I was awakened by the sound of Jordan’s phone ringing and the movement of his shoulder as he fumbled to grab the device out of his back pocket. As I straightened up, I pushed the hair from my eyes; I’d fallen asleep with my head resting on his shoulder. Across the room, Killian lay like dead weight in Mrs. Ransome’s arms.
“What time is it?” I asked gruffly as Jordan studied the screen on his phone.
“Almost eleven,” he muttered. “Your dad just headed out to the nurses’ station to see if they have any word.”
Jim Ransome sat beside his wife, his head leaned back against the wall, his eyes glued to the television where an old Elvis movie played too quietly to be enjoyed. His hand covered one of Mrs. Ransome’s hands where it rested on her knee, their fingers laced. I felt the corner of my mouth hitch when I saw Tish and Sebastian, a few chairs down, sitting in almost the exact same positions.
Just then, Sebastian turned and caught my eye. He smiled at me, and I knew without a doubt what had made Tish look twice at a guy for the first time in her life. In all the years I’d known her, I’d never seen her with anyone but Tom Campbell, her best friend and band mate. She used to say she didn’t have time for love—her music career came first. The way she looked at Sebastian Jeffries, though, made me believe she’d been convinced otherwise. I supposed it helped that he was now in her band, too. The girl could have her musical boyfriend cake and eat it too.
Sebastian Jeffries. The guy who’d stepped into the empty place I’d left behind. My emotions regarding him waffled between being exceedingly grateful for how much he obviously cared about my parents and resenting him for being there when I wasn’t. No, when I couldn’t be.
I’d heard enough of his story to know that he’d needed my parents as much, possibly even more so, than they’d needed him. His father, one of those monsters you only hear about on the news, had been convicted of several counts of aggravated assault, including his attack on his own son, the murder of his wife almost twenty years ago, and the murder of a homeless man named Foster Creed only last year. According to Jordan, Mr. Jeffries was still awaiting trial on several other felonies and there was talk of another unsolved murder being linked to him. Sebastian couldn’t have asked for a better sanctuary than my parents’ home, and for him—for them all—I was glad. I was glad they had each other.
But his presence, even in this small, teal-toned room, left me feeling out of place, unseated, so to speak, and uncertain of where I fit in, or even if I fit in at all.
Why I was even thinking this way was beyond me. I had no clue where I would sleep tonight, so worrying about how I was going to fit in around there should have been the least of my worries. And yet, it was the probing question of the hour for me. Now that I’d made contact with my parents, with Jordan and his family, I knew I couldn’t completely disappear again, but I really didn’t think I belonged on Maple Avenue anymore. Sebastian moving in with my parents only muddied the waters.
In the best way possible, I had to admit. I saw the way he watched my father, how attentive he was, unwilling to go home even when Dad insisted. And of course, since Sebastian refused to leave, Tish wasn’t going anywhere either. According to Jordan, my mom and his mom had become close friends after Sebastian moved in, and the two families shared many family meals together.
I think Jordan stayed at the hospital for my sake, a thought that made my pulse quicken.
“You just called me.” He spoke quietly, but his guarded tone made the hairs at the back of my neck stand up.
“What?” I absentmindedly patted the pockets of the burnt-orange hoodie I wore, and then I froze. “Marek.” The name clawed its way out of my mouth.
“He has your phone?”
I’d forgotten to tell Jordan I’d left it behind. “I didn’t realize it was missing until I got to the car, and then I wasn’t about to go back for it.”
“I would have—”
“We were in a hurry,” I cut him off, not wanting to discuss my situation here.
Jordan nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Maybe it’s better this way,” he finally said. He silenced the phone, shoved it back in his pocket, and then stood. He held out a hand. “Want to do another lap with me? We can see what’s keeping your dad, too.”
We headed out into the quiet corridor, but I didn’t see my father at the triage. The unit was designed with the nursing station in the center, the rooms opening on the corridors along either side of it. Perhaps Dad was doing the same thing we were and was just coming around the far end. We made our way slowly, comfortable enough with each other now to do so in silence.
As we rounded the loop at the far end of the unit, I heard Dad’s voice—even after all this time, I recognized it immediately and smiled at the realization—coming from inside one of the patient rooms. I glanced up at a clock hanging on the wall. Nearly midnight. What on earth was he doing?
Grabbing Jordan’s hand to stop him, I lifted a finger to my lips before he could ask what was wrong. I pointed at the open door. He glanced over, and then nodded in understanding. I didn’t intend to eavesdrop, but I was so curious.
“Comfort Jesse tonight, Father. Ease his pain so he can rest.” A wave of nostalgia so intense it made me shudder washed over me as I listened to my father pray over someone in need. How many times had I heard him do just that in all my years? Comforting the grieving, blessing new babies, advocating to the God he believed in on behalf of a hurting soul, even if that person didn’t believe the same way. And now, here he was, in the middle of his own hour of need, reaching out to offer solace to someone else. Until this moment, I hadn’t realized how much I missed the sound of my father’s voice when he was talking to God.
I clung to Jordan’s hand, hardly daring to breathe, as tears slid down my cheeks. Now that I was here, I longed for home and all that it had once been more than I had in a very long time. I’d grown accustomed to making my home wherever my feet—or our caravan—landed us, to making the best of what I had, of what my life had become. But this, that comforting voice drifting out into the hall around us, the gentle hand holding mine, the sweet image of my son curled into the arms of a woman who might have been his grandmother in another version of my life, it was a bittersweet reminder of all the things I’d never been able to conjure up on the road.
We waited a few moments longer, listening to Dad say goodnight to the inhabitant of that room, and then he stepped out into the corridor, his expression still weary, but peaceful. His eyes lit up when he saw us.
“Hey, kids. Are you looking for me? Any word on Mom?” Dad tugged on a strand of my hair and smiled. He kept touching me, as if he didn’t quite believe I was there. Nothing overly expressive—nothing like that first hug when I’d arrived—but little nudges and pats, fingertips brushing my shoulders, a hand at my elbow, or when he sat beside Jordan and me in the waiting room, his knee bumping against mine every so often.
“No. We were actually coming to check on you when you didn’t come back right away.” Jordan stepped around to his other side, so my father walked between us now.
“Oh, I’m sorry I worried you. There was no news to tell, so I didn’t hurry back. That poor fellow just came through a hip replacement, and he’s in pretty bad shape right now. When I was at the nurse’s station, his wife, Wanda, came out and asked if there was a chaplain on duty. There is one on call, but I thought I might save the poor fellow—or woman—a wakeup call at this hour and offered my own services. Nice couple.” He relayed the whole thing as though he’d done nothing out of the ordinary. I suppose, in his case, it wasn’t.
We headed back toward the waiting room and tried to get comfortable again. Mom had been in surgery for more than four hours now, and time seemed to have slowed to almost a standstill. If I thought too much about it, I’d freak out a little over the whole situation, but Jordan’s mom seemed to sense when I got antsy, because without fail, she’d ask me a seemingly mundane question that would turn my attention away from worrying about my mother, or about Marek and his reaction to my disappearance. She didn’t broach the subject of where I’d been or whom I’d been with, but asked questions about Killian, a subject I could talk about forever. These people who had been such a monumental part of my life growing up had missed more than two years of Killian’s life. Tonight, they were getting a crash course into the little guy. His favorite colors, his favorite toys, his eating and sleeping habits, his clothing and shoe size, what books and movies he liked. My father just listened, a sad, but sweet smile on his face. I knew his thoughts were never far from my mother, but he was soaking up every detail I shared about Killian.
“Mr. Clark?” One of the nurses from the triage poked her head through the half-open door and the room fell silent, as though someone had hit the mute button. “I’m Carmen. I’ll be your wife’s nurse tonight.”