She rarely left the house. She had no car. She spent hours writing music, playing her guitar, remembering how great the world looked from a stage with a view of an audience clapping and shouting her name. Life wasn’t turning out the way she’d planned. Dawson said he loved her many times. She wanted to love him. But her head wouldn’t stop filling with memories of the things she had always wanted. Her bright spot was separation from her mother.
LaDonna came around occasionally, usually during her noon lunch hour if she was in town working. Not wanting to listen to LaDonna’s plans about Sloan and the baby moving in with her, Sloan never answered the door before two o’clock. She was stacking clothes from the dryer one July morning after Dawson and Franklin had gone for the day when the doorbell started to chime and wouldn’t quit. This early, she figured it wasn’t LaDonna. She went to the door and threw it open to a flood of sunlight and to Jarred Tester standing on the porch.
Stunned, she backpedaled, looking for shadows to cover her. When she found her voice, she said, “Go away.”
“Can we talk?”
A rush of heat flushed through her. “Go. Away.”
“Please, Sloan. Just let me talk to you. I’ll leave as soon as I do.” Boldly he tried the screen door handle. It wasn’t locked. She pushed back, but he pushed it open, reached in, and caught her wrist. “We can sit on the porch. In plain sight. I haven’t come to scare you.” His voice was soft, non-threatening. He tugged her gently into the sunlight. “I just want to talk.”
She was powerless against the pull of him and followed him to the wicker chairs at the far end of the porch. He turned and took both her hands in his, his eyes assessing her, widening as he took in her expanded belly. She felt humiliated. “Please leave.” She couldn’t stop staring at him. He looked different now, more polished, and slimmer, with an expensive haircut and clothes that fit his toned, muscled body perfectly.
“Not till I say what I want to say.” Jarred gentled her into a chair and then took the one across from her, a small wicker table between them. He didn’t let go of her hand. “You look—”
“I know what I look like, so forget any lies you’re going to tell.” She snatched her hand from his, angry because he’d stirred up feelings and memories she didn’t want. “Why are you here? To gloat? I’m not sorry about homecoming, Jarred. Not one bit!”
“Not asking you to be sorry about it.” He offered a conciliatory smile. “That was all on me and I deserved it. But that was then. This is now. New day. Fresh start.”
Her gaze tracked the arrow tips down his neck that disappeared under the collar of his shirt and reemerged from under the sleeve. Easier than looking into his eyes. “How’d you find me?”
“Stopped by the trailer last night and your mom told me. Drove here and parked down the street last night.” He gestured with his head and she spied his Mustang sitting along the curb.
“Last night?”
“Slept in the backseat. I cleaned up at a gas station around six this morning and waited for the house to clear so we could talk.”
She remembered the last time she’d looked into the Mustang’s backseat. Feeling angry all over again, she pushed against the rising tide. “So what did my ‘mommy’ have to say?” She could only imagine how LaDonna must have dissed her to him.
“She was drinking, so I got an earful.” He waved his hand to blow off whatever LaDonna had told him. “But she kept saying she’s looking forward to you moving back with the baby when it’s born. That true?”
“I’m not.”
“You married to this Dawson?” She shook her head. “Planning to?”
“Don’t know.” She lifted her chin. “He wants to marry me.” Jarred went quiet. A butterfly settled on a bush next to the porch railing. A bird chirped. Heat built. Sloan fingered the hem of the oversized tee she wore. “So why did you come and sleep all night in your car just so you can talk to me alone?”
Jarred leaned forward. The wicker creaked. “I’m putting the band back together. Bobby and Hal are on board. Calder’s headed off to college, but that’s all right. I have a new keyboard man in Nashville named Josiah. He’s older and he’s good, better than Calder. His dad’s some big-deal hedge fund guru and richer than God. They have an estate and Sy has a recording studio on-site. Very sweet…you wouldn’t believe the equipment.” Jarred’s eyes shone as he described the state-of-the-art sound-mixing boards, amps, mikes, and top-of-the-line everything. “But Sy’s parents don’t live there. They’ve got a place in New York, so Sy’s got the Nashville house to himself. Been living there myself for three months.”
She closed her eyes, pictured the former band, felt tears behind her eyelids. “Sounds like you landed on your feet with this Josiah.”
Jarred planted a hand on her knee, and warmth seeped through her skin. “Look, we won’t be some cobbled-together garage bangers. We’ll have a new sound, a new look. We have a place to live and one hundred percent access to Sy’s studio. We’ll pull our music together, cut a demo, shop it around. I’m talking a business deal between us, nothing more.” He made a circle in the air. “This will be my band, but we’ll all be partners. This is legit, Sloan. I want this music thing real bad.”
Me too. “So you’re starting over. I’m happy for you.”
He rested his arms on the chair and leaned back, studying her. “When I first got to Nashville, I worked my ass off, barely scraped by at first. Slept in my car for a while. Lots of odd jobs and a fill-in as a session artist for other bands. That’s how I met Sy. We clicked artistically.”
“And the drugs?”
He waved his hand as if shooing a fly. “Nothing, I swear. Sy doesn’t touch the stuff, so neither do I. Music business comes first. Always.”
“And what do you want from me?”
“I want you to sign on, Sloan. You’re the best singer I’ve ever heard. We were good together…the writing, the way we were on the same wavelength.” He didn’t mention everything else they once had together, but she couldn’t forget it. Jarred continued. “Everything I’ve been writing was with you in mind on vocals. There are people out there who still remember Anarchy. We were damn good. And you know it.”
She knew it, all right. And, oh God, how she wanted it. A kick from inside her belly cruelly flung her back to earth. She flattened her palm on her protruding abdomen. “I’m not exactly in singing shape, Jarred. I can hardly breathe, much less sing.”
“When’s it supposed to be born?”
“September.”
A smile lit his face. “No prob. Hal’s coming next month, but Bobby can’t come until after Labor Day. We’ll wait for you.” He let the offer dangle, then added, “If you marry this Dawson, he’s welcome to come too. Lots of bands have families and hit the road with them.”
Sloan couldn’t see that happening. Dawson would never go for it. Just her and the baby…? Torn between past and present, she went silent, her mind churning with feelings and fears.
Jarred stood, looking down at her. “I know I’ve thrown a lot at you. You don’t have to decide this minute. Just think about what I’ve said, okay?” He reached into his shirt pocket and handed her a business card. “This is how to reach me.” She studied the card—the bold black lettering, the line drawing of a guitar—and nodded. He walked to the porch’s top step. “After that baby’s born, once you know what you want to do, call me either way. I won’t look for another singer until I hear from you. But don’t wait too long, Sloan. We’ve got to get this moving.”
Sloan sat on the porch long after Jarred drove away in his Mustang, which shone with new black paint, chrome hubcaps, and booming subwoofers, proof that he did have some money. From down the street she heard a dog bark at the mailman coming up the sidewalk of the quaint neighborhood. While she watched the postal guy’s progress, she reminded herself of two truths: Jarred knew her weaknesses, her sweet spots. With Dawson she had security and comfort. Life wasn’t perfect between them, but she trusted him.
Yet th
at evening when Dawson came home, stinking of sweat and grass clippings, she said nothing about her morning visitor.
CHAPTER 18
Sloan went into labor seven weeks before her due date. The pain started in her back, woke her from sleep. It hit in waves and made her yelp. She woke Dawson, who ran upstairs and woke Franklin. “I hurt,” she said through clenched teeth when Franklin came to her bedside. “Bad! I hurt bad. Make it stop!”
Franklin took her hand. She held his in a death grip. “Let’s run you into the hospital for a quick check.”
“Isn’t it too soon for the baby?” Dawson asked over his father’s shoulder. “I mean, the doctor said September.”
“Let’s get her looked over. Just to be sure.”
Confident. Assured. His father, Dr. Berke, a rock. Dawson helped Sloan to the car.
The nurse on the maternity ward confirmed that Sloan was in labor, called her doctor, and whisked her into a room. Dawson stood blinking in the brightly lit hallway, feeling lost and powerless. Suddenly Dr. Ortiz rushed down the hallway from the elevator, gave him a wave, and disappeared into the birthing room. Franklin appeared wearing hospital green from head to toe.
“What’s happening? Why are you in scrubs?”
“Because we can’t stop her contractions and because I’ll be his pediatrician. You want to come in? You’re the father. You’re allowed.”
Dawson felt paralyzed. They’d gone to a few birthing classes. He’d seen the videos, but now the world was in upheaval, and he couldn’t grab hold of anything solid inside himself. “Just…help her.”
“Do you want to call her mother?”
Dawson shook his head. “Sloan doesn’t want her here. She told me so months ago.”
Franklin vanished into the room.
Minutes later, Dawson heard voices through the closed door. Doctor talk, hectic scramblings, no baby’s cry. His heart went stone cold.
Sloan was asleep, the soft night-light over the bed spilling on her face, the rest of the room in deep shadows. Dawson stood over her, a knot of emotion stuck in his throat. He reached down and smoothed her forehead. “You did good.”
An hour before, Franklin had come out of the birthing room, swept the green cap off his head, and offered a tight smile. “There’s a complication.”
Dawson fought his gag reflex. “What’s wrong?”
Franklin put his hand on Dawson’s shoulder. “He’s little…four pounds. And his lungs need some time to mature. He’s on oxygen and we need to fatten him up. Sloan’s just fine, sleeping. She’s being taken to a room.”
“What do you mean…about…his lungs?” Dawson’s thoughts swirled around the baby.
“Just not ready to breathe on their own, not uncommon in preemies.”
“But he’s okay. He’ll be okay…won’t he?”
“He’s in the NICU and he’s my patient now.” Franklin rested his hand on Dawson’s shoulder. “He’s getting the best care possible. Just not ready to take on the world yet.” Franklin ventured a smile. “He’s got your black hair. A full head. Just like you had when you were born. I wish your mother…” Franklin pressed his thumbs into his closed eyes. “Sorry. Just tired.”
Dawson could only nod. How many times in his life had he wished for the same thing?
Franklin offered a wry grin, wiping away the sadness of loss. He squeezed Dawson’s shoulder, shaking it like a dog with a toy. “And I’m a grandfather. What do you know!”
“Well, congratulations, old man. He’s related to me too, you know.” Dawson banked down his fears and returned his father’s smile.
Franklin flung his arm around Dawson’s neck and hauled him into a fatherly neck-lock. “Right back at you.” They stood grinning stupidly at each other in the hallway, feelings buoyed by each other’s pleasure. “You want to see him?”
Dawson had to gown up and wear a mask before going into the neonatal unit. His enthusiasm sobered with every precaution Franklin made him take. The unit was small and its interior dimly lit. Dawson counted seven incubators, but only three held babies. Machines hovered like sentries around each clear plastic shell, emitting beeps and hisses that attested to the work they were doing—sustaining life.
A neonatal nurse, also wearing a gown and mask, greeted them and gestured toward a unit near a wall. Franklin led the way. Dawson followed, but when he looked inside, what he saw so overwhelmed him that he almost turned and ran.
“I know it looks scary, but Dad says he’s really doing okay.”
It was the morning after the delivery, and this was Sloan’s first look at her son. Her son was not the chubby perfect newborns in the photos in the birthing books. Her baby lay splayed out, a tube down his throat with tape holding it in position, the other end attached to a machine that breathed for him. There were wires taped to his chest to monitor his heartbeat, and IVs between his toes to hydrate and feed him. He was rail thin, with gauze pads over his eyes, and so small he all but disappeared under all the medical attachments and warming light. Sloan recoiled.
“Dad says it’s temporary,” Dawson assured her. “Breathing problems are common in preemies. But his lungs will grow stronger. He just needs time.”
Sloan heard Dawson’s words, but staring down into the incubator pushed against what he was saying and what her eyes were seeing. The newborn’s chest rose rapidly, like the beating heart of a bird; his tiny fists were balled, fists so small that they hardly seemed real, doll’s hands, maybe clenched in protest to what was happening to his body. She felt queasy, but she couldn’t turn away, so mesmerizing was the sight of the baby in the bubble. How could this being who looked more alien than human have possibly come out of her body?
Dawson slipped his arm around Sloan to comfort and assure her. “I know how you feel. I felt the same way the first time I saw him. But his heart’s strong. He just needs to fatten up. We…uh…we can touch him through those armholes with gloves.”
She looked from the portals in the plastic incubator to the nearby box of gloves.
“Dad says it’s good to touch him, that babies need to be touched. He needs to know we’re here. Want to?”
Stroke the baby like she would a sick puppy? Sloan trembled. “I want to go back to my bed.”
Dawson felt a letdown. He’d hoped that seeing the baby would encourage Sloan, comfort her and make her feel connected. “All right. We’ll come back later.” He led her out of the unit, eased her into the mandatory wheelchair, untied her mask, and pushed her down the hall to the elevator. In her room, he helped her into bed. “I know he isn’t…” He stopped, started again. “But the main thing is he’s going to be all right. Dad wouldn’t tell us that if it weren’t true.”
She wouldn’t meet Dawson’s eyes. Across the room, a new vase of blue-tinged flowers had appeared on her dresser with a helium balloon proclaiming “It’s a BOY!” The vases and flowers were from hospital staffers. None from anyone she knew.
Dawson took her hand. “How are you feeling?”
She hurt inside and out. “I’m sad. For him.” But she was sad for herself too. Sorry she hadn’t been able to keep him inside of her long enough so that he was whole and perfect. “I wanted him out so much,” she whispered. “All summer. I just wanted it to be over. Maybe…I shouldn’t have—”
“Wishing him out didn’t make him come early. Doesn’t work that way. He’s little, but he’ll get great medical care. And so will you. Dad says once your OB clears you, I can take you back to the house.”
“And the baby?”
“The baby stays until he gets cleared to leave. Maybe a few weeks. Or less.” He struggled to find something uplifting to talk about to her, flashed on an idea. “Hey, you know, Dad says we should give him a name so we can fill out his birth certificate. You have any preference?”
Her mind blanked. She shrugged. Most of the men in her life had been of the “pass through” variety. Their names and faces blurred in her memory. She chewed on her bottom lip. “You want to name him after you? Or y
our dad?”
He shook his head. “Not really.” Silence stretched. Dawson took a deep breath, knowing this was going to be up to him. “I was kind of thinking…of maybe…Gabriel, after my great-grandfather. What do you think of naming him Gabriel?”
She thought it was as good a name as any. “Sure. That’s fine.”
But Dawson could tell she wasn’t enthused. “Okay, then how about Gabriel Franklin Berke.”
“That’s fine.” She dropped his hand and rolled onto her side. “I want to sleep now. Really tired.” Sleep meant oblivion, a way for her to deal with what could not be changed.
Dawson eased into a bedside chair feeling wrung out, lonely, lost. He stayed until he was certain that she slept.
CHAPTER 19
Lani arrived in the nursing administrative offices, her heart pounding and her mind racing. Why had she been called in? Had she done something wrong? A volunteer didn’t get called into Mrs. Trammell’s office on a whim. Lani wracked her brain, mentally recounting her previous week on the job. Running blood samples to lab, sponge-bathing an elderly woman in a bed, subbing in the gift shop midday three times, wheeling patients to and from radiology…All routine. Tasks she’d done many times over. She paused at the outer door, chewed on a fingernail, took a deep breath, pasted on a smile, and walked inside.
“Hi, Lani,” the receptionist said. “Go right in. Mrs. Trammell’s expecting you.”
Lani’s knees went rubbery, but she entered the inner sanctum, where the head of nursing smiled and motioned her to sit in a chair in front of her desk. “You’re not in trouble,” were Mrs. Trammell’s first words. “In fact, I called you in because of your excellent work and exemplary attitude. In short, you play well with others. Every staff person who’s come in contact with you thinks you’re going to be a wonderful nurse.”
The praise blindsided Lani because her thoughts had never gone in this direction. “I love my work,” she said, despite her adrenaline overload.