Forever Sheltered (12 page)

I set her back on the bed. “What do you mean?”

“I get lots of chemo presents. But Andrew doesn’t have any.”

“Who is Andrew?”

“A boy in my art class.”

I looked over at Angela. She said, “A.L.L., second relapse, sixty days post.”

Almost identical situation as Cynthia. Same leukemia. Failed stem cell transplant. “How old is Andrew?” I asked.

“Nine,” Cynthia said. “He doesn’t feel very well.”

“Is he doing chemo?” I asked.

Cynthia’s voice got quiet. “Tomorrow, same as me.”

“What would you like for Andrew?”

Her face brightened as she realized I was agreeing. “He loves Pokémon!”

“That’s still a thing?”

Cynthia rolled her eyes. “Dary, it will
always
be a thing.”

“All righty, then. What do you think? That yellow guy. Peekaboo?”

“Pikachu!” she corrected. “I thought you were so smart.”

“Just doctor smart. Not cool-kid smart.”

“Well, don’t get Pikachu. Everybody has Pikachu. Get Pancham!”

I laughed. “What is that?”

“A panda bear with an attitude!”

“All right, Pancham it is.”

She grabbed my arm and hugged it. “Thank you, Dary. He’ll really like it.”

“He’s not going to be your boyfriend, is he?” I teased.

Cynthia thrust my arm away. “No! And don’t you say that to him!”

I held up my hands. “Okay, okay. But I’m your big brother. I’m supposed to watch out for boys.”

“I’m only eight years old, Dary. I can’t get married until I’m at least forty.”

I let go with a belly laugh then. “That sounds perfect. Forty.” I headed toward the door. I had to get back on rounds. “Don’t you forget that.”

I was still laughing to myself when I realized I was actually done seeing patients that day. I checked my watch. After six. Tina was probably already gone.

Just in case, I hurried toward her room. I would come up with an excuse about why I was there on the way.

Chapter 21: Tina

I was never going to get out of here.

Some random lady from HR had come by with a stack of papers a mile high, insisting I fill them out before I left. No way was that going to happen. It was already after six, and probably the whole human resources department was home having dinner. And I was only halfway through the stack.

Statement of intent to do social work.

Consent for psychological evaluation.

Prior coursework.

Grad school application.

I didn’t even know what some of this stuff was, and I had no idea if I wanted to go the therapist or social work route. I needed advice. And a better pen.

I shook my hand, trying to work out the cramp. How did Albert draw so intensely for so long without pausing? I knew what he would say. Years of practice.

He was somebody. Had to be. He was too good. And he’d given me some clues. Posters. Illustration work. I had snapped a shot of his work on my phone to study, especially that clown, which was still bugging me. Maybe I could put something together. If not, I would worm it out of him.

The halls were quiet. I left my door open, feeling closed in if I was alone in the room. Sometimes I swore I could sense the patients who once sat around the table but were long gone. I knew someday soon I would lose one I was attached to and the ghosts would feel real.

I lifted my arms high and stretched my back. The HR lady could stuff it. I had to know what I was doing before I could fill out any more forms.

A figure in the doorway caught my eye.

Darion.

I stood up suddenly, and the chair fell backward with a crash.

I whipped around to pick up the chair. I should have known he would show up. Men like him, manipulators, liars, they probably thought they could do anything they wanted.

The chair dropped back into place with another clang.

“You okay?” Darion strode in, concern on his face.

“I’m fine.” I crossed my arms. “I thought you were going to let me make the next move.”

He glanced back at the door. “I was just walking by.”

“Just walking by.” I pushed past him to the tiny closet where I kept my bag. “Well, I was just walking out.”

“Good,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”

I jerked the closet open, snatched my purse, and closed it again with a slam. “I don’t think so.”

“What’s gotten into you?”

I whipped around. “Well, first of all, there was that promise you made about the first move.” I slung the strap over my arm. “And then there was whatever went on with Cynthia. Are you making that little girl lie for you?”

That got him. His jaw went all tight, and his fist locked on the keys in his hand. “You have no idea what she has been through.”

“And I sure as hell don’t know what’s going on now. You should have seen her in class today. Quiet and worried, like the roof was about to fall on her head. What are you doing to her?”

“I am looking out for her like any decent person would. She has no parents.”

“Is she in foster care? What is your relationship to her?” I rounded the desk and snatched up a sheet of paper. “You realize I’m about to get clearance for medical records, right? I can look this up myself.”

He shrugged. “Go ahead. You’ll find a very long list of treatments and setbacks. A family history of a mother who also died of cancer.”

“Where is her father?”

Darion’s neck went red at that. His jaw ticked.

He didn’t have an answer.

And then I got it.

HE was her father.

I took a few steps back. Holy shit. Nobody knew. Nobody was supposed to know.

This explained everything. His secrecy about her. His familiarity. His wanting extra help.

So, the woman who died. The mother Cynthia sang the song about. Had she been his wife?

I couldn’t keep control of my thoughts. I needed to sort all this out.

“Never mind,” I said. “Forget I said anything.”

“Tina —”

“No. It’s none of my business.” I set the paper back on my desk. “She’s a lovely little girl. And tomorrow will be tough for her.” I pictured her hooked up to the bag, the poison that kept her alive flowing into her. “It’s fine.”

“Can I walk you down?”

His whole demeanor had changed. He wasn’t the tall stalwart doctor now. Just a worried father. My heart squeezed a little. His wife had died. Now his daughter might. Damn.

“Okay,” I said. “That’s fine. Walk me down.”

We moved for the door. Darion shrugged off his white coat and laid it over his arm. I kept my distance, since really we were being seen together way too much. I didn’t know the hospital policy on dating. I would ask Darion, but then that would be like admitting that we were seeing each other.

And we weren’t.

I felt completely tangled up inside. When would he tell me about Cynthia? What was his motive for lying to the whole staff? And who was Angela? His mother? Sister? She had been so taken aback when I asked how she was related to the family.

We passed through the halls, mostly quiet at the dinner hour. Visitors were scarce on these floors. Only maternity and the ER would bustle with people this late.

We took the staff elevator down. No one else rode with us. The silence wasn’t awkward, but it had a heaviness to it. He wasn’t confessing. I wasn’t asking. A thousand unspoken words filled the space.

As the elevator slowed to a stop on the ground floor, Darion asked, “Can I take you to dinner?”

The doors started to open, but Darion pressed the button to make them close. “Please?”

Despite the concern in his eyes, the worry he carried in his heart, he watched me with an earnestness I didn’t think I’d ever seen aimed at me by any other man. In my history, I’d seen a lot. Desire, sure. Charisma, sometimes. And definitely cockiness and jackassery.

But earnestness. Honest-to-God need.

I hadn’t seen that.

“Okay,” I said. I would give a little. Just a little. A moment of comfort for him, nothing more.

I could spend a night. Do the one-and-done. I was good at it. It’s not like the past men refused to express emotion. Several had professed undying love. And it wasn’t as though they weren’t gorgeous or wealthy or powerful or any number of amazing things I should have grasped instead of letting go.

It was me. I could feel all sorts of things leading up to the act, but once it was done, once the man chilled after he got what he wanted, I just didn’t want to stick around for the inevitable rejection. It might not happen right away. But it would happen. And I wouldn’t let it get that far.

We left the hospital and went into the cool evening air, still not talking.

But my mind raced. The one time I cared about a guy, he left me when I was in premature labor, when I needed him the most. He missed the three hours our baby lived, Peanut’s entire life. And when I went to find him, he had already moved out of our apartment. Gone. Poof. Like none of the previous months mattered.

Not going to happen again. Not with Darion. Not with anybody.

We walked side by side to the physicians’ level of the parking garage. People passed, and Darion nodded politely. He steered me gently by the elbow through the rows of cars. He was courteous and kind.

But I would not be moved. Not by the gleaming Mercedes I slid into. Not by any expensive dinner or wine. Not by a mansion or killer condo. Not even by a gold-plated cock.

We’d have our moment. And maybe he’d tell me his secret. Maybe not. We all had them. I’d keep the lights off, my wrists hidden, and tell no tales of my own.

A nice dinner. Friendly conversation. A night of intimacy. Then I would go.

One. And. Done.

Chapter 22: Darion

Tina was so quiet. I started the Mercedes, wishing I had something simpler than this showy car my father had given me when I finished med school. She would not be impressed by money. That was obvious. I racked my brain trying to think of a place to take her that would break her silence, get her smiling again. I’d take her mad and shouting over this.

I backed out of the parking spot. “Are you a vegetarian or gluten free or anything?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “Just don’t make me eat meatloaf. Or spinach casserole.”

I had to smile at that. “Not a problem.”

“My mother made me eat those. I can’t stand the sight of them now.”

I almost told her how my mom rarely cooked but often got lost in some song she was writing until long after the dinner hour had come and gone. Then I realized I couldn’t say anything personal, anything that Cynthia might have also said to her about Mom. Tina would figure it out.

Maybe I should just tell her.

The garage was dim as the light fell for evening, so I couldn’t make out her expression. I had never been so nervous with a woman. Tina was hard to figure out. She made me want to know her, understand what drove these moods.

“My mom didn’t cook a lot,” I said, figuring that was safe enough. Many didn’t. “So, meatloaf sounds like some 1950s dish prepared by a woman in a lace-trimmed apron over a house dress with pearls.”

“You just described my mother.”

“Really?”

Tina tucked her hair behind her ears. “She’s older. I was a late-in-life baby. She was the sort of mom growing up that was exactly what you said, making dinner all dressed up. Bringing the martini while her husband read the paper. I think my mom wanted to be her. She certainly tried.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Ha.” Tina kicked off her shoes and propped her striped stocking feet on the dash. Now I was really grinning. She was like a teenager in so many ways.

“Picture a perfectly poised June Cleaver trying to drag a chain-smoking black-haired goth girl from a pot party with a bunch of high school dropouts.”

I almost missed the garage exit and had to hit the brakes harder than I intended. “Seriously? That was you?” I wanted to introduce my father to her
now
.

“I’m just skimming the surface.” Tina stared out the window as we left the garage and turned onto the parkway. “I was a wreck. A total disaster.”

“Did they punish you? Were they strict?”

“Oh yeah. I left the house through my window way more than by the door. I could count on one hand the number of days in high school I
wasn’t
grounded.”

“But you turned out all right.”

Tina turned to look at me. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“You seem fine to me.”

She laughed. “Well, let’s see. I got fired yesterday.”

“But you’re back today.”

Tina hesitated. “Did you have something to do with that?”

“Not a thing.”

She pursed her lips. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

I didn’t know how much to tell her about my father. I was pretty certain he hadn’t stepped in. “What happened with Duffrey?”

“He said I had made a powerful friend who would donate some unspecified amount of money — enough to make Duffrey squirm — if I was back in my classroom by the end of the day.”

“Wow.” I pulled up to a red light. “That
is
a powerful friend.”

“But not you?”

“I don’t have that kind of money. I don’t know anyone who does.” And it was true. I had a decent trust, the sort that gets you through school and set up in a nice house and lets you take European vacations as long as you are not relying on it for your income. But nothing that would impress a hospital board. Not even if I dumped the whole sum on them.

Besides, I had to save it for Cynthia. It was half hers anyway. If Dad wouldn’t sign it over, I would.

Tina blew loose wisps of hair off her forehead. I had the most intense urge to brush them aside myself. Where could I take her that I could sit close to her? Some place she wouldn’t find pretentious?

She rolled down the window. “It’s a nice night. We shouldn’t sit cooped up in a box of canned air.”

I lowered my window as well. The evening breeze blew across my face. We still had half an hour until sunset. The light turned green, and I knew what to do. “You want to eat outside somewhere?”

“Sure,” she said. “Sounds nice.”

A little place near La Jolla did takeout picnics. You could have the whole thing packaged in a pretty basket. Lots of people did it to propose on the beach, or for special occasions. When we first came to San Diego, I had gotten one for me and Cynthia, before she had to go back to the hospital.