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After fifteen of the longest minutes of my life, we finally pull up at the hospital. Before Sarah heads to the parking garage, she drops me at the front entrance.
“Thanks,” I say and dash inside. At the front desk, I blurt out, “I’m Lizzie’s mom. That’s Lizzie Summers. I mean, Elizabeth Summers. Which room is she in?”
This all comes out in one long jumble of words with no spaces between them. From the reflection in a nearby glass wall, I can see enough of myself to realize that I look like I crawled through a sewer to get here. I also forgot how this tank top sticks to my skin. I cross my arms to try and cover up a bit.
“I was just on set,” I try to explain. “That’s what all this is. Now where’s my daughter?”
“I’m going to need to see some form of ID,” the nurse says. Even as I reach for my wallet, I know I’m not going to find anything. It’s back in the dressing room.
“Look,” I say. “I don’t have it on me, but I need to—”
“Augusta?” Joan calls out from my right. She’s looking at me like I’ve just come back from the dead, which is an apt way to describe my current appearance. She doesn’t shy away from me though; she steps right into my space and takes my hand in both of hers. “I’m so sorry. I swear, everything was fine. It was just one second that I took my eyes off of her and—”
I don’t know what I feel towards Joan right now, because my judgment is all clouded by adrenaline and the motherly need to get to my child as soon as possible. I’m sure that I’ll be completely understanding with Joan later—after all, this sort of stuff happens with kids—but now is not that time. “Which room is she in?”
“336. Listen, Augusta. She’s fine. Cory’s in there with her.”
All three elevators are descending from the upper floors as though they have a personal vendetta against gravity. Not able to wait, I take to the stairwell, dashing up the stairs in Sarah’s Gucci sandals that threaten to slide right off my feet
with each step. Bursting through the door onto the third floor, I startle a nurse enough that she actually lets loose a little shriek. A glance at the room numbers to my left and then to my right is enough to let me know which direction I need to head in.
Ten seconds later, I’m leaning against the doorway, panting and licking at my dry lips.
I hear Lizzie before I see her. And what I hear aren’t the pitiful cries that tormented my imagination on the drive from the studio. Nor are they the pathetic whimpers I might expect if a nurse were sliding a needle into her vein. There’s no shouting or screaming.
There’s laughter.
When I step into the room, Cory’s sitting on the foot of Lizzie’s bed. She’s not wearing a hospital gown, nor is she hooked up to any machines or tubes. The only difference between the girl I saw this morning and the girl looking up at me with concerned eyes is the cast on her left hand. Even calling it a cast is generous. It’s more like an Ace bandage wrapped around her wrist and up to the tip of her index finger.
“Mom? What happened?”
“What are you doing here already?” Cory asks.
I’m down on my knees next to Lizzie. I take her good hand in mine, but she pulls back, a crooked smile on her face.
“Why are you so nasty?”
“It’s just acting stuff,” I say. “Are you okay? What happened?”
“I begged Joan to take me to the gift shop, and when we walked in, I somehow managed to close the door on my hand. But it’s all fine now. Dad even said we can have anything I want for dinner. Right?”
She looks to Cory for confirmation.
“That’s right. Whatever you want.”
I mouth the word ‘dad’ at him. He smiles.
“Since today was a pretty big one for everyone, what’s it going to be? Caviar? Salmon? Truffle salad?”
Lizzie’s nose wrinkles at all these options. “Yuck, no!” She places her good index finger on her pursed lips. It’s a classic Lizzie pose for when she’s thinking hard about a decision. Usually one involving food, like now. “How about pineapple pizza?”
“She certainly takes after you,” Cory says. He hops off the foot of the bed and holds out a hand for Lizzie as though she were a princess. “Would M’lady like ice cream before or after her pizza?”
Her eyes go huge. “We can have it before?” She looks over to me for confirmation.
“Sure,” I say. Then they take off, chasing each other down the hall. I want to call out for her to be careful, remind her that she just broke a finger, but seeing her share so much joy with Cory stops me.
He was there for her when I couldn’t be. I can certainly get used to having a second parent on board this family ship, because it certainly seems like Cory has finally handed in his ticket and joined the cruise.
