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But maybe that’s because she’s already backing away, already heading for the door out into the hallway. Not waiting like I am, waiting as they wheel Rox through another set of doors that will lead to the operating room, waiting until our daughter is fully out of sight.
I swallow against the rise of emotion then turn and go out into the hall, starting for the waiting room they showed us earlier.
But a noise has me stopping in my tracks.
Rotating to the right.
And finding Brit tucked back into an alcove, curled into a ball, face pressed to her knees, shoulders shaking with tears.
“Sweetheart,” I whisper.
She stiffens, quiets.
Then turns her face away from me as she scrubs her hands over it.
She straightens, glances my way—though she does it without her eyes meeting mine—and then she starts walking down the hall, walking away from me.
I should let her go.
But…
Our baby is in the operating room.
So, I catch her arm as she tries to brush by me.
“I’m fine,” she says, trying to pull out of my grasp.
I ignore her, draw her back against my chest, folding her in my arms.
Holding her close until she does what she needs to?—
Lets it all come out.
Twenty
Brit
“Can I have the Jell-O now, Mom?”
I blink, shake off the sleep, and smile at my baby girl.
We’ve progressed from juice (clear liquids) to solids (the strawberry-flavored Jell-O my munchkin is currently eyeing up). “Of course, peanut,” I say, peeling open the foil lid, snagging a spoon, and passing both over. “Slowly,” I warn when she goes full Gollum my precious and downs half of it in just a couple of mouthfuls.
She slows down.
Marginally.
But that’s my Roxie—always going at full speed.
Even apparently when it comes to surgery recovery.
We’ll be out of here in a few hours—as long as this Jell-O stays down and nothing concerning happens over the next little while.
Which is a good thing.
Because I need to sleep for a hundred years.
Unfortunately, I have a game tonight.
