A Million Little Things (Mischief Bay, #3)

She knew she had some decisions to make. She’d been blessed with the luxury of options and she was grateful for that. As for what had happened with Chad—she was determined to learn from her mistakes. Whatever she decided going forward, she would choose based on what was right for her and her baby. Not Steven or Chad or any other man. This was her life and she needed to be the star of it. And while she was being decisive...

She pulled out her cell phone and began an email. It took a couple of false starts before she figured out what she wanted to say.

Dear Pam—I’m sorry you’re so upset about my pregnancy and what it means as Steven and I continue to see each other. I’m not sorry I’m pregnant. I’m confused. I’m terrified. I wish anyone but Chad were the father, but I’m not sorry. I refuse to be sorry. This baby is a blessing—however he or she came to be. And while I’m sorry you’re not happy, I won’t apologize for what happened. Not now, not ever.

I had thought...hoped really...that we could stay friends. I thought you were my friend. But I see now I was wrong. I understand why you’re choosing your son over me—what I regret is that you feel there has to be a choice. That you can’t be happy for him and for me. I would never hurt him. I’m not saying he won’t get hurt. Life means taking risks. The only way to keep that from happening is to live in a cave and never talk to anyone.

It’s funny. I always saw you as this perfect person, living a perfect life. Now I realize you’re just like everyone else. Mostly good, some bad and a lot of faking it to get by. This information could have brought us closer. Instead, it comes too late. I’m sure you won’t believe me, but I really do wish you all the best.

Zoe sent the email before she could change her mind. She didn’t know if it was the right thing to do or not, but it was too late to change her mind now. Maybe that was the solution, she thought as she put her phone back in her bag. Burn bridges so there’s no chance of changing your mind and trying to turn around.





Chapter Twenty-One

Saturday afternoon Jen finished her fifteen minutes of quiet mind time, as she thought of it, and opened her eyes. The house was still. Kirk was working and Lucas had moved back to his place. Jack was asleep, although he should be waking up from his nap any second now.

She let herself enjoy the peace. To see it as simply what was. Not the absence of anything. Irrational panic poked around, as if looking for an opening. That happened every now and then, but she was learning to observe rather than feel.

The meds were helping. As was knowing that there actually wasn’t anything wrong with her son. Or if there was, it was her. That truth was one she’d yet to come to terms with. Mostly she alternated between fury and guilt, with guilt generally winning. She was the reason her son wasn’t talking. It was her fault. Just hers. In her attempt to be the best mother possible, she’d totally screwed up. All the organic food and nonchemical cleaning didn’t make up for that.

When her mom got back from her cruise, Jen was going to ask Pam to take Jack for a few hours to confirm that he really was talking to anyone but her. He would start day care on Monday. She would get a daily report for the first week. She knew in her gut that the report would say Jack was talking up a storm.

“Something I’ll be happy about,” she promised herself as she stood and straightened the bed.

She went into the kitchen and confirmed she had everything she needed for dinner, then looked at the clock and frowned. Jack should be awake by now. He pretty much kept to his schedule, especially during the day.

She walked into his room. Although the curtains were drawn, there was still plenty of light to see. She crossed to his crib.

“Hi, sweet boy. Ready to wake up?”

Jack barely stirred. Jen flipped on the lamp and saw that he was flushed. When she touched him, his skin was burning hot.

“Jack,” she said, keeping her voice calm as she lowered the side of the crib, then scooped him up in her arms. “Honey, can you look at me?”

He was limp in her arms and barely stirred as she lifted him. She carried him into the hall bathroom and then shifted him to one arm as she opened the drawer that held the thermometers.

She used the forehead one first. It took a second to turn on, then she brushed it across his skin. The reading sent panic racing through her—103.7.

“It’s okay,” she said, more to herself than him. “It’s okay. We’ll try this again.”

She used the ear thermometer next and got the same reading. Still holding Jack she ran to her bag and pulled out her cell phone.

It took her two minutes to work her way through her pediatrician’s answering system so she could leave a request for an immediate callback. Once she’d put the phone down, she grabbed clean dish towels and dampened them. She carried her son to the sofa, then used the damp cloths to lightly stroke Jack’s face and arms. His eyes opened and then closed. He barely moved, even when she sang to him.

Her stomach was a solid knot of fear. She thought about starting a bath, but didn’t want to do anything until she heard from the doctor. That included giving him medication. Better to know if she had to take him to the ER first.

Five incredibly long minutes later, her phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Beldon, I’m Dr. Wilson. I’m on call this weekend. Tell me about Jack.”

“He’s not very responsive. I wanted to wait to give him anything. I’m wiping him with a cool, damp cloth, but didn’t know if I should start a bath or what.”

“Take his temperature again, please.”

She pulled the thermometer out of her jeans pocket and ran it across his forehead. “It’s 103.8.”

“You’re going to have to take him to the emergency room. Can you do that or do you want to call an ambulance?”

She thought about how far she had to go. “I’ll get there just as fast,” she said. “I’ll go now.”

“Where are you going?”

“Mischief Bay Memorial.”

“I’ll call ahead and let them know you’re coming. They’ll be ready.”

“Thank you.”