Chapter 11
The automatic doors at the county hospice hissed open and the rain we had driven through followed us in on our shoes. I had my plastic parcel tucked inside my sweatshirt now so the nurse at the front desk couldn't see it right away. My hair was still damp and my jeans left a wet mark on the tile where I stood. Dad had his tux jacket over his arm and his bow tie undone, hanging loose around his collar. He looked wrong in that building.
The nurse looked up from her computer and I told her who we were there to see. I gave her mom's name, the real one, and then the name the mailbox was under. She typed and her face changed a little.
"Are you family?" she asked Dad.
He hesitated. "Yes," he said.
She asked for his ID. He fumbled his wallet out and slid his driver's license across the counter. She checked it, checked me, and then she looked at my face longer.
"You must be Lucy," she said. I nodded. "She talked about you. She's in 214. She's very weak and the medication makes her sleepy. You can go in but let her lead. Don't tire her out."
She buzzed the locked hallway door and told us to follow the blue line on the floor to the end. I didn't wait for Dad. I walked ahead and he followed. The hallway smelled like cleaner and coffee and the lights were too bright. Every room we passed had the door half closed and a TV on low. At the end of the hall the blue line stopped at room 214.
Dad put a hand on my shoulder before I could push the door open. His hand was cold.
"Lucy, wait," he whispered. His breathing was uneven. "Is it really her?"
I didn't answer. I pushed the door.
The room was small and dim even though it was still afternoon outside. The blinds were half closed and rain ticked against the window. There was a machine beeping quiet and steady. Mom was in the bed, propped up on two pillows. She was so much thinner than I remembered, even from last week. Her hair was pulled back and her skin was pale gray and her cheeks sunk in. An oxygen tube was under her nose. Her hands rested on the blanket, and they looked like paper.
For a second I thought she was asleep and we were too late. Then Dad made a sound behind me. It wasn't a word. It was just air catching in his throat.
He stepped past me like he couldn't help it. He stopped at the foot of the bed and stared.
"Olivia," he said, so quiet I almost didn't hear it.
Mom's eyes fluttered. They opened slow. They were the same eyes. She looked first at me, then past me to him, and I saw her recognize him instantly. There was no shock. No surprise. She had been waiting for this.
"Lucy," she whispered. Her voice was rough and thin. She reached her hand out a few inches on the blanket toward me. I went to her and took it. Her fingers were cold but she squeezed.
Then she looked at Dad again.
"You came," she said to him.
Dad didn't move closer. He held his jacket tight against his chest like it was holding him together. His eyes were red and his mouth was open a little.
"I didn't know," he said. "I thought — they told me nine years — I thought you died."
Mom blinked slowly. "I know," she said. She glanced down at my sweatshirt where the shape of the plastic parcel pressed against it. "You brought it."
I pulled the parcel out and held it against my stomach. I hadn't opened it since the chapel. "I kept it safe," I said. "Like you told me."
She gave a tiny nod and her eyes closed for a second from the effort. "Good girl."
The door opened behind us and the air in the room shifted. I turned and the bride was standing in the doorway. She had changed out of the white dress and was in a dark sweater and pants, her hair still half up, but her face was the same as in the chapel. Behind her was a man in a suit with a leather folder under his arm.
The nurse was right behind them, looking annoyed. "Ma'am, I said only family —"
"It's fine," the man in the suit said quickly. He held out a business card toward Dad, not toward me. "James Keller, counsel. We're here about private financial documents that belong to my client."
The bride didn't look at Mom. She looked straight at the parcel in my hands.
"Lucy, sweetheart," she said, and her voice was too calm. "That bundle you're holding doesn't belong to you. It's private financial records. My attorney is here to collect them so we can handle this properly and not upset your mother anymore."
Dad turned to face her. He stepped slightly between her and the bed.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"Protecting all of us," she said. "That plastic thing is not evidence, it's confidential bank papers. You can't let a child wave them around in a hospice. Give me that and we can talk about this like adults. Away from her."
The lawyer added, "Any documents related to private support payments are legally my client's property. We're asking for their return."
Mom opened her eyes again and looked at the bride for the first time. She didn't look angry. She looked tired and clear.
May you like
"No," Mom whispered. She wasn't loud but everyone heard it. She tightened her grip on my hand. "They're Lucy's."
The bride's smile thinned. Dad looked down at the parcel, then at Mom in the bed, then at me. The machine beeped steady and the rain kept hitting the window and no one in that room moved to leave.
