Intimate Exposure

He gave her a surprised look. “Did you think I’d let you go in there alone?”

She protested. “I’m grateful for all you’ve done, but you really—”

He didn’t stop walking. “Come on. They’re waiting.” He grabbed his shirt and tossed it over his shoulder like a towel.

There was no sense in arguing. As he held open the swinging doors, she took one guilty look at the sad people still waiting, sending up a prayer that their troubles would end soon.

Inside, an older nurse took up most of the entryway. Her expression was standard hospital-issue harassed, hair scraped back into a bun, face like a hatchet. She glanced at the proffered papers and nodded at a gurney. Shani set her burden down carefully, and at once an attendant began to work on Bee.

“You the mother?” The nurse asked.

“Yes.”

“You can stay.”

Shani moved to her daughter’s side. Elliot moved in concert with her, only to be stopped by the nurse’s imperious, uplifted hand. “Who’re you?”

“My name’s Elliot—”

She frowned, noticing for the first time that his chest was bare. Her eyes popped ceilingward in a “you-see-all-types-in-here” gesture, then she clarified. “I mean, what’s your relationship to the patient? Only the parents of a minor are allowed in here.”

“Oh, I—”

“So who’re you?”

Shani found herself desperately wanting Elliot to stay with her in this awful place. “He’s … he’s …” She began and stopped.

The nurse, as intimidating as a mythical beast guarding treasure, folded her arms. What could she say to get this woman to understand? She half wondered if Elliot’s charm could work on her, too. Bizarrely, even though it would mean his eviction and her abandonment, that almost made her feel satisfied. At least it would mean someone was immune to him.

Elliot hardly missed a beat. “I’m her father.”

Shani choked on her own spit.

The nurse glanced at his face for half a second, then at Bee’s damp, sallow one, and dismissed him with disinterest, pointing the way with her pen. The doors swung open behind them, admitting someone else for her to intimidate.

Shani felt Elliot close to her, warm skin occasionally brushing her bare arm as they watched the doctor, an older black woman who reassuringly reminded her of Maya Angelou, fiddle with Bee. The woman gave her the first genuine smile she’d had since she got here.

“Don’t worry, doux-doux. She ees going to be just fine.” She spoke with an accent Shani couldn’t identify. West African? Caribbean? “Just a leetle infection—nothing to make a whole lot of fuss and bother about. We’ll start her on antibiotics right away. And just to be safe, we’ll keep her for a few days, okay?”

Shani felt tears of gratitude and relief prickle at the backs of her eyes. The doctor patted her gently on the cheek. “Chin up, sugarplum. Don’t you worry. She ees in good hands.”

The doctor directed her gaze at Elliot’s bare chest, and she asked humorously, “I know the cooling system needs fixing, but you don’t think you taking thees a leetle too far?”

Elliot surprised Shani by looking abashed. “Sorry, Doctor. I apologize if I’ve offended … we had a little accident.”

“Don’t fret. I’ve seen it all.” But Maya Angelou had the audacity to give him one last, evaluating glance. Elliot’s skin flushed, and Shani hid a grin. It was like discovering your grandma’s prayer-circle buddy was a flirt.

They followed Bee’s gurney out of the E.R. and into a pediatric ward with three other beds. Gently, the attendant settled her onto the bed farthest from the door. With that movement, Bee’s eyes shot open, startled, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. “Mama?”

Shani was immediately soothing, stroking her cheek and listening to the sound of the monitors until she fell back into a heavy sleep. Only then did she look around. There were two armchairs next to each bed, and a little cabinet for personal effects. That was pretty much it. Children in the other beds were sleeping, their monitors a soft, bipping chorus, with the exception of a small, still pile of blankets two beds over, which was surrounded by anxiously whispering staff. A woman, probably the child’s mother, hovered, trying to stand on tiptoe to see what they were doing. Shani sat in one of the chairs and closed her eyes briefly, not able to absorb anyone else’s pain tonight.

She looked outside past lopsided blinds. It was clear and dark out, but she could tell there were only a few hours till dawn. She knew she wouldn’t be sleeping.

“Hey.”

Elliot squatted before her. He reached out and stroked her cheek, jolting her thoughts away from the window and the outside world. “She’s a beautiful little girl,” he said, but he was looking at Shani, not at Bee.

“Yes,” she agreed, but her thoughts were not on Bee, either. Rather, they were focused on fighting the urge to lean her chin into his cupped hand. Where’d that come from?

Knowingly, he turned her face toward his. Look away, she told herself. Look away, or you’ll be turned to stone. She couldn’t, held fast by his dark stare. She heard machines around her whoop and beep, but she couldn’t hear herself breathe. “Hungry?”

“Wh … huh?” The banality of the question on the heels of such an intense connection left her flailing for a response.

To her disappointment, he rose. Easily, fluidly, like a snake uncoiling itself. “Gotta be a cafeteria in here somewhere. If I don’t eat something soon …” He turned to go. “Coffee or tea?”

After having had nothing to eat since lunch, she figured a meal would be worth not having him by her side for a bit. “Coffee, please.”

“Sweet and milky, right?”

How’d he know? She watched him walk confidently away, beautiful chest bare to the world and not giving a damn. Her eyes remained fixed on him until he walked into the lit corridor. The only thing she could do now was try to catch a few moments’ rest … and wait for him to come back.

Chapter 5

Shani’s heart did a happy little two-step when he returned with a cardboard box lid and two hot cups of coffee balanced inside. He handed her a cup. It was sweet and milky, as promised. Comforting. He settled next to her with a grin, pointing to his bare chest. “Scared a few people out there.”

“Uh-huh.” More likely set their salivary glands going, she thought. “You cold?”

“Nah.” He tilted the tray so she could see its contents. “Hot dogs. And pudding. They were out of chocolate—only butterscotch and banana left. Figured you’d like the butterscotch better.”

“You figured right.”

He handed her a hot dog, heavy on the ketchup and mustard, light on the relish, no onions. “They’ve been rolling around on that little carousel since the Jurassic, but I’m too hungry to complain.”

She bit in. “If we get food poisoning, at least we’re in the right place.”

He smiled. “First joke I’ve heard you make all night.”

She shrugged, concentrating on her hot dog. “Haven’t got much to joke about.”

She was disappointed when he didn’t contradict her. He finished his hot dog without saying anything more. Then there was no sound but the scraping of his plastic spoon in the pudding cup. When she was done with hers, too, he whisked away the debris.

He snagged a blanket and wrapped it around his bare chest Indian-style, to deflect any more disapproving glances, and sat again. Together they listened to the sounds of the night. Outside, an ambulance wailed. Inside, a child moaned in his sleep. All underscored by the incessant chorus of instruments, like the mournful chirping of crickets. Eerie. Disturbing. Sad.

Elliot was so quiet, she was sure he’d dozed off. She was afraid to look at him, in case her anxiety, her need for him to stay awake, and stay with her, showed. It was embarrassing. Had she sunk so low that the moral support of a kindhearted stranger was all she had?

She directed her frustration and anger away from herself and onto Christophe. Jerk. He was an ocean away, not knowing, not caring that his daughter had loops of wires curling into and out of her, making her one with a huge, ugly machine. With just the glow of a monitor and the glimmer of a night-light staving off the darkness poised above her like a stilled wave.

How could he leave her alone to face this? When had he stopped loving her? She snorted derisively. To hear him tell it, he did still love her. Sleeping around throughout their marriage hadn’t meant he didn’t; it just meant he was French. As far as he was concerned, she’d blown the whole thing out of proportion.