Demanded by Him (Wanted Series #3) (3 page)

It was the second time I’d ever felt that way and the second
time this had happened.

The first time she was only little and we were in New York City
for the weekend. The day before she went low, I decided to steal a few hours
for myself and left her with my sister while I went to play a gig with the band.
At that point, Johnny still had me convinced I could do it all. But my heart
wasn’t in it anymore, and I knew it was over.

I had no intention of abandoning music, of course, not when
music had always been there for me. But I wasn’t interested in investing in
other people the way performers have to in order to be successful. I wanted to
save my attention for Sophie. Besides, her voice was more than enough music for
me, and I wasn’t going to forgo time with her just to get my ego stroked.

She was my top priority.

I sighed.

It felt good to breathe. I knew I needed to remember to do that.
But with every deep breath that soothed me, I thought of the breath Sophie was
probably struggling for.

The first time it happened, I should’ve known something was
wrong. Looking back, I feel like I let her down, but she hadn’t been with me
long enough for me to know all her little noises by heart yet. I thought she
was just frustrated with the blocks she was playing with as she tried to shove
them in the bucket with the holes that matched their shapes.

I thought she was a genius that she could do that. She always seemed
brighter than other kids her age. I figured she got that from Hannah, though, cause
I was never a good student. But she got her rhythm from me for sure. She used
to bang on pots and pans and slam the cabinet doors in the kitchen. I was so
proud of my little percussionist. But it was the piano she always favored. From
the second she realized she could push down on more than one key at a time, she
was hooked… though I missed watching her play with one little finger.

And then the rhythm of the beeps in the emergency room played between
my ears.

Oh god oh god oh god. I wish I believed in you. I wish I could
use prayer as a security blanket and wrap the shit out of myself right now. I
looked out the corner of my eye at Addison. “Do you pray?” I asked, trying to
sound nonchalant.

Her lips formed a straight line. “I will if you want me to.”

I shook my head. “That’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean then?”

“I mean do you pray? When shit goes wrong?”

She narrowed her eyes.

“You don’t have to say,” I said. “It’s none of my business what
you-”

“It’s okay.”

I took a deep breath, reminding myself not to hold it in.

“I don’t pray,” she said, shaking her head. “Ever.”

“Cause you don’t believe?”

“I don’t have time for one.”

I smiled. She was crazy. As if having religion or not could be
as simple as seeing if faith fit in your schedule.

“Plus,” she said. “I don’t believe in God.”

I nodded.

“Supernatural father figures kind of freak me out.”

I laughed, my chest loosening, and flicked the turn signal on so
I could get in the right lane. I knew the exit was coming, and I wasn’t about
to miss it just cause I was having an existential crisis. And then Addison’s
calm voice broke the silence.

“That being said-” She reached forward and put my phone in the
cup holder. “What I do believe is that the world is full of grace.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, shit happens,” she said. “But grace happens, too.”

“Well, I’d like to focus on the grace at the minute if you don’t
mind.”

“Of course.”

“And I liked your civilized response to that question,” I said, glancing
at her face. Her eye makeup was slightly smudged and she looked sexy as hell.
And also like she would appreciate some caffeine.

“Thanks,” she said. “It’s something I’ve thought a lot about.”

“You and everybody else.”

She smiled. “Sometimes I think people must wonder about that
more than sex.”

“I don’t.”

She laughed. “I wasn’t accusing you specifically.”

“But you might be right,” I said. “Also, your shirt is on inside
out.”

She looked down and then at her shoulder, fingering the seam
running across it. “Oops,” she said, raising her eyebrows.

“It doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you.”

She slid down in her seat. “Eyes on the road.”

“You afraid I might see something I haven’t seen before?”

“Just give me some privacy, would you?”

“Okay, okay.” I smiled, knowing I shouldn’t be so immature, but
I still felt like I got away with something when I saw a flash of her waist as
she pulled her shirt over her head.

A second later, she sat up and smoothed her shirt and hair down.
“Thanks for telling me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“What about you, then?” she asked.

“What about me?”

“Do you pray?”

“Only when I want something.”

She smiled.

“And for the babies in Africa and the refugees in the Middle
East.”

She furrowed her brow.

“Or that’s who I would pray for if I prayed.”

“Right.”

“But if God is why you took your shirt off just then, I swear
I’ll pray to him every day until I die.”

She rolled her eyes. “You can save your breath. It wasn’t God
that made me do that.”

“What was it then? Your free will?”

“No,” she said. “Fear of humiliation.”

“Why would you be humiliated?”

“Cause it’s bad enough that I look like shit, but I’m a little
worried it might be painfully obvious that we were fooling around in the forest
last night.”

“Don’t forget the boat and the lake.”

She let her head fall back against the headrest.

“And you don’t look like shit.”

She looked out the window.

“Do you drive?” I asked.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “Though I’m better when I’ve had
some coffee.”

“I’m sure they’ll have plenty of coffee at the hospital,” I
said. “Though they probably won’t have whatever triple ground fair trade Mocha
with fat free foam and cherub farts that you usually drink.”

“Actually, I prefer expresso.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Cause you don’t have time to drink a
whole cup?”

“No, cause I like it.”

I shook my head. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be testy. I’m just-”

She reached across the seat and put her hand on my shoulder.
“It’s okay.”

I exhaled. “Thanks.”

“And sometimes I do get the Grande, Quad, Nonfat, One-Pump,
No-Whip, Mocha. Unless it’s really hot, and then I like to get a Venti Iced
Skinny Hazelnut Macchiato.”

“Sorry, what was I saying?”

“You asked if I could drive?”

“Oh right,” I said. “I was thinking of asking you to park the
car so I can just run in.”

“Sure. No problem,” she said. “Good idea.”

I nodded.

“There it is up there,” she said, pointing towards a sign up
ahead.

“Yeah.”

“I’m pretty sure the children’s wing is on the left once you
turn in.”

I squinted at her. “How do you know that?”

She shrugged. “One of my brothers had to come here once for a
broken arm.”

I turned into the parking lot and whizzed past the front gates, ignoring
the attendant on duty.

When I turned towards the children’s wing, I spied an empty
parking space near the entrance and pulled in.

“I think this is a handicapped spot,” Addison said, crinkling
her nose.

“Can you hand me the pass in the glove box?”

She popped the compartment open and pulled out the flimsy card.

I grabbed it, grateful she hadn’t made a joke about the box of
condoms wedged in beside it. I was feeling like a shitty enough dad as it was.
“It’s only for emergencies,” I said, feeling guilty like I always did when I
used it. “My dad gave it to me.”

“What if a handicapped person shows up?”

I stuck the pass under the rear view mirror and looked at her
with raised eyebrows. “Are they my daughter?”

I was so relieved I didn’t have to park the car, not just
because I wasn’t caffeinated enough to operate machinery, but because I was
distracted by the memory of the last time I came to this hospital, and it
wasn’t a happy one.

It wasn’t just a broken arm my “brother” at the time had to come
in for. It was for bruises, too, cause he “fell out of his treehouse.” In
reality, though, his dad pushed him down the stairs when he tried to stop him
from wailing on his mom for I can’t remember what. It happened so often.

At the hospital, the performance the couple put on, pretending
to be worried about their baby, made me sick. When we got home, I said if they
didn’t hand me over to child services, I’d tell everyone what really happened.

Stuff like that used to get me out of a lot of homes.

People might have the patience of saints when dealing with their
own children, but foster kids don’t get those extra few times to push people’s
buttons.

Plus, no one ever doubted my threats because I wasn’t very well
behaved. In fact, I suspect most of my carers were relieved when I suggested
they give me back.

Except Mrs. Collin’s. When I tried to act out with her, she used
to stand up to me, send me to my room, and tell me to spend the night thinking
about how I wanted to start over tomorrow. And eventually, after starting over
tomorrow after tomorrow after tomorrow, I was able to get over my past and make
myself over.

But as soon as I started up the path to the hospital, I
remembered standing inside with my foster mom while she and her husband lied to
the doctor’s about how their son broke his arm, and it triggered my gag reflex
all over again.

But they were shitty people. Like so many parents are.

On the other hand, I could barely keep up with Wyatt as he ran inside.
When I followed him around the corner, he was already at the counter with his
hands on the desk.

“My daughter’s been admitted from Tanner Day Camp. Can you tell
me where she is? She should be with a woman named Amber- no Ali- no Ashley.
That’s it, Ashley, yeah.”

The little round faced nurse put her pudgy hands in the air.
“Please calm down, sir.”

“Her name is Sophie Jones. She’s nine.”

I watched the woman rest a clipboard against her muffin top and
lower her head to scan the chart. When she looked up, some of the color had
drained from her face. “Right this way, Mr. Jones.”

Wyatt looked at me and I followed him, my clammy hands in tight fists.

When the round nurse pushed the door open, we were bombarded by beeping
sounds.

Wyatt ran up to the end of a bed. “Sophie!”

There were four people in scrubs around her. Two of them were
holding Sophie’s arms and legs down. Her face was covered by a small clear mask
and her eyes were slightly opened but her pupils looked like loose marbles
rolling around in her sockets.

“You shouldn’t be back here, sir,” the doctor at the head of the
bed said.

“Is she okay?” Wyatt asked. “What’s happening?”

Suddenly, another high pitched beep chimed in louder than the
others, and all the little girl’s limbs started shaking against the bed.

“She’s gone into a diabetic coma,” the head doctor said. “We’re
doing everything we can.”

“Sophie!” Wyatt called, wrapping his hand around her tiny shin.
“Can you hear me, honey? It’s Daddy. I’m here, baby. Hang in there!”

Sophie stopped shaking and her head rolled to the side.

I took a few steps closer.

Wyatt dropped his head, and I saw several tears fall onto the
bed.

“You can’t be here, sir.” One of the doctors shot a look at the
short nurse. “It would be better if you waited in the waiting room for the time
being and let us update you on Sophie’s status.”

“I’m not leaving,” he said, wrapping his free hand around the
metal frame at the edge of the bed.

The chubby nurse looked at me, her eyes pleading.

I stepped up and put my hands on Wyatt’s arm. “Come on, Wyatt. Let’s
give the doctors space so they can help her.”

He clenched his jaw but kept his eyes on her face, which was
dwarfed by the big hospital pillow.

The short nurse urged me on with a nod.

“We’ll have a coffee,” I said. “And they’ll come out to update
us soon.”

Wyatt straightened up, shaking his shoulders back and shrugging my
hands off him. He squeezed the metal frame so hard I thought he was going to
rip it off. Then he wiped his palms on his jeans and lifted his eyes to the
doctor’s faces. “Please,” he said, his voice unsteady. “Please do everything
you can.”

They nodded at him and turned their attention immediately back
to Sophie.

Wyatt looked at her one more time before turning around and
walking away.

The nurse and I followed him out the door and back down the
hall.

When we got back to the waiting room, he sat down and leaned
forward to put his head in his hands.

I turned to the nurse. “Is there somewhere I can get some coffee?”

“There’s a cafeteria on the fourth floor,” she said, reaching in
her pocket. “Here.” She handed me two little stubs of paper. “These will get
you some free coffees.”

I pursed my lips. I was hoping for bigger graces than that.
“Thanks,” I said, taking the coupons from her. “Please let us know as soon as
you have news about Sophie.”

“Certainly,” she said.

I walked over to the empty seat beside Wyatt. Then I sat down
and leaned forward. “How about I go get us some coffees?”

“Excuse me,” a new voice said.

I followed the toned legs in front of me up to the face of a
girl who couldn’t have been more than nineteen.

“Are you Mr. and Mrs. Jones by any chance?”

“Just Mr.,” I said, pointing to Wyatt.

“I’m Ashley, Sophie’s camp counselor.”

Wyatt leaned back to look at her and put his hands on his knees.

She raised her eyebrows. “I just wanted to introduce myself and
say if there’s anything I can-”

“Thanks for coming here with her,” he said.

She nodded. “Of course.”

“Can you tell me exactly what happened?” Wyatt asked, gesturing
for the girl to sit down next to him.

“Sure,” she said, sitting on the edge of the thinly padded
chair. “There’s not much to tell though.”

I put a hand high on Wyatt’s tense back, which felt as solid as
a tree.

Ashley pursed her lips. “She woke me up this morning and she was
swearing and acting crazy.”

I raised my eyebrows.

Ashley’s knees fell together. “And she told me the first day of
camp if she ever acted crazy it was cause of her diabetes and that I should
call for help.”

“So then what?” Wyatt asked.

“So I called my camp supervisor.”

He nodded.

“But by the time the ambulance got there she was passing out.”

“Passing out?” Wyatt asked.

“Like kind of going in and out of lucidity,” Ashley said, moving
her hands like she was fanning herself in slow motion.

“Was she scared?” Wyatt asked.

“No,” Ashely said, shaking her head. “She was brave.”

Wyatt exhaled for so long I thought he might actually deflate
until he was flat on the chair.

“What did she have to eat last night?” he asked.

“I’m going to get some coffee,” I said, rising from my chair.
“So you guys can talk.”

Wyatt looked up at me and reached for my hand.

“Do you want one Ashley?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. “And maybe a muffin or something to eat. I’ll
pay you back.”

“No problem,” I said.

Wyatt squeezed my hand hard enough that I felt the pressure in my
heart.

“Thanks,” he said.

I nodded and squeezed his hand back. “Of course.”