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My neck pricked with sweat, and my stomach turned into a pit of rattlesnakes at the thought of what awaited me behind those doors.
The administrator of the hospital, who’d accompanied me all morning, eyed me with concern, obviously noting my discomfort for the first time since arriving a couple hours earlier. Gone was the cocky Hollywood star with swagger. In his place stood a scared dude who was still a kid himself.
A visit with the children in the ER for a broken finger or a couple of stitches was no problem. I took photo ops, shook hands, signed casts, told them jokes, and answered their questions. Brightening their day only required my presence. But cancer was an entirely different beast, and as I prepared to make my appearance, all my self-doubt came crashing in.
How could my presence—a dude who faked it for a living in front of a camera—possibly pull them from the pit of despair in the hands of such a horrible disease? How could I bring their parents peace? Chase their problems away, if only for an hour?
It seemed an impossible task.
“Mr. Roberts?” The administrator—Connie, as she told me to call her—placed a hand on my arm and shifted so she caught my gaze. “Are you ready? Remember, we’re just going in and taking you straight to the reception room in the back of the ward. You’ll spend the afternoon there. We’ve got it all set up for story time with the kids and their parents. It’ll be much more organized this way. You can take pictures, answer questions, and serve the beautiful desserts you brought. Afterward, if you’d like, once they’re settled back in, you can pop into their rooms to say goodbye.”
I grimaced. Those beautiful desserts were the culmination of five grocery store chains and dry as cardboard with zero imagination. I know because I’d tried one this morning when Caroline, my assistant, brought them to me with an apology about how Batter and Bake—the award-winning local bakery known for its extraordinary cakes—couldn’t fit me in for a custom order.
Couldn’t fitMEin? I could hardly believe it, mostly because I was used to people bending over backward for me. Regardless, my nervousness morphed into aggravation directed toward the bakery shop for forcing me to bringthesechildren less than the best. The staff would probably be abuzz with how cheap Thorne Roberts was. So cheap he couldn’t even spring for bakery quality desserts.
Connie stared at me, and I realized I had yet to respond, so I rubbed my hands together and pushed the thought aside. “Sure, let’s do this,” I said, sounding far more confident than I felt.
But the moment she pushed through the double doors, the scent of antiseptic, stale coffee, and illness surrounded me. The rattlesnakes spurred to life again, and I swallowed in an effort to keep my breakfast down while I trailed behind Connie, glimpsing a couple of children as we walked. Several of them were getting out of bed, likely readying to meet me.
The thought alone made my palms sweat.
Finally, we stopped at the end of the hall, where Connie waved me into a large room. My heart beat a little faster as I stepped inside, taking in my surroundings.
A plush armchair sat at one end, a storybook resting on the arm. In front of it, a cluster of plastic chairs were arranged, which I assumed were for the children.
I frowned, my gaze lingering on the hard chairs. It was bad enough that these kids were sick, but they had to sit in a hard plastic chair while I got to recline back in an upholstered armchair they brought in from somewhere else, expressly for this occasion. Like I was King Tut or something.
The thought tightened the knot in my chest until I thought it might choke me.
“Go ahead and take your seat.” Connie motioned toward the armchair at the same time a quick rap on the door interrupted us. “Ah, they’re here. Wonderful,” she said.
Almost immediately, childish laughter and excited chatter filled the room. I turned toward the sound to see a cluster of children pile inside. More than a dozen tiny faces in varying stages of disease filled the small space, settling into the hard plastic per the nurse’s instructions, with adults who I assumed were parents flanking their chairs.
I tried not to allow my gaze to linger on any one individual for fear they’d think I was staring. Because the fact that these kids were sick was clearly evident. Some wore their baldness proudly, while others covered their heads with scarves or hats. A rare few wore wigs. Many had a hollowness to their eyes, exaggerated by the dark crescent moons beneath them. About half of them had cherub-like faces with round, chubby cheeks, evidence of chemo, while a few others were gaunt and pale, as if death itself hovered over them like the Grim Reaper.
But the most heartbreaking thing? All of them, even the sickest among them, brightened when they saw me. Their eyes sparkled and smiles spread so wide I worried it might split their fragile faces in two. And all I could think was, I’m not worth this kind of joy.
They continued to settle into their seats while the air thickened with quiet anticipation. My heart pounded just a little faster, and before I even had a chance to introduce myself or gain my bearings, Connie headed toward me, a look of apology etched in the lines of her face as she whispered, “There’s media outside, hoping they can come in for some pictures. Would you mind?”
I winced, looking out at the sea of innocence and hating myself for my less than altruistic intentions. This was what we’d wanted, wasn’t it, Trainer and I? Caroline tipped the media off yesterday. Even if the paparazzi hadn’t followed me, the city’s news station would still have come to cover the story.
Which is why I suddenly wanted to say no. Don’t let them in. Reputation be damned, because I didn’t want to be that guy—the one that used these poor kids to my advantage.
But Connie must’ve sensed my hesitation because she clasped her hands together, her eyes pleading with me to say yes. “The children’s parents already signed waivers. I know it’s probably such an invasion having them turn up everywhere you are, but it would be great PR for the hospital.”
She thought I wanted to avoid the media, which made me feel like an even bigger prick. Little did she know . . .
But if it helped the hospital, that was a good thing, right? And besides, Trainer would skin my ass if he knew I sent them away.
So I plastered on my Hollywood smile—the one I’m known for, the one that makes all the ladies swoon—and said, “Sure thing.”
Her eyes brightened and she turned, heading for the door where she disappeared.
I drew in a deep breath, giving myself the mental pep talk I needed to kick my nerves in the ass and make this as fun as I could for the kids. They deserved that much, at least.
You got this, Roberts.
“Okay,” I said, clapping my hands. “Now, who wants to be Prince or Princess for the day, huh? Because I have this fancy leather chair here,” I slapped the top of it, “and whoever sits in it is royalty. But . . . there’s only one problem.” I frowned and pulled a long face. The kids leaned forward, hanging on my every word. “Whoever I choose has to help me at storytime and pass out the treats. It’s a hard job. I suppose I don’t have anyone who’d want to be my helper, do I?”
