mary and at her nod, he turns back to Sam and me. “Firstly, I’d like to hear whether either of you has any experience with young children, particularly newborns—” He stops midsentence, then cringes. “Wait, that’s a bit of a silly question—sorry, I don’t usually conduct these interviews with doctors!”
Sam laughs quietly.
“Yes, we’re both well versed in the needs of caring for a newborn baby.”
“Of course, my apologies. Perhaps you can tell me about your support networks?” Bill asks next.
“We have a good network of friends around Montgomery,” I say. “Plus colleagues from our workplaces, and the neighbors are all good people, too.”
“Do you have people you could call on if you needed emotional or practical support? Or say if there was an emergency with Daisy and you weren’t sure what to do?”
Sam and I exchange a glance. I’m finally starting to relax, because if this is the standard we need to meet, we really are going to be fine. “Again, we’re both doctors but...if a situation were to arise where we needed more expert help, I play golf with Daisy’s pediatrician on weekends, so I guess we’d just call him.”
Mary laughs softly.
“We have a set of questions we generally ask in these circumstances. It’s a good problem to have that most of those questions seem a bit absurd in your situation, trust me.”
Bill nods, but then he fixes his gaze right on me, and he says quietly, “I did a background check on you, Alexis—all was in order, of course but... I was surprised by how high your debt burden is. You’ve still got student loans and several large credit cards—it’s an unusually extensive debt, even for someone who’s been through med school, isn’t it?”
This catches me off guard, and I’m instantly defensive again.
“Annie was in my care from the time she was fourteen, Bill, so I didn’t exactly have a lot of time for saving a nest egg to cover my tuition,” I say, and Sam very gently contracts his arm along my shoulders. I take a deep breath. “Yes, there was undergrad tuition and then med school tuition—but then Annie needed to go to rehab and she didn’t have insurance so I borrowed for that, too. I’ve been paying it down as quickly as I can, but you’re right—my finances could be healthier. I’m working on it, but it’s under control.”
Bill and Mary don’t need to know this—but when we first tried to buy the house, the mortgage was declined because of my outstanding debt. Sam cashed in some stocks so we had a larger deposit and that got us over the line, but at one stage, we thought we were going to have to get the mortgage in his name only.
“Well, yes, but then now there’s also the mortgage on this house—and of course you’ll be responsible for both Annie’s and Daisy’s hospital care bills and the rehab facility fee. Are you sure you can afford to take another eight weeks off?” Bill asks. He’s still pleasant, but I can’t help but feel like we’re finally moving into a make-or-break discussion, and now my anxiety about this meeting seems justified.
“You did a background check on me, too, right?” Sam asks. Bill nods and Sam continues calmly, “So you know that the only debt I have is the mortgage on this house, and I do have reasonable assets.”
“So you’ll be supporting Alexis and Daisy financially, then?” Bill asks.
“No,” Sam says abruptly. “I’m not ‘supporting’ them like they’re some kind of burden. Lexie and I are a team—she doesn’t have a backlog of debt to cover, we do, and when you split it between the two of us and our collective salaries now, it’s entirely manageable. And regarding the medical bills, we’ll get a substantial staff and family discount off what’s left after Medicaid. As Lexie said, it’s all under control. Okay?”
“I wasn’t accusing you two of poor financial management,” Bill says quietly. “I just need to be absolutely sure that I know what the care arrangement for the baby is going to be until Annie is cleared to resume responsibility for her. I would hate to approve this kinship care and then find in a few weeks that Alexis has returned to work full-time and you’re leaving Daisy with a nanny or at a day care.”
“That’s not going to happen.” I frown at him. “Although I don’t see why it would be a problem if I did. Are you saying working mothers can’t be foster parents?”
“Well, obviously a better situation is to have an infant with a stay-at-home carer as much as possible. And in this case, Daisy’s NAS is a complication that needs very careful attention. I’d much rather see Daisy at home with you full-time, at least for now.”
“And we’ve just assured you she will be,” Sam says.
“We’ve talked a lot today about this period while Annie is at rehab,” Mary says, changing the subject. “Have you two discussed what happens afterward? Or if...heaven forbid...Annie doesn’t complete the program?”
Sam and I exchange a glance. We haven’t discussed this—partly because when Sam has tried to broach it, I’ve changed the subject. It’s too frightening, and I have too much to deal with day to day to risk a conversation that might not go well. I just don’t know how he would feel about us taking permanent care of my sister’s kid, and I’m too scared to find out.
I’m not even sure how I feel about it—my thoughts on the possibility of longer-term care for Daisy change all the time. Some days, I’m resigned to its inevitability, and perhaps that’s why I’m too afraid to discuss it with Sam. On those days, all that matters is that the gentle love I had for Daisy has grown into something extraordinary and powerful. That devotion is already becoming a force to be reckoned with—my beautiful, innocent niece is relying on me, and I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure she has a stable upbringing.
And occasionally, I have fleeting moments of clarity when I know somehow that I’ll be raising Daisy, and I’m petrified of what that means for Sam and me. He’s not accustomed to a family that throws curveballs like this. Longer-term care of Daisy may mean assuming responsibility for Daisy while Annie pops in and out of our lives, probably bringing drama with every new encounter. What if Sam decides it’s just too much? What do I do then? I don’t know. I won’t let my niece or my sister down, but Sam is the best thing that ever happened to me. What if he asked me to choose? I couldn’t, and I can’t even begin to process how I might, and so I don’t let myself go there.
Besides which, sometimes I genuinely believe that Annie is going to be fine. All she has to do is stay at rehab, then I can help her set up and resume responsibility for her daughter. When I frame this situation like that in my mind, I can convince myself that I don’t even need to talk to Sam about a longer-term future with Daisy because everything is going to be just fine.
And as for right now, I’m exactly on the fence. Longer-term care of Daisy might be required, but equally it might not, and Sam and I haven’t discussed it so I can’t really give Mary a definitive answer.
“We would have to really give that some thought if it happened,” I tell her quietly.
“Are you saying you wouldn’t consider longer-term care of Daisy?” Bill seems to latch on to this, and his gaze narrows a little.
“No, that’s not what we’re saying,” Sam murmurs. “We’re saying we haven’t talked about it.”
“I think it would be wise if you did.” Bill starts to pack up his paperwork.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I can’t help it; I’m defensive of Annie. I might doubt her ability to overcome these challenges with every second heartbeat, but I can’t bear the thought of someone else doing it.
“Dr. Vidler, I’m praying that in eight weeks’ time, I’m getting ready to tell the judge that Annie is clean, she has somewhere suitable to live and the means to support herself. I—” Mary pauses, then nods toward Bill “—we would love nothing more than to be able to recommend to Judge Brown that the responsibilities for Daisy’s care be transferred back to her mother.”
There’s a but hanging in the air. I hold my breath as I wait for it, and I’m fighting the urge to put my hands over my ears like a toddler and shout don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it. Mary’s gaze becomes almost pleading. She offers me a very sad smile and she murmurs, “But I think you and I both know that’s an unlikely prospect at best, given Annie’s history.”
“Annie is going to beat this,” I say stiffly.
“I really do hope that you’re right about that.” Bill sighs. “It’s curious, isn’t it? How one family can produce someone like yourself, and someone like your sister. It really makes you wonder sometimes.”
The way Bill’s lip curls whenever he refers to Annie sets my teeth on edge. I rise abruptly and say, “Is that all?”
I show Mary and Bill to the door, and we shake hands and exchange farewells with an artificial level of politeness. Once I close the door behind them, Sam and I stare at one another.
“Did that go well?” he asks, his face set in a confused frown. “I thought it did, but there were some moments there...”
I keep seeing Bill’s curled lip in my mind, and my anger simmers.
“They don’t know her,” I mutter. “How dare they presume to know her?”
I run my hand through my hair and exhale. I need a glass of wine, or a bath, maybe a walk to clear my mind. Sam is standing in the center of the hallway, almost blocking my way back to the living area, and when I take a step, he doesn’t move. I frown at him.
“Lex,” he says cautiously. “We really do need to talk about what happens if—”
“Don’t you do it, too,” I cut him off sharply, and Sam falls silent, but still, he doesn’t shift out of my way.
“You keep postponing this discussion, Lexie, and I don’t know what that means. Can’t we just talk about?”
“Just talking about it is a betrayal of Annie,” I say flatly. “If I don’t believe in her, who will? So no, I don’t want to ‘just talk about it’ because I want to focus my energies on believing that she can do this.”
“But do you?” Sam says, and I scowl at him.
“Do I what?”
“Do you believe that she can do this?”
That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Perhaps if I were a braver person, I’d be vulnerable with Sam right now and admit my doubts. I really could do with a good, soul-fortifying cry in his arms. I could admit to him how scared I am that tossing Annie out of my life two years ago was a colossal mistake that we can’t come back from. I could confess to him how out of control my life feels right now and how crazy that makes me feel. I could give voice to the way that the thought that I might not be able to help Annie shakes me to the very core of who I understand myself to be, and how frightened I am that I’ll overcompensate for all of that turmoil and doubt by clinging to Daisy too tightly and make an even bigger mess.
I could tell Sam that I’m a fixer—that I’m The Fixer in my family. I was the girl who could hold things together when they began to crumble. I was the girl who could, overnight, become an adult if it meant keeping my family together. I’m the woman who stops at nothing to restore order when it’s lost, not just in my life, but in my sister’s life.
That is who I am, in a way that’s somehow truer than any other aspect of my identity. And that’s why my failure to help Annie makes me question every single thing I know about myself. Her addiction has been a swirling abyss of risk in my life for six years now. If she succumbs to it, then somehow, I’m lost to it, too, because since Dad died, she and I have been linked in a way that I can’t separate or even fully understand.
But I’m not brave enough to give voice to any of that yet, and so instead of my vulnerability, Sam gets my defense mechanisms.
“How can you even ask me that?” I snap. He makes a sound that’s half groan, half sigh, and I push past him. I walk by the sofas and toward the stairs, and his pleading voice follows me—an open invitation to stop right now before I use the mess of my relationship with Annie to cause damage to my relationship with him.
“Honey, please don’t shut me out—”
“I’m going for a walk,” I say abruptly over my shoulder. “I just need some time to myself.”
I pull on workout clothes and I fix all of my thoughts on the cool air waiting outside. I’ll walk around the block a few times. I’ll soak up the atmosphere of our comfortable, affluent neighborhood in the early evening, until I can believe again that I belong here. I’ll look through windows, into the lamplit glow of the homes of normal families all around us, and I’ll tell myself that everything is going to be okay for Sam and me, too, eventually.
But when I come back downstairs, he is waiting for me at the front door. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his jaw is set—and when I look into his eyes I see not anger, but determination.
“Well?” I say, and he opens his arms and turns his palms upward, as if he’s surrendering. I look at his hands; strong hands, hands that hold life every single day. They are trustworthy and capable hands, and they belong to a man who shares those qualities.
A man who does not deserve to be shut out. I just wish that I knew how to let him in.
“I’ll drop it for now, okay? We don’t even have to talk.”
“I told you, I need a walk,” I say, and when Sam doesn’t react, I add pointedly, “by myself.”
“And I don’t want you walking around out there on your own in the dark. So I’ll forget about the conversation you obviously aren’t ready to have, but please let me walk with you. Okay?”
It’s my turn for a frustrated sigh, but I let him follow me around as I stomp my way through the neighborhood. When we finally walk back through the door forty-five minutes later, Sam speaks for the first time since we left. “I think I’ll cook pasta for dinner tonight. Does that sound okay?”
“Yes,” I say softly. “That sounds good. Thanks.”
“We haven’t watched a movie together in a while. Let’s open a bottle of wine and try to relax tonight, huh?”
He’s already on his way to the kitchen when I catch his hand. Sam turns back to me, eyebrows raised.
“Thanks,” I say a little reluctantly—because although I’m grateful for his patient support, I want to make sure that he understands that word is not an open invitation to resume a more in-depth discussion. Sam nods, then twists his wrist around and slides it back so that he can take my hand and pull me toward himself. Once I’m stiffly pressed against his chest, he wraps his arms around my body and just holds me. We stand in silence for a moment. Then Sam kisses the side of my head and murmurs, “I love you, Lexie.”
The terse walk didn’t relax me much, but somehow, that hug and those words reground me. I inhale deeply, and when I exhale, I feel the knotted muscles of my shoulders start to give, and I melt against him a little.
“I love you, too,” I whisper back.
“Tonight,” Sam tells me, “we relax. Together. Okay?”
“Okay.”
* * *
The next morning, Bill calls Sam to let him know that we’ve been appointed as Daisy’s legal guardian at his recommendation, with a review planned for the week before Annie is due to graduate from rehab.
“Why did he call you?” I frown when Sam tells me the good news.
“Does it matter?”
“No.” I sigh. “Not really.”
“Have they given you a more definite timeline for Daisy’s discharge?”
“Last I heard, they were thinking it would be toward the end of next week.”
“We better get some diapers this weekend, then.”
“I think diapers are the least of our worries. We better get some sleep.”
I’m caught off guard that afternoon when the pediatrician announces that they’re going to drop Daisy’s last few MLs of morphine quicker than they’d planned—her NAS scores have been stable enough to complete the final part of the weaning process.
“So, when do you think she’ll be discharged?” I ask hesitantly.
“Well, if she’s stable on this dose today, we’ll try her without anything for tomorrow. I’d like to observe her for a day, maybe two—but then we can discharge her.”
I head straight to the store to look at supplies. I intend to just browse and return with Sam on the weekend as we have planned, but while I’m there, I decide that I’ll go ahead and buy the things that we need. I’m so overwhelmed by the options that I find myself just nodding mutely as the clerk throws products at me. I get a change table with a built-in bath, and the most expensive cot, and organic sheet sets, and the best diapers, and I know that Daisy is quite dependent on her pacifier so I buy a number of those, and then I buy the premium formula in bulk, and I buy bottles, and toys that she won’t use for months or years. I tell myself Daisy can use the toys even after she goes home with Annie, and that succumbing to the appeal of a stuffed teddy bear or a set of stacking cups is definitely not a sign that I’m expecting Daisy to stay long-term.
It is only as I get into my car that I realize how much money I have just wasted—I don’t need the formula, for a start. I have no idea what I was thinking—maybe I wasn’t. Daisy has some gastro difficulties, which is typical for children with NAS, so she’ll stay on prescription formula for months. I console myself that Annie will take the store formula and use it later on, when Daisy is older. And as I leave the store, depleted savings account aside, I now feel more prepared for Daisy’s arrival.
When I get home, Sam’s car is in the driveway. I reverse into the garage and he opens the internal door and stares at the overloaded car.
“I thought we were doing this together on the weekend?”
“Daisy might be here by the weekend,” I tell him lightly. “They’re going to drop her last morphine dose tomorrow and see how she handles it.”
“You didn’t think to call me? I wanted to help you with this.” Sam is frowning, and I frown, too.
“I just... I didn’t think you’d have time...”
“I’ll make time for these things.” And then, patient Sam disappears in the blink of an eye and I meet a new Sam—exasperated Sam. “Jesus, Lexie—I’m getting so frustrated with you cutting me out of this shit. I feel like I’m constantly chasing you down these days.”
Sam rarely snaps—but when he does—it packs a punch. I’m speechless for a moment.
“I don’t mean to,” I whisper. Sam sighs and steps out of the doorway, letting me through into the hall. When I join him inside, he catches my shoulders in his palms and forces me to stare at him. I’m stinging at his tone—but I don’t doubt that he’s hurt. “I’m sorry, Sam.” And then I know I have to say something—I know I have to explain myself better, but all I can offer him is a weak, “I just don’t know how to deal with this with you.”
“I don’t know what that means, Lexie,” Sam says. There’s a desperate confusion in his gaze as he looks down at me. “Isn’t it easier to deal with this with me? If it isn’t, something is really wrong between us.”
“I’ve just always dealt with this kind of thing on my own.”
“That’s because you’ve always been on your own. I keep telling you, Lexie—we’re a team in all of this, okay? I want to know. I need to know. You haven’t even told me how Annie is doing this week.”
“That’s because I don’t know.” I try to think about when I last updated Sam on Annie’s progress. When was the last time I actually had a proper chat with him—not one in a hallway or as we’re drifting off to sleep—a proper, sit-down discussion? I can’t remember. “Luke has taken away her phone privileges. She wasn’t doing so well.”
Sam scowls at me, and his palms on my shoulders release suddenly so I step back. Now the slightly increased distance between our bodies is starting to feel vast, and I know it’s my fault. I sigh and rub my forehead as he says, “You didn’t think to mention that?”
“Am I supposed to tell you every little thing that happens with her? Neither one of us has time for that. And do you really want to know, anyway? It’s exhausting keeping up with her drama, trust me.”
Sam’s face falls, and I feel mine fall right along with it. I have insulted him again, and I didn’t mean to. Doesn’t he see that I’m trying to protect him from the stress of it all? He crosses his arms over his chest.
“Sometimes, I think you don’t know me at all, Lexie.”
He said the words quietly, which somehow hurts more than if he’d shouted them. He leaves the room, and I note the downward curve of his shoulders, and the way that his head sits low. I’m alone in the hallway now, and I’m frustrated and embarrassed and angry.
Sam has three perfectly intelligent, handsome brothers who never cause any drama and go about their professional careers like normal people. We know nothing of their day-to-day lives because we don’t need to—they’re healthy, happy and, just like we are, busy. I’ve met them a few times, but I’m sure that Sam doesn’t update me every time he talks to them—I don’t expect him to. So now I’m supposed to give him a status update every single time I hear something about Annie or Daisy? I’d rather shield him from it—as much as I can, anyway—and just let him focus on his work and continue to enjoy his life. This is my problem—Annie is my problem—and by extension of that, Daisy is my problem. Yes, she is coming into our home, but that doesn’t mean he needs to be burdened by every aspect of this saga. He should be grateful that I’m saving him from the burden.
I rise and start unpacking the car—my movements forceful. I spend the next few hours setting up the spare room as a nursery, and it’s only as I go to fall into bed some hours later that I realize Sam is in the study. I walk along the hallway and see the light coming from under the door.
I raise my hand to knock to ask if he is going to come to bed, but the light flicks off. “Sam?” I call hesitantly.
“I just need some space, Lexie,” he calls back.
This is a small thing—he’s just sleeping two doors down from me—it’s not like he’s walked out on me. But it’s also a huge thing—because this is the first time that Sam has ever opted to sleep away from me—the first time he’s ever told me he needs space. Sam loves to cuddle me in the night—it actually took some getting used to at first.
It suddenly strikes me how much “space” we have actually had—in all of the weeks since Annie’s late-night call, Sam and I have not made love once.
I look back now and realize this is not for lack of trying on Sam’s part—I have been pulling away. Maybe I even pulled away in one single and sharp moment the night Annie called. I’m stricken with guilt as I consider this, but the defensiveness remains, and I’m frustrated that Sam does not give me at least a little more leeway.
Maybe I actually need him to make himself invisible for a time, while I deal with the magnitude of Annie’s situation.
This thought is like ice water on my anger. Over the past two years, Sam has accepted me as I am, warts and all, and he wants to build a future with me. He adores me—I can see that when he looks at me—and what do I reward him with? I take him for granted, and I automatically begin cutting him out, right when I need him most. I retreat to our bedroom, but I spend hours lying awake, my racing mind working overtime as I try to outrun my guilt.
* * *
I sleep in the next morning, and Sam is gone by the time I wake up. When I finally arrive at the hospital I’m immediately taken to the meeting room with Daisy’s neonatologist. He tells me that she is doing amazingly well without any morphine, and that provided she remains stable, he’s going to prepare her discharge paperwork.
“But doesn’t she still have some issues?” I blurt. “Are you sure this is safe?”
He raises an eyebrow at me, confused—and fair enough, I guess, since he’s giving me the best news ever and I’m trying to talk him out of it.
“She’s obviously still small, and the rigidity in her muscles might take some time to resolve—and you’ll need to keep her on the prescription formula. I’d like to see her back here every couple of days, but I really do think it will be good for her to be in a more relaxed home environment now. She is six weeks old, you know. It’s time.”
I swallow hard.
“Okay, then.”
I go in to see Daisy, and find her lying wide-awake, staring up at a mobile someone has moved over her crib. I glance at her chart and see that it’s been well over twelve hours since she had any morphine, and she’s settled and content.
I text Sam.
I’m so sorry. Can you spare me some time today?
* * *
I meet Sam in his office just after lunch. He was in surgery this morning, and he already looks tired. I extend a coffee toward him as a peace offering. He takes it, but he doesn’t smile.
I sit in the patient’s chair opposite his large oak desk. Sam initially moves to sit behind the desk, then stops himself and walks back around to sit beside me. I watch as he toys with the lid of the coffee.
“I’ve been dealing with my family’s problems on my own for a long time,” I say without preamble. “Annie makes a mess, she dumps it on my lap and I clean it up—I’ve been doing this with her since she was a kid. And Mom was never really engaged, not after Dad died—so I’ve always just had to be... I’ve always had to be the adult—the only adult. But I’ve had a nice hiatus for the last two years, and I wasn’t prepared for this and I certainly haven’t been prepared to share the burden. I’m really sorry, Sam. I didn’t mean to leave you out. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
I’m babbling, and Sam’s watching me expressionlessly. Is all of this too late? I want so much for him to react and to tell me I haven’t ruined what we have. Just when I start to panic, he rests his hand on mine. I feel the warmth of his body radiating through to mine. I have been so terrified since my late-night revelation last night. And now with a single touch, I feel capable—confident, supported—strong.
“The thing is, Alexis Vidler, I love you more than anything,” he says slowly. “Yes, this is a messy situation. But you need to give Daisy a home now, and I want that to be our home. I don’t want it to be your home.”
“I’ll do better. I promise.”
“No, Lexie. I want you to do worse,” Sam says gently. “I want you to stumble and let me pick you up. I want you to tell me the load is too heavy and let me carry some of it. I don’t want you to superwoman me out of our life.”
When I nod, Sam squeezes my hand gently, and at last we share a smile.
“She hasn’t had morphine since last night,” I tell him, and his eyes widen.
“How is she?”
“Content.”
“So do I need to organize a day off to bring her home with you?”
“No,” I say, and when he frowns at me, I add hastily, “I just know how hard it is for you to do that, so I want you to wait for the days when I really need you. There are going to be days when...maybe she’s sick or we have specialist appointments or CPS visits or... God, I don’t even know, Sam.” And I haven’t really been planning my words as I spoke, but that sentence leads to a thought that just falls out of my mouth and suddenly my eyes are full of tears. “I don’t know what’s ahead of us. And I’m scared.”
“I’m scared, too,” he admits.
“You are?”
“Of course I am.”
A tear spills over onto my cheek and I press it away impatiently.
“Sorry,” I whisper, and Sam shakes his head.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Don’t apologize, Lexie. You’re allowed to cry in front of me, for God’s sake. I want you to.”
I nod, and he pulls me close to rest his chin on the top of my head as we hear a hesitant knock at the door.
“Sorry, Sam,” Cathryn calls. “You’re due in surgery in a few minutes.”
Sam’s arms remain locked around me.
“Let them know I’m running late—I need ten more minutes.”
“You can go,” I whisper, and he shakes his head.
“Nope. Not until I finish this.”
“I’m okay, I promise.” I start to pull away, but his arms don’t budge.
“I need this hug, Lexie.”
At that, I nestle back into his embrace and I close my eyes and listen to the steady beat of his heart against my ear. We stay like that for several minutes, until I gently pull away and brush a kiss against his lips.
“Better?” he murmurs, and I smile.
“Much.”
* * *
Annie calls me later that evening.
“You have phone privileges back?” I say in surprise when she identifies herself.
“Time off solitary confinement for good behavior,” she says wryly. She sounds good, and I’m surprised by my own optimism as I realize this. It’s been a good day after all.
“So—things are going better?”
“I don’t know,” Annie says after a pause. “I no longer think about running away every time Luke speaks to me, so I’m going to take that as an improvement. Whose idea was Dad’s journal?”
“Mine.”
“Sometimes I think that maybe it’s going to help, so thanks,” she whispers, her voice suddenly uneven. She clears her throat, then says with artificial brightness, “Enough of this—tell me about my girl. How is she doing?”
“She has also become a star patient since we last spoke. She’s completely off the morphine.”
“Wow.” Annie’s voice breaks, and I hear her voice catch on a sob. “That’s amazing.”
“Yep. She’s coming home to my place tomorrow or the next day.”
“Oh, Lexie. Oh, thank you.” Annie is overcome as she laughs through tears. “This is the best news I could have hoped for. So she’s well? She’s...normal?”
“For the most part she’s doing brilliantly. There are a few areas we need to work on but...yes, Annie, she’s an absolute fighter.”
“Does this mean you can bring her for a visit soon?”
“I hope so. I’ll talk to her doctors.” And yours, I think, but I don’t tell her that Luke has specifically advised me against it.
“I’m so grateful to you, Lexie. I’m going to make all of this up to you. I swear.”
“Well,” I say, and I’m surprised and pleased by this gratitude, “I look forward to that.”
* * *
I forgot to buy a car seat.
I got everything else a baby could possibly need; an expensive stroller, all the equipment for the nursery, formula we can actually use, diapers in multiple sizes that will probably not fit her until she’s two, clothes and a mobile and pacifiers and blankets.
So when the doctor tells me that her discharge paperwork is done, and a nurse asks me to bring the car seat in for a test run, I’m mortified to admit that I don’t have one.
I want to cry as I drive myself all the way back to the baby store. It’s not a big deal in the scheme of things—an inconvenience—but it’s an ominous sign. If I can’t remember something like a car seat, what else will I forget? Diaper changes? Bottles? Baths?
I buy the highest-safety-rated car seat, and I drive back to the NICU. I fuss over it in the parking lot, even though the guide at the store installed it, and it’s no doubt set up perfectly. I adjust the straps and play with the seat belt needlessly over and over again for twenty-five minutes, until my phone rings.
“Are you ever coming back?” the nurse asks, and there is laughter in her tone, as if this is a joke. I tighten a strap, and then I loosen it again, and then I realize that all this is for nothing because I have to take the car seat inside so the staff can monitor Daisy while she sits in it. I groan.
“See you in two minutes.”
I head back into the hospital and gather up Daisy. As I lower her into the car seat, I’m almost hoping that she fails the test. It’s all about respiration and body positioning—the car seat keeps the baby upright, and some babies who have been delivered early or have been ill struggle to breathe when lying in that position. Daisy will be monitored for thirty minutes. If at any point her oxygen levels drop, her discharge will be canceled.
Which would mean more days that she’s safely in the hospital.
The nurse leaves me with Daisy, and I stare at her. She is asleep, her translucent eyelids resting over her eyes, eyelashes hanging down low on her cheeks. I lift my hand, and I very gently touch her face. There is so much of Annie in this baby...so much of my father in her. The light hair, the shape of her eyes. I’ve seen Daisy mostly cry and sleep over these weeks, but she’ll soon adapt to a more typical schedule and begin to hit normal newborn milestones. The rigidity in her muscles should fade and she’ll become floppy—the way newborns should be. Soon she will smile. Soon she will laugh.
She is my responsibility. She is my problem. For the time being, she is also my privilege. I need to love Daisy, because somehow newborns know if they are loved. I’ve read studies of infants raised in orphanages and the difficulties they face with attachment later in life—Daisy literally needs me to love her. Daisy has had a very rough start to life, but she’s not out of the woods yet. Somehow, we need to get Annie well quickly and in a position to provide Daisy with a stable upbringing.
If we don’t, there’s every chance that I’ll spend the next twenty years repeating what I’ve been doing for the last twenty—caring for Daisy, caring for her mother. And if Daisy is damaged, she will damage others—just as Annie has. She will damage herself, just as Annie has.
I haven’t trained for this. Unlike clinical practice, there’s no supervision of stand-in parents—I’m on my own. There’s no textbook or reference charts for when I feel out of my depth. This is real life. This is an innocent, fragile and somewhat blank canvas—and I need to start the painting of her life, then hand her over to her mother.
It is all too much, and yet, once again there is no one else but me. I take a deep breath, a sharp breath, and I add mentally with some force—no one else but me and Sam.
Quite suddenly I find that I need him. There are still ten minutes left on this car seat test, and now I’m shaking because I’m terrified. I dial Sam’s cell and the call is picked up on the second ring. But the voice that comes down the line doesn’t belong to Sam. It’s Cathryn.
“Hi, Lexie—Sam had to go back into surgery. Can I get a message to him?”
I feel hot tears running over my cheek. I take a deep breath, and ask only for him to call when he gets a chance. I set the cell down on the table beside the car seat, and I look at Daisy again.
My head is full of information on how to care for a baby. I’m more than up to this challenge. Maybe if I tell myself that enough times, I’ll start to believe it.