What Mattered Most Page 8
John could only imagine the picture he presented—still clad in the bloody scrubs, his nose swollen and bruised. Without venturing further into the room, he held out his arm. “I’m John O’Reilly. I’d like to see my son.”
She checked the bracelet and nodded. “If you’d go back to the mother’s room—”
“She’s in the surgical ICU.” Unintentional curtness colored his voice.
“Oh.” She looked taken aback for a moment, then glanced at his clothing. “Let’s get you a sterile gown and you can scrub up. You can visit with him here, or we can find you a room.”
The idea of being alone with the baby scared him worse than facing down a crackhead with a gun. “Here is fine.”
He wished the act of preparing took longer. Within minutes, he faced one of those plastic bassinets containing a small, still bundle. His chest heavy, John stared down at the infant swaddled in the white blanket with wide blue and pink stripes. Wisps of black hair graced a head smaller than John’s hand. One tiny hand had escaped the blanket and lay against his cheek. The long slender fingers flexed, and the minuscule mouth pursed and relaxed in a suckling motion.
His mouth looked like Lanie’s.
The thought slammed into John, and reality crashed home. The baby was here; he was real. Lanie’s child.
And his.
The tall, blonde nurse smiled. “You can touch him, you know.”
He nodded, making no move to do so. The fear was unbelievable. Before him was the smallest person he’d ever seen, and he was responsible for him, for his safety. The future stretched before him, fraught with unseen dangers John had never considered.
God, one day he’d have to hand this kid the keys to a car.
With a slight mocking glint in her eyes, the blonde indicated two Windsor rockers in the far corner. “Why don’t you sit down and you can hold him?”
John darted a glance at her. Hold him? Hell, what if he dropped the kid? She smiled, and he had the distinct feeling she was tamping down a laugh. He gave a slow nod. “Okay.”
Careful of his ribs, he eased into a chair and eyed the deft way she handled his son. With another smile, she settled the warm bundle into the crook of his left arm. “I’ll just leave you two big guys to get acquainted.”
He wanted to call her back, but pride wouldn’t let him. Big guys? He had shoes bigger than this. With the baby’s head nestled at his elbow, the other end of the blanket barely reached his palm. John forced himself to relax into the chair. This was almost like cradling a football. He shifted his arm closer to his chest, and the baby stirred against him, an eerie echo of him moving within Lanie’s stomach. Dark lashes lifted, and murky blue eyes looked up in an unfocused stare.
A tired smile quirked at John’s mouth. The Gerber baby, he wasn’t. With the almost-crossed eyes, red skin, wrinkles and nearly-bald head, he looked like a miniature old man with a bad comb-over and an even worse attitude.
That gaze remained locked on his face. John tried to remember anything Lanie had read aloud from the baby books stashed all over the house. Were you supposed to talk to them? Did they understand? Could talking to him make John feel any more foolish than engaging in a staring contest with a baby not two hours old?
“Hi.” The word came out froggy, and John cleared his throat. “I…I’m your dad. Is this as weird for you as it is for me?”
The baby watched him with an unblinking stare. Encouraged, John tried again. “I bet you’re wondering where your mom is. I know her voice is a lot more familiar than mine is. She’s, well, she’s sick right now. But she’ll get better because she knows how much you need her. She, um, she’s really something special… You couldn’t ask for a better mom, kid. You know, the kind that cuts your PBJ into shapes and helps you with your homework. Shows up for your school plays.”
Everything John’s own mother hadn’t done. He cleared his throat again. “I’ll give you fair warning, though. I’ll probably suck at being your dad. Patience isn’t one of my virtues, but maybe I can fake it. See, I never really had a dad, so I’m not sure what one is supposed to do. We’ll figure it out. But I promise you one thing—you will never see me raise a hand to your mom or say anything bad about her.”
Five pounds was heavier than it sounded. His arm ached, the bruise at his wrist stinging. With great care, he shifted the baby to his right arm. A frown appeared between those blue eyes, drawing the thin dark brows together.
“He’s about to start squalling.” Burnett’s voice cut through John’s musings. John looked up, heat touching his neck, hoping Burnett hadn’t heard him conversing with someone who couldn’t talk back. Burnett hefted a small stack of clothing—what looked like jeans and a sweatshirt. “Cait thought you might want a change of clothes. Your house is still closed off while the crime scene crew finishes up, so you’re stuck with a pair of Levis and my UT sweatshirt.”
“Thanks.” John dropped his gaze back to the baby, whose face reddened with each second. His mouth opened, and a series of small coughing cries emerged. Panic bloomed in John’s chest. “Oh, crap. Now what do I do?”
“Well, you might try lowering your hand,” Burnett offered, wry laughter lurking in his drawl. “You’ve got his butt higher than his head.”
Desperate, John complied, but the crying continued. He glared at Burnett as the baby’s sobs intensified, the small face scrunched into an expression of utter outrage. “Now what, genius?”
The blonde nurse approached, a small bottle in hand. She held it out as John prepared to hand over the baby. “Nope, sorry, Dad. You’d better get used to this now.”
John took the bottle, glanced at it then down at his son. How hard could this be? He brushed the nipple against the tiny mouth, and the crying ceased. Amazed, he watched the baby suckle with comical eagerness.
“Tilt the bottle up a little,” Burnett instructed, dropping into the other rocker. “He’s swallowing air.”
John slid him a glance. That sounded like the voice of experience. “You have kids?”
“Two. Had ‘em young, and we grew up together after my wife took off. Man, look at him eat. He won’t be a lightweight long.”
Pride struggled to life deep in John’s chest. “I guess not.” He looked at Burnett again. “Is she out of recovery?”
Burnett nodded, sympathy plain on his face. “A few minutes ago. She’s in the surgical ICU. Cait and Sheila went in to see her. She hasn’t woken up yet, but Sheila says that’s pretty normal. They’ll do another CT scan this afternoon, maybe run an EEG—you know, measure her brain waves.”
An unseen fist squeezed John’s heart. God, he wanted to see her. He glanced down at the baby, wishing she were here to see their son, to hold him.
Burnett cleared his throat, drawing John’s attention. The other man leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, hands between his knees. “Does he have a name?”
John shook his head. “We hadn’t decided on one yet.” Guilt cramped his stomach. Hell, he hadn’t even discussed names with Lanie. He’d done his best to pretend this baby didn’t exist. Now he had to find a way to make up for that. “Guess he’ll have to wait until his mom wakes up.”
But Lanie didn’t wake up. For two days, John haunted the hospital, dividing his time between the sterile waiting area outside the surgical ICU and the cheerful yellow walls of the nursery. With each moment, his apprehension and guilt grew. Not being able to see her only made the waiting worse.
The only consolation in his day was his son. In the waiting area, he listened with Caitlin to doctors explain about states of consciousness and arousal and talk about coma scales. In the nursery, he held and fed his son, learned to bathe him, watched him sleep. And through it all, he prayed as he’d never prayed before and wondered if God really listened to the prayers of someone like him.
The fear didn’t go away. Coiled in his chest, it reared a hideous head with every medical conversation. It haunted his dreams when he managed to doze off in one of the uncomfortable waiting area chairs.
Sheila smiled, a genuine expression completely unlike the cold, feral things Caitlin always sent in his direction. “No, but she’s off the ventilator. We moved her down the hall to a private room.”
Hope stirred and for a swift moment blotted out the fear. “Does that mean I can see her?”
Her smile widened. “It does, but visits are time-limited. No more than ten minutes. And I want you to be prepared. Even with the ventilator gone, you’ll see lots of tubing and monitors. Her face is bruised, and the incision area on her head has been shaved.”
He didn’t care. All he wanted was to see her, touch her, tell her about their son.
“Dr. Ridley is looking for you.” At the mention of his son’s pediatrician, the fear quirked awake. “He wants to talk to you about discharging the baby.”
“Discharging him? I thought… I assumed he wouldn’t go home until Lanie did.”
Sheila covered his bruised hand with hers. “John, we don’t know when that will be. Everything depends on when she comes out of the coma. The baby is gaining weight, he’s not experiencing any pulmonary difficulties, and there’s no reason why you can’t take him home.”
Other than the fact that he just wasn’t ready. Feeding and bathing and changing diapers with a watchful nurse nearby was one thing. Being totally alone with him was another. “I haven’t even been home yet. How can I take him home and still be here—”
“That’s another thing. You need some rest and some real food. Trust me, one of us is here all the time. I had to throw Cait out this morning and make her go get some rest. Vince, Cait’s brother, was here this morning. I’m here. If anything changes—anything—we’ll call you.”
John dragged a hand over his face. “I just… I don’t want to leave her. And I’m not sure I’m ready to take care of him full time. Isn’t there another option?”
Sheila lifted an eyebrow at him. “A couple. One is foster care until Lanie’s better.”
John shuddered. “Like hell. What’s the other?”
“You take him home and hire a part-time nurse. Your insurance plan is more likely to agree to that than more days in the hospital. I can recommend some, but your best bet is Tristan Ransome. She does a lot of private care so she can pay off her student loans more quickly.”
John nodded. Tristan was the tall, blonde nurse who had introduced him to his son. He liked her no-nonsense manner; he could handle leaving the baby with her. “I’ll talk to Dr. Ridley later. Right now, I’d really like to see Lanie.”
She rose. “Come on.”
The room was dim, the sole illumination from the fluorescent light over the bed. The bluish glow cast shadows on Lanie’s bruised face. His throat tight, John approached the bed. Her dark hair, swept to one side, highlighted the pale scalp and bandage where her head had been shaved. Tubing snaked under her gown; an IV was taped to her left hand. Monitors beeped in time with her heart and breathing. Without the swell of pregnancy, her body looked small and frail in the bed.
He pulled the chair up to the bed and tucked her right hand carefully in both of his. “Lanie?”
His whisper echoed in the quiet room. Could she hear and understand, or was she too far away? The sensation was much like talking to his son. He cleared his throat, his thumb brushing over her limp hand. “Honey, I hope you can hear me. We have a son, baby. He’s real, and he’s incredible. He’s a little small, but he’s a fighter, like you. You’ve got to fight. He needs you.”
She lay, still as an open grave, and his throat tightened. “You hear me, Lanie? You’ve got to keep fighting, baby, because he’s not the only one who needs you. I want our life back. Do you hear me, Lanie? I need you.”
John arrived home to find an unmarked Haven County patrol car parked in the drive. He moved up the front steps as quickly as his aching ribs would allow. The heavy aroma of bleach permeated the air and burned his nostrils when he stepped into the foyer. The bathroom door stood partway open, and he pushed it inward to find Burnett scrubbing at the white tile.
With a grin, Burnett rocked back on his heels and wrung out a sponge into a nearby bucket. “Hey. I hear they moved Lanie out of ICU.”
“Yeah.” The pink-tinged water in the bucket turned John’s stomach. “What are you doing?”
Burnett shrugged. “Cait didn’t want you to have to clean this up, and the one crime scene clean-up company in the area is booked for weeks. I sure as hell didn’t want her to do it, either. I, uh, already cleaned up the kitchen floor.”
Burying the images Burnett’s words invoked, John tugged a hand through his hair. “Thanks.” He plucked at the front of the sweatshirt he wore. “I’m going to change then I’ll toss this in the washer for you.”
“No problem.” Burnett swept the sponge over the tile again, eradicating the last traces of the blood trail. Another grin quirked at his mouth. “Sheila said something about you bringing the baby home, too. You ready for that?”
An answering grin, an unfamiliar sensation these days, pulled at his own mouth. “Hell, no, but I didn’t have much of a choice. I’ve still got to put that damned crib together.”
Laughing, Burnett dropped the sponge in the bucket. “Have you ever put one together before?”
“No.” John frowned at the knowing glint in Burnett’s dark gaze. “Why?”
“Because it’s definitely a two-man job.” Burnett rose and stripped off the yellow latex gloves he wore. “Want some help?”
Forty-five minutes later, John tossed the screwdriver on the floor and glared at the white-washed pine crib, listing to one side. “I refuse to be defeated by a bad set of directions.”
Burnett, sitting against the wall with his hands dangling between his knees, laughed. “You’d think it would get easier with experience. Kids, too.”
Retrieving the screwdriver, John glanced at him. “What? That it gets easier with experience?”
“That it doesn’t get easier with experience. My youngest son was a terror, and all the stuff that worked with my oldest just didn’t with him.”
“You have no idea how much better that makes me feel.” John unscrewed the last plate they’d put on and shifted its position, bringing the crib into alignment.
“Let me tell you, a kid changes everything. Your career, your life, the way you think.”
“Yeah.” John stared at the caster in his hand and ran his fingers over the smooth surface. One more thing he hadn’t considered—how their son would affect Lanie’s career. And his. He knew all about killer hours—twenty hour days, calls in the middle of the night. From the beginning, he’d thrived on the uncertainty, the wildness of law enforcement. Somehow he doubted he’d feel the same now, knowing that if he got himself killed, his son would grow up without a father, the way he had. He couldn’t do that to the boy.
Burnett gathered the other casters, and they turned the crib on its side to screw on the wheels. Once they were done, Burnett rose and shoved the packing material into the empty box. “Well, I’m out of here. I’ll drop this in the trash can out front.”
“Thanks.”
After Burnett left, John spent a few moments putting the bedding and bumper pad on the crib. Bright-colored fish swam across the blue sheets, matching the ones that dangled from the mobile Lanie had purchased. After attaching it to the crib rail, John touched a silver and blue fish with one finger, setting the fish and starfish to dancing. He glanced around the room, at the way Lanie had stamped her love of the ocean here. More than love for the ocean—love for her baby as well.
He walked out of the room and down the hall with heavy steps. Their bedroom door stood open, and John paused in the doorway. Vanilla and cinnamon lingered in the room, the rumpled sheets mocking him. Their tennis rackets leaned against the wall in one corner. The novel Lanie was reading lay face down on her bedside
table. He had the eerie sensation she was just downstairs and would walk up behind him any second now, wrap her arms around his waist and press her cheek to his back.
He ached for her presence in a way he had never ached for Beth’s. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the infinity pendant and chain. He turned it in his hand, watching the afternoon light play over the stylized swirl. She’d been so pleased with the gift Christmas morning—she’d dashed away tears from her shining eyes and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him hard on the mouth.
The memory burned him with shame. She’d loved him, and he’d been too blind to see it. He crossed to her side of the bed and sat, letting his hand drift over the indentation in her pillow. Vanilla and cinnamon enveloped him. He closed burning eyes and swore, the harsh words of self-recrimination hanging in the air with the scent that was so uniquely Lanie’s.
How had he not seen it? How could he not have realized that she loved him?
You were too busy thinking with your crotch, too busy feeling sorry for yourself because Beth didn’t want you anymore. So busy that you didn’t see what was right in front of you all along.
With the slow movements of an old man, he placed the pendant on the bedside table, the chain a silver pool. When she came home, it would be here, waiting for her.
And so would he.
Chapter Eight
An incensed wail mingled with the rising steam in the bathroom. John peered around the shower curtain to make sure the baby hadn’t somehow managed to tumble out of the carrier. He didn’t think four-day-old babies could do that, but you never could tell. Still strapped in, his son squalled, face twisted into a dried-apple expression.
Shampoo dripped into John’s eyes, and he brushed the wet hair back from his forehead. “Sonny, come on. Give your old man five minutes to finish showering.”
As he expected, Sonny didn’t seem inclined to agree. The howl intensified. How much would it hurt to let him cry a few minutes? John stuck his head under the spray, the sound of rushing water not drowning out Sonny’s cries. Then again, maybe being left to cry made him feel abandoned. Neglected. A shiver traveled the length of John’s spine. Not his son. With a sigh, he shut off the water and reached for a towel. While drying off, he studied his enraged son. “You know, kid, just because you don’t like a bath doesn’t mean other people don’t.”