Page 79 of Stick to the Deal
“She’s been sick for a while, Letty. I begged her to tell you, but she ordered me not to. You should come home.”
Standing, Reginald squeezes my shoulder and pulls me into him. “I got us tickets on the next flight out of JFK, and a car will be waiting when we land. Do you need me to pack you anything specific?”
Numbly, I shake my head no.
Gloria is flustered and doesn’t have much more information. I promise to call her with updates on our progress and after I speak to the doctors. Reginald rushes around the apartment, packing bags and making arrangements.
I stand still at the window, watching New York bustle past as if nothing has changed. As if my entire world hasn’t shifted.
I blindly follow my husband out the door and into a waiting cab. Then through security and to the gate without saying a single word. It’s a wonder TSA doesn’t stop us under suspicion of kidnapping.
It’s been months since I spoke to my grandmother, and our argument repeats in my head. I have nothing better to do while I wait. The hours stretch on and my only thoughts are getting to my grandmother’s side. My last remaining family.
Reginald grabs my hand and interlaces our fingers, reminding me that Grandmama isn’t my only family after all. I squeeze his hand in gratitude and turn away as a single tear trails down my face.
Transcontinental flights are long. He tries to persuade me to eat, sleep, or have a drink, but I only shake my head.
Guilt and anticipation weave webs in my stomach. Should I have tried to make amends by now? It’s been over nine months since we last spoke. Deep down, I thought we’d make up—I’ve never imagined my life without her in it. What if that horrible fight was our final conversation?
I gave up all pretense of religion years ago, but I pray that I make it in time.
Our relationship was never easy. It was never unicorns and rainbows, hugs and chocolate chip cookies. But even if I never understood Vivienne Atherton, she was—no,is—my grandmother and I love her.
The rest of the flight, deplaning, and the car ride to the hospital are another blur. Just get me there. It’s a mantra I repeat, refusing to imagine an alternative.
As we pull up, I stare up at the bright lights of the emergency ward and swallow back the lump in my throat as fear roots me in place. With a mental shake, I grasp at the mask I wear in society, hoping that will protect me from what’s waiting for me on the other side of those doors.
The seat dips as Reginald scoots closer to me. Looking over my shoulder, I find his gray eyes full of concern. My stomach flips a little at the support there.
Holding his hand, I approach the giant doors, once again frozen with panic, thrown back to that dark place of my childhood.
Reginald pulls me against his chest. His fingers spear the hair at my nape and pull me back until we are nose to nose. He takes a ragged breath, his body slumping as he exhales. “Whatever happens, you will get through it, but you don’t have to do this alone. I’ll be right here, Princess. Whatever you need. I’ve got you.”
My heart aches at the raw emotion in his voice. How different my life would be if he hadn’t sat in that airplane seat.
Sure, Bree or Anna would have dropped everything to fly here with me, but they’ve never quite known how to handle one of my moods. Anna would be too busy baking and Bree would be storming the castle and whipping the doctors into shape. Fuck, she’d probably be making a spreadsheet with Grandmama’s test results and cross-referencing her diagnosis with clinical studies.
But none of that is what I need.
Hot tears trail down my cheeks as I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling one last comforting scent of sandalwood before marching through the hospital doors.
Somehow, Reginald knew exactly what I needed in the moment, even when I didn’t. He calmly took care of the logistics to get me here. When I voiced my needs, he immediately stopped and followed my lead. He didn’t argue, didn’t push, simply gave me space and offered to help.
I give my name at the front desk and am immediately whisked to a private room with a corner view on a VIP floor.
She looks pale and still in the bed, not words ever used to describe the force of nature that is Vivienne Atherton. Machines beep in the utter silence of the room. Afraid to disturb the peace, I tiptoe in to the seat by the bed. Her arms rest at her sides above the blanket and, unsure what else to do, I clasp her fingers in mine.
Her skin is so thin that it might crumble under my fingers. When did they become so spotted? Her hand is cool and slightly dry. I’ll have Gloria send her Parisian hand cream. And the silk pillowcases.
A throat clearing startles me. A middle-aged man in a long white coat stands near the entrance of the room with a tablet. “Miss Atherton?”
Reginald squeezes my shoulder. Neither of us correct the doctor.
“What is wrong with my grandmother?”
“She’s suffered a GI bleed as a complication from her cirrhosis.” I blink at him, the words as foreign as if he was speaking an alien language. “Were you aware that she is ill?”
“No. She’s always been rather secretive—especially about health matters.”
