Page 103 of The Sculptor

“So, we ran.” I exhale, dreading my following admission. “And we prepared to deliver you on our own.”

I should have known this little shit would laugh. “And I thought you were the smart one in the bunch.”

Rolling my eyes, I feel around for any more glass. “Looks like it didn’t skip a generation.” I nod to the cigarette still in his mouth. If we’re going to point out bad decisions and all, let me remind him that he isn’t the poster boy for the cause.

“You got me there.” He blows out a puff of smoke and grins. “Consider me effectively scolded.”

It’s like talking to a worse version of myself.

“Anyway.” I pick up the suturing kit. “When Ray went into labor, I delivered you in an old cabin we’d rented that fall.” The screams hover in my consciousness. I must keep my eyes focused on Remington—reminding myself that those screams are merely a memory. He’s right here in front of me now.

“You weren’t breathing,” I say softly. “You were blue.” His hand tenses, and I have to remind him to relax. “We were so far away from the nearest hospital that it took the ambulance thirty minutes to arrive.” It feels weird telling him this story—the same one I tried blocking out. “You would have to ask Ray the finer details,” I admit. “All I remember is laying you down on the floor and counting as I breathed into your mouth, pumping your tiny chest with two fingers.” I shake off the image. “I don’t remember how much time passed, but I do remember with spectacular clarity the sound of your first cry.”

I feel a warm tear streak down my cheek. I don’t even bother hiding it. “You sounded so pissed.” I chuckle, but it sounds watery. “I remember staring at you in wonder before I handed you to Ray.”

I hear Remington take a long drag on his cigarette like he’s struggling just as much as I am with this conversation. “That’s my breath in your lungs,” I tease, which he counters quickly, blowing the smoke back in my face with a grin.

“Not anymore. Nicotine owns these babies now.”

The joke is a welcome reprieve.

“Regardless,” I continue, “once we called the ambulance, there was no hiding it from our parents. Harrison and Congressman Ford came to the hospital but not before you and your mother were whisked away, leaving me to answer questions.”

Remington’s gaze goes tight. “And they convinced you to give me up.”

I shake my head. “No, the doctor told us you didn’t make it.”

The screams bubble up again, and I have to close my eyes and fight back the memories. “Ray said—” I inhale, trying to find the strength to get through the last bit. “Ray said they had taken you to the NICU to check you out and—”

His hand squeezes mine, and I stop, open my eyes, and find him staring back at me. His eyes are glassy, but he clears his throat and masks the emotion quickly. “I get it. You don’t need to tell me any more.”

I gently squeeze his hand in return, careful of his injuries. “I want you to know that if we had known you were alive, nothing would have stopped us from finding you. Nothing. We would have given up everything. For. You. You were our purpose, and we wouldn’t have rested until we fulfilled our promise of becoming a family.”

“When did you find out I was alive?” He pulls in a shaky breath. “Was it Ray?”

I nod. “Her mother died several months ago. She confessed to what they had done.”

Remington nods, an amused grin emerging. “And Ray figured out Langford knew my whereabouts.” Realization dawns on him. “She was marrying him to—”

I grin, filling in the answer. “To find you. She was going to bring you home.”

Remington tsks. “And you fucked up her plans. Shame on you, Dr. Dumbass. Next time, let the women do all the thinking.”

Laughing, I get back to work on his hand. “Does that mean you’re willing to speak to me again? As long as I let Ray make the plans?”

He gives me a long look before he drops the cigarette into the sink and sighs like this conversation is long past annoying him. “I suppose I have to. If I don’t, Hal will drive me batshit crazy with lectures, and I endure enough of those already.”

I’ll take anything at this point. “All I’m asking for is a chance.”

He tips his chin. “I can do that,” he agrees, “on one condition.”

And I know he’s my fucking son with that statement.

“What are your terms?”

He looks at me, his gaze raw and vulnerable. “I want to meet my mother.”

Ramsey

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