Lily Love (2 page)

“She’s getting used to how her voice sounds, Mrs. Williams. It could be ‘baba,’ ‘yaya,’ ‘dada.’ Those are sounds most babies make when they’re discovering language,” she condescended to me.

What the speech therapist didn’t understand was what the word meant to me. It resonated with me on a level no one else could ever grasp. It meant that Lily recognized me, and it was a connection I needed just as I needed air to breathe.

Now the most beautiful word in the world sounds like nails on a chalkboard. I feel like the biggest hypocrite for even thinking that.

“Is English her first language?” the PA asks.

If she’d bothered reading Lily’s chart, she’d know that Lily has profound speech delays. Her use of language is different from ours; her words sound foreign. Different. Everything about Lily is different; that’s why we’re here.

“Mama,” Lily slurs when she sees me. Without hesitation, I climb into the hospital bed and wrap her in my arms.

“Shh, Lily Pad. Mommy’s here,” I whisper against her beautiful strawberry-blond hair.

“Mama, Mama, Mama . . .” she murmurs rhythmically into my chest.

“She’ll be out of it for a little while longer, Mrs. Williams,” the nurse explains.

I know the drill; this isn’t the first time Lily’s had to be put under general to have an MRI. It’s the only way she can be still enough for them to get an accurate reading.

My phone chirps from my purse as I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of Lily’s hair. Only one person would be texting me right now, and it makes my heart hurt.

He’s just checking on Lily; he doesn’t want you anymore.

No, Peter doesn’t want me anymore.

Despite my battle scars, the skin of my emotions is thin. The familiar pain of rejection tears open my heart once again. It hasn’t gotten
any easier. The hurt is as pervasive as Lily’s problems—never ending or offering clear answers. Some things are never meant to make sense.

“Carolina on My Mind.” Max, the MRI technician, interrupts my downward spiral. He fills the doorway and smiles at me. Max is beautiful, at well over six feet tall; his gorgeous clear-green eyes are set against skin the color of coffee with cream. I blush when I catch myself sizing him up.

“Hey, Max,” I whisper. “Still speaking in musical metaphors, I see.” I give him a weak smile. His easy manner and the quirky way he speaks in song lyrics only add to his appeal.

“How’s our girl?” he asks, brushing a hand across the top of Lily’s head.

“She fell back asleep.” I watch with interest as he checks her chart notes.

Given the amount of time we spend at the hospital, we’ve seen quite a bit of Max. It shouldn’t surprise me that he cares about Lily—she is so easy to love—but it does.

My phone chirps again.

“Do you need to get that?” Max nods toward my purse, never taking his eyes from Lily’s chart.

“It’s okay.” I swallow hard and try to sound carefree. “I can call him when we’re settled into a room.”

“Caroline, take a break.” He lifts his eyes to mine. “Call Peter back; grab a cup of coffee. I will stay with Lily Love.”

“Thank you, Max.” I smooth the hair from Lily’s face and gently climb down from the bed. “Please page me if she wakes up.”

“Of course, Caroline.” Max settles into the chair next to Lily’s bed. “I won’t let anything happen.” I know he won’t.

The first time I met Max, Lily was barely two years old. We had been ambulanced to the pediatric ER after Lily suffered a febrile seizure. I was a neurotic mess. Peter had been away on business and my sister, Paige, was on her way. I was staring at a pile of paperwork left behind by the admissions clerk when Max rescued me.

“I’m Max Swain from the MRI clinic. I can’t take Lily for her scan until they have an IV for anesthesia,” he said. “If you give me your insurance card, I can fill out the paperwork for you, and you can sign it when she goes in for her MRI.”

“Thank you,” I choked out.

“It’ll be all right, Mrs. Williams.” He placed his hand on my shoulder and gave me a warm smile.

“Caroline, please.” I sniffled.

When Lily’s IV was finally in place, Max had escorted us to Radiology, chatting with Lily the entire time. It didn’t matter to him that she didn’t answer; he just kept after her.

“I bet you like
Sesame Street
,” he said. “No? How about
Max and Ruby
?
Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood
?”

Even though she couldn’t answer him, she fixed her hazel eyes on him and smiled. They clicked, and from that point Max became the bright spot on our trips to the hospital.

I look down at my phone now, at the text message on the screen, and feel sad.

Peter: Hey, checking on Lily. How’d it go?

There’s this image I used to have of family coming together in moments of need, holding on to one another, being strong and resilient for each other. No one tells you how divisive crisis really is. How you’re forced to take on roles that you never intended, thus becoming someone you never wanted to be. I never wanted to be the mother of a child with special needs. I never wanted to be a failure as a wife.

I am both.

My daughter has an unspecified developmental disability, and I’m alone. It’s not Lily’s fault and it’s not even Peter’s fault. It just is. That’s the horror of it all. I’ve had to sit by and watch my life crumble around me, knowing that there is no blame, no reason, just a tragic set of circumstances that no one has any control over.

Peter: Getting on the road in 15. Can I bring you dinner?

Me: Grabbing coffee, then heading back to MRI. Lily’s still in recovery.

If it weren’t so sad, I would laugh at how cordial we’ve become. I still feel an echo of the love we shared, but pain has long since taken its place. All that’s left is a bittersweet memory of the joy we had before Lily.

I met Peter in the fall of my senior year of college. I was standing in the keg line at the Sig Ep house, hoping to drown my chronic indifference with cheap beer. I was in a rut, feeling stuck in a relationship that had run its course—or at least that’s what I was thinking when I found myself at the front of the line. A boyishly handsome frat boy manned the keg and made my heart stutter in my chest.

“Hi,” he yelled over the party noise. “I’m Peter.” He held out his hand and, when I gave him my cup, laughed at me. Resting my cup on top of the keg, he reached his hand out to me again.

“Hi, Peter.” I blushed as I shook his hand. He stared at me expectantly, refusing to release his grip.

“And you are?”

It made me nervous, how he commanded eye contact while he stroked my skin with his thumb. He was bold, unlike most of the boys I’d met so far.

“Taken.” I forced a smile and tried to ignore the stab of disappointment I felt.

If you’d just broken up with Trent, you’d be having lukewarm beer with this hottie, Ms. Noncommittal Caroline.

Screw Trent. I cocked my head and flirted anyway. “It was nice to meet you, Peter. Can I please have a beer now?”

“Ouch.” Peter laughed and let go of my hand to grip his chest dramatically. “You slay me, beautiful nameless girl.” His smile spread
warmth up my neck, staining my cheeks. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll refill your beer if you tell me your name.”

“Blackmail? Certainly a good-looking guy like you doesn’t need to resort to such things to get a date,” I teased, not feeling the slightest bit guilty.

“You think I’m good-looking?” Peter’s playfulness was adorable, and it was impossible to resist his charm.

“You know you’re good-looking,” I countered.

“I know you’re beautiful.”

I laughed. “
Wow.
You just have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

“Not everything. I still don’t know your name.” He handed back my full cup with reluctance.

“Caroline,” I finally answered.

“Caroline.” He smiled wistfully as he tried it out.

I wasn’t one of those girls who giggled and swooned at the sight of a cute boy. Yet here I was, struck dumb by the sound of my name moving across the very delectable mouth of an equally delectable frat boy. I needed to get out of there before I started batting my eyelashes or something else just as horrific.

“Thanks for the brew, Frat Peter.” I chuckled when he crinkled his nose at the name.

“Caroline,” he called as I turned to leave. Glancing over my shoulder, I found him still smiling at me. “I won’t need to blackmail you to get you to go to dinner with me.”

“Tell that to my date.” I giggled and blew him a kiss as I kept walking. I wasn’t ready to give Peter an easy in. Even back then, something in me knew how effortless it would be to get lost in him.

A few weeks later, the boyfriend was a thing of the past. While I stood in the campus breezeway, waiting at the coffee cart, I ran into Peter again. He was right; he didn’t need to blackmail me into that date. I fell hard and fast, never taking a backward glance. I was young, in love, and completely idealistic. I finally had a plan, and it was all about me, Peter, and the life we would build together.

building a mystery

T
he hospital cafeteria is relatively quiet this afternoon and I’m grateful to find my favorite booth vacant. It’s in the corner, sheltered from the fluorescent glare from above. I shift across the seat and place my back against the wall. I pull my knees to my chest and rest my cheek against my knee. Just a few minutes of peace, that’s all I want. But my mind won’t allow it; even in the silence, it churns and spits mercilessly.

“Ma’am?” I jump, startled by the man standing at the end of my table. I must look as strung out as I feel, because his face reflects pity.

Screw your pity, buddy.

“You left your coffee.” He raises the latte I just paid for and left at the counter. “Is it okay if I sit?” he asks, but he’s already moving to sit across from me. He folds his tall, lanky frame into the booth with care not to bang his knees under the table. I take in this strange man warily. His hair is dark brown with a slight curl to it; it’s cropped close to his head, but not short enough to hide the gentle bend of the strands. He runs his hand through it and exhales heavily. I reach for my latte and curse under my breath at the lingering weakness in my hand. I rest it against the table and reach with my steady hand. The stranger pretends he doesn’t notice; at least I don’t have to suffer more of his pity.

“I won’t ask you if you’re okay.” He chuckles nervously. When he sees that I’m not sharing his humor, he clears his throat. “Sorry, I just . . . I don’t know. Can I just sit here and not talk to you for a minute?”

“Why?” I don’t know why I care, or why I’m even bothering to engage this man. I should get up and make my way back to the MRI clinic. His inquisitive brown eyes lock with mine. Something in the way he stares, unapologetically assessing me, reminds me of Peter. Pain blooms anew.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Does it matter?”

“No.” I sigh. “I guess not. I’m just not accustomed to chatting up strange men in the hospital cafeteria.”

“Is there someplace else you’re more comfortable chatting up strange men?” He laughs, and despite myself, I laugh too.

“Are you here a lot?” he asks cautiously.

“More than I want to be. My daughter is a patient right now.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and I cringe at the tears welling behind my eyelids.

“Don’t be.” I shrug and look into my coffee.

“Can’t help it,” he throws back. “Can I ask what’s wrong with her?”

“You can ask, but I don’t really have an answer.” I look up from my coffee and find him watching me intently, waiting for me to explain. “My daughter has a developmental disability and a seizure disorder. Neither of which is specified, so we are here for tests. More tests. Endless tests . . .”

“They don’t know what’s wrong?” he asks, sounding surprised.

“Nobody knows; she was born healthy but started to miss a few milestones in her first year. By her second birthday, she was at the developmental level of a nine-month-old and started having seizures. After that, she started to regress. She’s five now. Developmentally she’s a toddler. She doesn’t fit into any one diagnosis. She’s all over the place and no one knows how to help her.” I stammer over the last few words, embarrassed by my candor.

He shakes his head. “That must be incredibly hard.” He dips his pinky finger into his coffee, swirling it while he speaks.

“It is what it is.” I dip my head and watch him with curiosity as he lifts his finger to lick the froth from his fingertip.

Odd.

As if he can hear my thought, he glances up. Blotches of color stain his cheeks.

“Sorry, I’m really not a Neanderthal.” He chuckles. “I nearly burned every taste bud off my tongue earlier. Just testing the temperature. Y-you know,” he stammers.

I feel my eyebrow raise involuntarily. “So you’re willing to burn your finger and not your tongue? What did your finger do to you?” He smiles, transforming his face. I smile in return.

“I don’t have to taste anything with this.” He waves his pinky at me.

“I guess not.” A wave of self-consciousness envelops me as silence stretches between us. I clear my throat and sip from my own cup.