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"No! I hate you! You want to hurt me! My Mommy would never hurt me! I want my Mommy!"
Desmond's hands were steady as he pierced the bottle's rubber seal and filled the needle with fluid. He cleared the air out of the needle, spurting drops of medicine across the counter, and turned back to Gillian. Feeling illogically guilty for Gillian's suffering herself, Rebecca was amazed that he could remain so impassive. And then she saw his eyes.
He'd heard every word his daughter said. Every accusation, every complaint. His face could have been carved from marble, it was so still, but his eyes shone brightly with unshed tears.
He took Gillian's arm and buried the tip of the needle in it. She shrieked, and started to cry. He held her arm steady, depressing the plunger with constant pressure. When the needle was empty, he pulled it free and tossed it into a red plastic canister on the counter, where it crunched against other needles.
Lifting his daughter from Rebecca's arms, he cuddled her close, crooning soft, soothing endearments into her hair while her sobbing subsided. She sniffed and hiccuped, then looked up at him, tears staining her face.
"Hurt, Daddy."
He closed his eyes and whispered, "I know. I know."
Not wanting to intrude on them any further, Rebecca tiptoed quietly out of the kitchen and back into the living room.
The big white couch looked inviting, and she sat down with a sigh. She hadn't expected that. Sure, Desmond had said Gillian was sick, but aside from being too thin, she looked like such a happy, healthy little kid. All that medicine. She must need shots once or twice a day, at least.
Then she remembered Gillian's mention of "Daddy medicine." Gillian must have inherited at least part of her condition from Desmond. Were some of those bottles for him? Was he so skillful at injecting medicine because he had to administer it to himself?
She hadn't realized the importance of Dr. Chen's words this afternoon, but their meaning was all too clear now. He'd only been working on his current project for three years— since Gillian was born. Before that, he'd been working on a similar, but different, project. Many of the other researchers had also switched focus at that time.
Desmond had taken them off finding solutions for his illness, and set them to solving his daughter's.
Rebecca stared at the wall. She'd spent her whole adult life believing that people always put themselves first. But Desmond was risking everything for his daughter.
Pain sliced through Rebecca's chest, and she struggled to breathe. Since she'd learned of her mother's betrayal, she hadn't trusted anyone. She hadn't believed she could. Now here was proof positive that Desmond Lacroix was a man who would put his own life on the line for someone he loved.
She hadn't realized how much she needed to believe people like that still existed. More importantly, she discovered that she wanted to be a person like that. She didn't want to be like her mother, destroying someone else's chance for happiness because of petty selfishness.
Desmond came out of the kitchen, his daughter asleep against his shoulder, and walked over to the couch.
"She cried herself to sleep," he said softly. "She doesn'
t have the stamina for a prolonged fight."
Rebecca looked into his eyes, waiting until he realized she had an important pronouncement to make.
"I'll help you. However long it takes."
It was the first time she'd ever seen a smile spread all the way to his eyes. "Thank you," he said, and put his free hand on her shoulder.
Golden warmth ran through her, spreading out in waves from his touch. She tilted her head to look at him. His eyes shone a deep green, warm and welcoming. Did he feel the sparks between them, too? If he wasn't holding his daughter, would he kiss her?
He opened his mouth to say something more, and the kitchen timer pinged. He smiled again, the wry smile more familiar to her.
"Dinner's ready."
She followed him back into the kitchen. No signs remained of the recent struggle. He woke Gillian up and strapped her into a booster seat, then pulled out a chair for Rebecca.
Gillian tugged lethargically at her napkin, pulling it out from under her rubberized silverware to cover her plate. Ignoring his daughter's silent protest, Desmond removed a casserole dish from the oven. He set it on the table and lifted the cover, releasing a cloud of steam that was fragrant with the scent of beef and onions. Rebecca's stomach growled.
"That smells terrific. I thought you said you didn't cook."
"I don't," he answered, dishing out servings for the two adults. "But Mrs. Waters is a wonderful cook."
Rebecca nodded, lifting a forkful of the ground beef, onion and rice mixture to her mouth. The meat was a little rarer than she liked, but still delicious.
Gillian watched them eat for a minute before sweeping her napkin off of her plate, and demanding to be served. Desmond put a small helping on her plate and she attacked it with her blunt-ended fork, using her left hand, the arm that hadn't gotten the shot.
