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I walk away from another facet of my past, and into the hospital. So much to process and absolutely no time, none at all.
At least there’s no hurt. Resentment, perhaps. The weight of shared history and certainly distrust. But talking to Cindy hadn’t brought up all those old feelings.
I make it through the sterile hospital hallways and finally arrive at Becky and Patrick’s room, where she’s munching on the ice chips.
Beside her, Patrick looks like he’s been electrocuted.
He glances over at me. “Hi, Eden. Thank you.”
“No problem! Ziggy’s in the car. I’ll take him for a nice long walk later.”
“Thanks,” Becky says with a wide smile. She looks perfectly serene, nodding her head along with the sound of music playing from her phone.
“You okay?” I ask her.
“She opted into trying laughing gas,” Patrick says, “before the epidural kicks in.”
“Yep. It’s amazing,” Becky says and holds up a breathing mask. “Hey, you look a bit peaky. Everything okay?”
“You’re not allowed to care about anyone but you today,” I say and pat her leg over the hospital blanket. “Yourself and the baby girl. And possibly Patrick.”
She gives her husband an amused look. “Yeah, I think I might have to.”
“Let me know if you need anything else. I’m on standby. And don’t worry, I remembered Ziggy’s treats.”
Becky chuckles and puts a hand on her stomach. “Good. This might take a while. My contractions have slowed now.”
I head toward the door. “You got this, though.”
She nods like that’s obvious. “Yeah. Hey!” she says and reaches for the laughing gas. “Postcard watch?”
I grimace. “It arrived today.”
“No freaking way!”
“Yes, but we’ll talk about it in a week or two. It’s really not—”
“Give me the five-minute version,” she says in a voice you don’t argue with.
So I do.
Afterward, I drive home with a clear purpose. To call Phillip. Maybe it’s just to ask about the phone call I heard. Maybe it’s to ask about what he’d written on the postcard.
Maybe just to tell my side of the story.
I arrive home after dark and get Ziggy out. He dances around my legs and gets me tangled in his leash.
There’s a car parked across from my house. It’s not usually there, but I don’t think much about it, digging through my purse for my house keys. I find Becky’s instead and have to keep digging.
“Hey,” a voice says.
Ziggy barks twice, standing by my feet.
I look up. On the sidewalk, in front of my house, is Phillip Meyer. He’s got his hands in the pockets of a pair of dark jeans, and wearing a crisp, blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
“Sorry to show up unannounced,” he says and smiles that crooked smile. “How have you been?”
“You’re here,” I say.
