“I don’t expect a dime from you, Livie.” Almost as an afterthought, he slides in, “Just your firstborn child.”
Normally I’d give him an eye roll at the very least for a joke like that. But not now. I’m not in the mood for any jokes. The weight that I’ve worn on my back for three months as I wondered what Dr. Stayner might discover about me, which lifted just twenty minutes ago, has now crashed back down onto my back, crippling me under its heft.
I’m sure he’s wrong.
But what if he isn’t?
CHAPTER SIX
If versus When
The almost two-hour commute from the Princeton campus to the Children’s Hospital in Manhattan gives me plenty of time to stew over Dr. Stayner’s surprise visit and outrageous diagnosis. By the time I get to the front desk to sign in for my first volunteer session, I’m more rattled than I was to begin with. I’m also convinced that he might be losing his magic touch as the brilliant psychiatrist. Either that or he’s insane and no one has caught on yet. Maybe both.
“Have you ever worked with children in a hospital before, Livie?” Nurse Gale asks as I follow her swaying hips down the long corridor.
“No, I haven’t,” I answer with a smile. I’ve spent enough time in hospitals, though, that the sounds of beeping machines and the mixture of medicine and bleach filling my nostrils instantly brings me back seven years to the days of forced smiles, and Kacey with tubes and bandages and a hollow stare.
“Well, I hear your reference glows in the dark,” she jokes as we round the corner and follow the signs toward the playroom, my quick tour of the hospital coming to an end. “You’re a natural magnet for children.”
My eyes roll before I can stop myself. Not at the nurse—at Stayner. Back in June, when I mentioned to him that I had applied for a volunteer position at this hospital but hadn’t heard back from them, he casually mentioned that he had a few friends there. The next week, I received a phone call for a brief interview, quickly followed by an offer for a position on Saturday afternoons in the Child Life program—playing with young patients. I jumped at the opportunity. Of course I saw Dr. Stayner’s fingerprints all over it but it only made me appreciate him more, knowing that when I apply for med school, having this volunteer position on my application will show that I’ve been committed to pediatrics for years. It had seemed like he was helping me achieve my goals at the time. Ironic now, given that he basically thinks I’m a preprogrammed drone who shouldn’t be here in the first place.
I push all of that away, though, because I know what I want and I know that I belong here. So I nod politely at Nurse Gale and say, “I think they’re a magnet for me too.”
She stops at a door and turns to give me a pensive smile. “Well, you just be careful about what kind of attachments you make, you hear, sweetie?” With that, we step into a bright and colorful playroom with a handful of children and other volunteers. My shoulders immediately relax as I hear the infectious laughter. It’s like a shot of Valium through my veins.
I know I’ve never been quite normal. As a child, I was always the one rushing to the teacher when someone needed a Band-Aid, or stepping in between a squabble to mediate. As a teenager, I looked forward to my volunteer days at the YMCA, or the pool, or the library. Really, anywhere that involved these tiny humans. There’s just something so uncomplicated about small children that I gravitate toward. Maybe it’s their infectious giggles or their shy hugs. Maybe it’s their brutal honesty. Maybe it’s the way they cling to me when they’re scared or hurt. All I know is that I want to help them. All of them.
“Livie, this is Diane,” Nurse Gale says, introducing me to a stocky, middle-aged woman with short, curly brown hair and kind eyes. “She’s a part of our Child Life program. She’s supervising the room today.”
With a wink, Diane gives me a quick five-minute tour of the bright playroom and explains what her role is. When she’s done, she points out two boys sitting side by side with their backs to me, cross-legged, in front of a pile of LEGOs. They’re the same size, except the one on the right is leaner. He’s also completely bald, whereas the boy on the left has short, sandy brown hair.
“These two are yours today. Eric? Derek? This is Miss Livie.”
Identical faces turn to regard me. “Twins!” I exclaim with a grin. “Let me guess . . . you’re Derek.” I point to the one on the left, the one with the full head of hair.
He gives me a wide grin displaying missing front teeth, instantly reminding me of Storm’s daughter, Mia. “I’m Eric.”
I roll my eyes dramatically. “I’m never going to get this right.” Why do parents feel the need to name their identical twins rhyming names? I don’t say that out loud, though. I only smile.
“Derek’s the bald one. He’s easy to remember,” Eric confirms with a shrug. “But soon I’m going to be bald too. Then you’re screwed.”