Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 108905 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108905 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Neil tipped his head to rest gently against hers. His voice was hoarse when he said, “I think I’ll put her down in the bedroom and try to sleep, myself. Before we have to go to the…”
To the funeral home He didn’t have to say it. I was glad he didn’t.
I should have tried to get some rest, too, but I found myself pacing around, moving from one room to the next, my mind whirling. Olivia was going to live with us. Like, forever. There would be parent/teacher conferences. There would be terrible twos and coloring on the walls. Everything would be sticky.
But there would also be back-to-school shopping and Barbie. I had loved Barbie. Or, if Olivia turned out to really be a boy, there would be sports and video games—well, not that a girl Olivia couldn’t do those things. Either way, I saw a future full of baby dolls and Hot Wheels cars and Lego—
Oh, god. I was going to step on a Lego. There was no way we could get through eighteen years without stepping on a Lego.
Eighteen years. Neil would be, what? Seventy? Seventy-one? And we would have a teenager in the house. And what if something happened, his cancer came back or something? It wasn’t as if he would just get over it a second time and everything would be fine. I could end up a single mom, or single mom-ish. I’d never wanted that. It had been a part of my rationale for not going through with my pregnancy in the first place.
And, now, we were parents, sort of.
My throat stuck shut, and I had to go to the kitchen for some water. I braced my hands on the counter and stared into space. Olivia wasn’t for us. She was for Emma and Michael. How could we ever step into their shoes?
I called Holli and Deja and broke the news. They tried to be comforting, but I was in such shock, I probably came across as ungrateful. I ended the call with a promise to contact them if we needed anything—everyone wanted to help if we needed anything—but when we hung up, I regretted it, because I was alone, again.
I wanted to be alone, but I didn’t at the same time.
I had to distract myself, so I went to the TV room and mindlessly watched brides saying yes to their dresses for an hour and a half.
A flower delivery came while Neil and Olivia napped. The doorman brought it up and expressed his condolences. I’m sure I said something in return. I just couldn’t remember what; my brain was practically leaking out of my ears. I placed the flowers on the table in the foyer and opened the card.
It was from Stephen Stern.
I crumpled it in my fist. How dare he? He may have been Emma’s uncle, but he was a rapist and a sociopath. I grabbed the arrangement and hurried through the house with it like it was a bomb. I went down the service stairs, found the garbage chute, and stuffed the flowers and card down. Then, I went back upstairs. I paced the living room and counted to ten before I made a phone call.
“Doctor Harris’s office,” the receptionist answered.
“I need to speak to Doctor Harris immediately,” I said, keeping my voice low.
“I’m sorry, the doctor is—”
“This is Sophie Scaife, calling about my husband, Neil Elwood. I believe he and Doctor Harris have some kind of emergency arrangement—”
“Hold, please,” she said quickly, and like that, the line switched, and Dr. Harris came on.
“Sophie? What can I help you with?” he asked, concerned but calm.
“Neil’s daughter…” My throat clogged. I struggled through my hoarseness. “Neil’s daughter has passed away.”
There was a brief pause before the doctor said, “I’m so sorry to hear that. But, while this is undoubtedly a difficult time for your whole family, I have to remind you that I’m not able to discuss my patients’ therapy—”
“That’s not what I wanted,” I assured him. “You arranged a meeting between him and Stephen Stern. Which means you probably have his number.”
“Neil is going to attempt to inform Mr. Stern himself?” Dr. Harris asked.
He was right to worry; just seeing the flowers would have killed Neil. “No. Stephen has reached out to Neil. He sent flowers and card, which I intercepted, thank god. I just want his number so I can call him and tell him he’s not welcome at the funeral.”
Dr. Harris’s indrawn breath was audible on the phone. “Ms. Scaife—”
“Please.” My voice cracked. I would have liked to remain assertive, but the day had been too much already. “Please. I promise I’ll make Neil call you. But you can’t mention this to him. I just want it to be done.”
I knew Dr. Harris was reluctant, but I sent every desperate mental plea I could manage over the line. Finally, after a few seconds of silence, he said, “I’ll transfer you back to my secretary. She’ll give you the number.”