They held her with such care, and in their eyes, I could see pride. Clara giggled like a teenager herself and rubbed the baby’s little toes, and I could see that she would be okay. She’d be better than okay. She would be wholly cared for, wholly loved.
Before they left, I fed her one last time, then Clara handed her to Mike. She walked with me into the bathroom. We held hands, and she said, “You’re my angel, Evie. You are Ashtyn’s angel, and because of you, she made it here, where all of us can love her.”
I let them take her. In that moment, it felt right. It almost always did—until I saw Landon again.
Mark and Clara tell me everything when I get to the ER. Ash has a mild brachial plexus injury from falling out of the tree house Mark built her and her brothers last year. Her arm is in a sling, but all is well; her CT and her MRI look good. When I see her, she smiles and hugs me. “Evie!”
After that, out in the hall, I grill Mark on his exchange with Landon.
He recounts their conversation, shaking his head sadly. “Why didn’t you tell us he was here? We tried to call before we came.”
I do my best to reassure them.
“He would never take her or anything like that. He’s a neurosurgeon, just like me. We’re married to our jobs.” I wrap my arms around myself. “All of this is my fault. I could have told him, but I waited. I was selfish.”
“No you’re not. I know you. You’re not selfish,” Mark says quietly.
I start to cry, and shake my head. “I was this time.”
I don’t know if Landon can forgive me, and without him, I don’t know how I’ll survive. I accept Mark’s hug and try to pull myself together.
Within the hour, they’ve got discharge papers. We hug goodbye with promises to get together soon. I see Ashtyn once or twice a month, and she knows I’m her birth mother.
“What about Landon? Dr. Jones,” Mike says, hanging behind Ashtyn and Clara. “Do you think he’ll want to get to know her too?”
He wants that—I see it in his eyes. The Deckerts want what’s best for Ash, and Mike works as a counselor. He knows that knowing us, given some strong contextualization and a lot of honest talking, will probably anchor Ashtyn rather than unmoor her.
My eyes fill with tears as I shake my head. “I don’t know. I…maybe. But I don’t know. I need to find him. After he found out, he left.”
Eilert finds me shortly after the Deckerts go. She asks if I’ve seen Landon. I almost tell her, but I realize it’s not mine to tell. I tell her I’m not sure.
“Apparently he just left while he was seeing the girl who just got discharged. No one’s seen him since. We’ve tried to call him. Nothing.”
“I’ll keep a look out for him.”
I call Landon, too, and text him.
‘I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. Please call me. You don’t have to forgive me, but please let me try to explain. I’ll leave and we can talk about it. Anything you want.’
My shift rolls on, through agonizing hours when I’m so distraught that I consider leaving, too. Finally, it’s almost nine o’clock. I have a plan in place to drive right to his house.
I pass Eilert at the nurse desk on floor three as she heads out for the night.
“Evie, you’re about to be paged down to ER.” My pager buzzes at that second, and Eilert looks at me apologetically. “I know you’ve got floor notes, but they’re saying they need another hand down there for a possible spinal cord injury. I’ve got to get moving. Darius is headed out to summer camp tomorrow morning.”
I linger in the stairwell, wiping my eyes.
Downstairs, it’s a madhouse. All the bays are full and EMTs are pouring in with stretchers.
“Wicked wreck at 8th and Monroe,” I hear someone say. “One van full, no seatbelts, plowed into a smaller car that’s fucking crushed.”
Ten
Evie
Very rarely, I have moments where I just don’t want to help. My enthusiasm for doctoring is nearly unflappable, but once or twice a year, the right—or wrong—mood hits me, and I want to leave a shift. As I wait for the line of ambulances to bring my suspected spinal cord injury, that’s exactly where I am.
Landon’s out there somewhere. I need desperately to find him. I can’t imagine what he must be feeling, and I hate myself so much for not telling him sooner. He deserved to know. He deserved to know before now, regardless of how little his knowing would have changed things, or how much it terrified me.
I deserve this, I think with a knot in my throat. I’ll deserve whatever happens to us.
I keep texting him, and I know he’s really upset—obviously he is—because he hasn’t even looked at my texts.
I’m gritting my molars as yet another stretcher comes in. I hope my guy—or gal—with the suspected SCI isn’t last in line. I need to get them stable, pass them to the night floater, and split.
I hear shouting as the automatic doors swish open, and three EMTs bustle in with another person on a backboard—this one held down low, as if he’s heavy. With my eyes still on the doors, I listen idly to what they’re telling the ER attending, noting something about a mean right hook.
“—wild and talking crazy,” one of the EMTs is saying.
A second later, I hear a low shout echo down the corridor: “I SAID I WORK HERE!”
Cold sweat washes over me, but I stay rooted to my spot for the next few minutes, still watching the doors as my brain fails to connect the dots. And then I do connect the dots, and I am flying toward the private rooms because I know that voice, and that was Landon.
That was Landon on the backboard. Oh my fuck, he’s bleeding! As I near the private rooms, I hear him snarling, “I can move my fucking feet. Unstrap me, man, I’m not gonna fucking punch you.”
EMTs are gathered ’round the entrance to his room. I can hear the nurses talking heatedly over his low voice.
“You’re going to have to calm down, sir, so we can validate your—”
“I’m checking your lung sounds,” another interrupts.
“BP’s through the sky.”
“There’s no way he works here,” says the EMT in the doorway.
I squeeze into the room and—oh God. Landon’s lying on his back atop a railed bed, still strapped to the ambulance backboard. His head is bleeding, his mouth and nose are covered by an oxygen mask, and his chest is bare and mottled with bad bruising. Even so, his shoulders lift up off the board, his biceps straining as he fights the thick, leather restraints around his wrists.
“I fucking told you I’m a surgeon—”
“We have no ID,” an EMT cries, at the same time someone else says, “You’d better watch those wrists, then.”
“Quiet—so we can triage, doctor! Catie, do you have that Nitropress? We’re almost to minute five with numbers like this—”
I step closer to the bed, and Landon sees me. “Evie…oh God. Please.” He just lies there, panting and groaning as he tries to free his arms by force. I remember what he said—about the group home.
“Get rid of his restraints. Take them off, right now,” I tell the nurses.
“He hit one of my guys,” an EMT calls from behind me.