Chapter 10 - Bedside Without the Dress
The county hospital recovery unit smelled like floor cleaner and coffee that had been sitting too long. I followed the social worker down a hallway with those wide handrails and the soft squeak of my shoes on linoleum, past a nurses' station where nobody looked up. She stopped at room 214 and knocked once before pushing the door open a few inches.
"She's awake," she said to me quietly. "She knows you're coming. No pressure. If she gets tired, we step out."
I nodded. My hands were empty. I'd thought about bringing flowers and then realized I didn't know what she'd want, or what this place even allowed.
Elena was in the bed closest to the window. The blinds were half open and daylight cut across the blanket in clean bars. She was thinner than I remembered, her hair pulled back without any product, no makeup, an IV line taped to the back of her hand. But her eyes were clear when she turned them to me, and that hit me harder than if she'd looked out of it.
She didn't smile right away. She just looked.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey," she said. Her voice was rough, low. "You came."
The social worker pulled a chair close to the bed for me and then stepped back to the corner, clipboard against her chest, giving us space without leaving.
I sat down. For a second neither of us knew what to do with our hands. Mine rested on my knees. Hers stayed on the blanket.
"You look good," she said, and then caught herself. "I mean — you look okay."
"You look better than I was braced for," I said. Honesty felt like the only thing I could offer that wasn't cheap.
That made her exhale a little laugh. "Seven years does a lot."
We sat in it. The machines beeped in a slow, even rhythm. I could hear a cart rolling somewhere down the hall.
"I didn't know," I said finally. "About her. I swear to you, Elena, I didn't know."
"I know," she said quickly. "I know you didn't."
She looked toward the window, then back at me. Her fingers tightened on the blanket.
"I left because you were scaring me," she said. It wasn't an accusation anymore, just a flat memory. "You were drinking most nights, you were fighting, you had people coming by the apartment at two in the morning. You punched that hole in the kitchen door. Remember?"
I did. I nodded once. My throat was dry.
"I was volatile then," I said.
"You were," she said. "And I found out I was pregnant two weeks after I left. I was at my cousin's in Fresno. I took three tests in a gas station bathroom. I sat there on the tile and just stared at them."
She swallowed. The social worker didn't move.
"I thought about telling you," she continued. "I really did. But I kept picturing her in that apartment with that door, and I got scared she'd grow up hearing yelling. So I told myself I'd do it alone. That it was safer."
I didn't argue. I couldn't. She was right about who I'd been.
"Why'd you keep my picture?" I asked.
Her eyes got wet then, but she didn't look away.
"Because she started asking," she said. "Around four, she kept asking why she didn't have a daddy like the other kids at daycare. I didn't want her to think you didn't want her. I didn't want her to think she was the reason you weren't there. So I showed her the one photo I still had, from the lake that summer. I told her your name. That you had tattoos and you liked black shirts and you had a loud laugh. I said if anything ever happened to me, someone should take her somewhere safe and tell them who you were."
That was the friend, I realized. The one who'd brought her to the children's home.
"When I started slipping again," Elena said, her voice dropping, "I knew. I could feel it coming back. I didn't want her to see me like that. I called Marisol. I gave her your name and the county and the photo. I told her to take her to the home on Hillcrest. I thought — I thought they'd find you. I hoped they'd find you."
My chest constricted. I looked down at my hands, at the ink on my knuckles, and then back up at her.
"They did," I said.
Elena nodded, tears now tracking slow down her cheeks. She didn't wipe them.
"I don't want you to erase me," she whispered. "I know I'm in here and you're out there with her. I know I don't have any right to ask. But please don't tell her I'm gone. Don't let her think I left because I didn't love her."
"I wouldn't," I said. "I won't."
She reached a little, just an inch, across the blanket, and I reached too, not grabbing, just letting our fingertips touch near the edge.
"Keep her safe while I finish this program," she said. "That's all I'm asking. Sixty days. Maybe ninety. Let me get stable. Then — can I see her? Supervised, whatever they want. I just need to see her."
The social worker stepped forward then, gentle but clear.
"We can set a supervised visit for later this week if medical clears her," she said, looking at both of us. "Short, here in the family room, with staff present. We can prepare your daughter beforehand."
Elena looked at me, waiting.
"Yes," I said. "We'll bring her. When you're ready."
Elena closed her eyes for a second, relief breaking across her face in a way that made her look younger, like the girl from the lake photo again. When she opened them, she was still crying, but she was breathing easier.
May you like
"Thank you," she said.
I stayed a few minutes more until her eyelids started to get heavy. I didn't promise anything about custody or forever. I just sat there while the daylight moved across her blanket, holding that small space between us intact.
