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“With a patient?” he asks.
“Not exactly.” I pause. My ankle is still throbbing and everything that happened this morning is starting to catch up with me. “I’d rather talk at your place.”
When we return to his house, I fill him in on everything—the fake patient, how she said Mom might still be alive and in the Bay Area, and the bracelet.
“Whoa,” he says, taking it all in. “Do you know who the woman was?”
“She didn’t give me her real name,” I say. “She said it was too dangerous for me to know because the same people after my mom would go after her if they knew she came to see me. I tried to chase her, but she was too fast. I have to find her, Eddie.”
“Are there cameras in your office building, like in the lobby?” he asks.
“I never noticed before,” I admit.
“Because if we can get an image of her, we could try using a facial recognition app to find out who she is,” he says.
Eddie knows about all things tech. He’s a software engineer who creates, designs, and develops computer software that companies use to run their organizations, like operating systems, business applications, and network control systems. He’s fortunate in that his job allows him to work from home, which has been a godsend since he became a single dad.
“Even if there are cameras, she was wearing a baseball cap that covered her face,” I say.
“You never know,” he says. “There might be an angle where her face is exposed. Let’s find out. I’ll drive.” He picks up his car keys.
“Don’t you have to work?” I ask.
“I’ll make it up later,” he says.
“Thank you.”
I’m grateful for his kindness. He knows how much losing my mom impacted me and about the eating disorder I struggled with in high school after she died. One time I even confessed to him that I felt guilty about Dad dying of lung cancer because of what I’d put him through, and Eddie only showed me compassion.
“Something I’ve learned through my support group is that everyone grieves differently,” he told me.
He still meets with a group of widowers once a month, the same support group he started going to after Sarah’s mom died. He said they were instrumental in helping him makethe right choices for Sarah. And his primary focus has always been to do whatever’s best for her. That’s how we met.
A couple of years ago, I was on my way to work and stopped at a local bakery to grab a birthday cake for one of my suitemates. When I stepped inside the bakery, a man in his thirties with brown hair and kind eyes was trying to order a cake, and I could tell he was struggling.
“So, white frosting with pink writing?” a young store clerk with a short, blond ponytail asked him.
“Yes,” he said. “Wait, I’m not sure. Maybe chocolate frosting and purple writing would be better.”
“We can do that,” she told him. “Do you want any decorations on it? Edible flowers? Animals? Sprinkles? Balloons? We do themes too.”
He stood there looking at her like a deer in headlights.
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“Do you want to think about it, and I can help this other customer?” she asked him, pointing to me.
“Okay,” he said.
When he stepped to the side, I noticed tears in his eyes.
“How can I help you?” she asked me.
“Hang on,” I said to her and walked over to the man. “Are you all right?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make a scene,” he said. “It’s my daughter’s fifth birthday, her first since my wife died. Her mom was always the one in charge of her birthdays. I don’t know what little girls like.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss. Can I help you?” I offered.
