Читать книгу The Surgeon's Secret Baby - Ann Christopher - Страница 10

Thomas watched Lia go, straining his ears for any sound of her heels, long after she disappeared from view. There was some event he needed to go to pretty soon, he thought, but since his brain no longer seemed to be functional, he couldn’t remember what it was. Rounds, right? Wait—no. Patients. He had appointments with patients, and then he—No. That wasn’t it, either. He had a … meeting. A staff meeting. That was it. He should get going.

Except that stunned paralysis kept his ass stuck to his chair.

For the first time in living memory, possibly the first time ever, he didn’t know what to do. Which was funny because he was a textbook type-A control freak who could handle whatever emergencies life threw his way. Need someone to head up the surgery department? He was your man. Need a surgeon to keep someone from bleeding out on the table? Look no further. Need a physician to teach, publish and cook a mean three-course dinner in his spare time? Right here, pal.

A crisis in someone else’s life was a piece of cake.

A crisis in his own life was a whole ‘nother kettle of stinking fish.

Jesus.

What on earth was he supposed to do now?

Why couldn’t he get his thoughts to coalesce into something coherent? Something other than:

I have a son. I have a son with Lia. Our son could die.

There was no room for might, possibly or could.

I might have a son. Uh-uh. That didn’t work for him at all.

He had a son. Period. End of story.

And that was another thing. He hadn’t signed up for this. He’d been minding his own business, doing his own thing, not looking to be a daddy, so why did he now feel excitement at the idea of meeting the boy and terror at the idea of him being so sick?

Was he insane? Had all his marbles suddenly been lost?

He’d had a fatherhood scare once, about three years ago. A condom had ripped. While he’d tried not to hyperventilate with panic at the idea of being saddled with a kid at that point in his life, not to mention that particular girlfriend as a baby mama, she’d chattered happily about their future together if she was pregnant. He’d sweated bullets until she got her period, and then he’d answered the wake-up call and said his goodbyes, because she wasn’t the one and never would have been the one. That wasn’t the time. He hadn’t been ready.

Not that he was ready now. Of course he wasn’t ready.

No way.

Even if there was that unaccountable excitement surging inside him.

But he couldn’t go off all half-cocked. He probably should see about getting a lawyer and—

That was it! Max. He needed Max.

Snatching up his cell phone, he dialed the number, wishing for the billionth time, that Max Wade, his roommate from Dartmouth undergrad lived closer to Alexandria than NYC. It’d be nice to have this discussion over a Scotch and a steak after work, rather than in a hurried phone call.

Anyway, Max would help him out. He had the cold-blooded shrewdness of a great white shark and the sentimentality that polar bears feel for sea lions. Max would talk some sense into him or die trying.

“Maxwell Wade, attorney-at-law,” said Max in his ear after the third ring. “Speak to me. My time is money and you’re already up to eighty-five dollars for this phone call.”

Typical. “You’re full of shit, Wade, you know that? I’m wondering, does it squish in your shoes when you walk?”

Max laughed. “The answer to that question will cost you another eighty-five. It’s up to you.”

Emotion tightened down Thomas’s throat, making it hard for him to get the words out. Plus, saying it would make it real, and God knew, he wasn’t ready for that. On the other hand, if he was a father, he’d need to step up to the plate.

“I’ve got a situation,” he said.

The smile left Max’s voice. “Sounds serious.”

“I … think I have an eight-year-old son.”

“Oh, shit, man.”

“That about sums it up, yeah.”

Max whooshed out a breath. “How do you know?”

“The boy’s mother told me—”

“Hold up. You can’t take somebody’s word for that, Tommy. You know that.”

“I know.”

“Have you had a DNA test yet?”

“Not yet. But I’m going to.”

“Yeah, well, in the meantime, you keep your mouth shut, you hear? You don’t sign anything, you don’t admit to anything and you don’t—”

For reasons that eluded him at the moment, Thomas found himself getting irritated. “Look, man, I’m not trying to weasel out of my responsibilities here.”

“Your alleged responsibilities. Got it? Alleged. And until that test comes back saying you’re the one, all you have is some woman’s word for it. And you better believe she knows how much money you have, and she wants to get paid. So, you just cool it for now.”

“I’ve seen the boy, man. He looks just like me.”

It sounded like Max was choking with outrage. “I didn’t raise you to be that stupid, man. Please tell me you didn’t meet the kid, and now you think he’s all cute, like a puppy and shit—”

“Of course not. But his picture looks just like me at that age.”

“One word, man. Photoshop.”

These were all good points, and this was exactly the kind of advice he’d hoped to hear when he dialed Max’s number. So why did the brother’s doubts about Lia and her motives make him want to reach through the phone and jam his fist down Max’s throat?

“She’s not a gold digger,” he said flatly. “I know.”

“Oh, you know.” Max snorted with derisive laughter. “How do you know?”

“Because I can feel it.” The words came out strong and sure, even though Thomas knew how crazy all this was. He could feel it. Oh, really? Please. But he could feel it, even if he couldn’t explain it. If there was one thing he knew about Lia Taylor with utter certainty, it was that. “And the boy’s in renal failure.”

“Oh, no.” Max gasped with shock, and Thomas could see him shaking his head and then resting his forehead on his hands. He appreciated the sympathy. “God help you.”

“Yeah,” Thomas agreed grimly. “God help all three of us.”

“Ready for bed?” Lia asked.

She hovered in Jalen’s doorway, trying to get a bead on his mood at the moment. He was generally resigned to going to bed at nine o’clock, but every now and then he pitched a fit and wanted extra time for whatever computerizing he was doing on her MacBook. The kid had inherited a double dose of her technology skills and loved anything with a memory card in it, which had its ups and downs. His grades were great, and she was always safe in getting him the latest gadget for Christmas, but the downside was she lived in fear of an irate call from the CIA claiming that he’d hacked into their spy satellite system or some such.

Tonight, though, the computer was open but untouched, and that worried her.

Bustling inside, she worked on keeping her voice upbeat. “Jammies? Check. Showered?” She sniffed under his arm for deodorant. “Check. You just need to brush your teeth, and you’ll be good to go.”

Jalen was a devoted Trekkie. Today’s pajama selection was a black knit set with white writing that proclaimed him a Future Starship Captain, and he was collapsed against his USS Enterprise pillows. Unfortunately, he looked worse than he had a mere hour ago at dinner, and seemed drawn and exhausted, barely able to keep his lids from drooping.

Lia’s heart sank because they’d lost ground again today, and Jalen’s weakening body was that much closer to killing him.

They were always losing ground, never gaining it, which was why she’d been driven to desperate acts, like hacking into sperm-donor databases. There were times, like now, when she wondered if he’d fade or wither away right before her eyes. In the old days, before he got sick, he’d relished this computer time. His fingers would fly over the keyboard, tapping out God knew what at a rate of about ninety words per minute. Not lately, though. Not for a while. She’d started dreading tomorrows, because each one took a little bit more out of her boy, and she didn’t know how many he’d have left if he didn’t get a new kidney soon.

Still, his personality was alive and well inside that failing body. His brows scrunched so low over his forehead that it was a wonder she could see his scowling eyes.

Eyes that were, she now knew, exactly like his father’s.

“It’s pajamas, Mom,” he informed her. “Not Jammies.”

“Pardon me.” She nudged aside a couple of LEGO spaceships that he’d assembled, disassembled and reassembled approximately 1.5 million times and sat on the edge of his bed. “Why have you not engaged in your nightly computer gaming, young sir?”

He grunted. “Like it matters.”

She rolled her eyes and bit back a sharp reply, hanging on to her crucial serenity by a slender thread. Whoever said that eight-year-olds were too young for hormone surges was a damn liar. On the other hand, if ever a kid had a reason to be occasionally sullen, this one did. Renal failure and dialysis did that to a person.

She gave him a critical once-over. He was thinner. Always thinner. When he wasn’t retaining water, that was. He hadn’t eaten much of the homemade chicken nuggets she’d served him at dinner. But his blood pressure had been fine earlier, so that was one good thing.

Which left only ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine other items to keep her from getting any sleep.

“Were you editing today’s video?” Under the guise of snuggling, she wrapped an arm around his shoulder and leaned in close to press a lingering kiss to his temple. Oh, thank goodness. He didn’t feel warm at all. She was always worried about an infection developing around his access.

“Mom!” Squirming away, Jalen nailed her with a weak glower. “I don’t have a fever, okay? Jeez.”

“Oops,” she said, stung that the little stinker could read her so easily. “Well, sorrr-yyy. I need to check. It’s my job.”

Apparently exhausted by the effort it took to wage a protest, he slumped back against the pillows. “And I don’t have any swelling or redness around my access, either. Okay? So I don’t need an inspection. Thank you!”

He huffed, exchanging a can-you-believe-that look of deepest disgust with Bones, his ten-pound floppy-eared bunny, who occupied his usual place of honor in the basket on the nightstand. Bones twitched his nose in seeming sympathy with Jalen’s plight, scratched at his black collar with a powerful hind leg and then went back to systematically shredding his fleece blanket with his massive front teeth.

Okay, Lia, she told herself. Try not to be such a helicopter parent. Don’t let your rotors show.

Letting Jalen go, she stretched out beside him and focused on the video he hadn’t had the energy to edit. In today’s episode of The Bunny Chronicles, downloaded fresh from the pet-cam Bones habitually wore around his neck, the rabbit hopped around the house and explored the space behind the living-room sofa, nibbled the fringe on the Navajo rug in Lia’s bedroom and shredded and ate a small piece of paper that had fallen to the side of Lia’s desk.

“Is that the Walmart receipt for the sheets I bought last week?” she wondered, squinting at the screen for a closer look. “I’ve been looking for that.”

“Bones strikes again,” Jalen murmured.

“How come he never eats any of your stuff?”

“Training, Mom.” His voice was growing fainter; she’d lose him to sleep soon. “It’s all about the training.”