Page 3 of Bottle Shock
By the time the wheels touch down at Sea-Tac, I’m running on shitty airport coffee, no sleep, and possibly on the brink of having a panic attack.
My phone buzzes as I exit the terminal. It’s the number I now recognize as the social worker’s. We’ve kept in communication since she dropped the news.
“Gavin?” Rebecca says as I answer. “Checking to see what your ETA is.”
“Just landed.” I weave through the crowd, skipping baggage claim. I was in such a daze when I left, I didn’t packanything—just grabbed my backpack and walked out. Everything else is still in Croatia. “I’ll grab a rideshare now.”
“Great.” She lets out a relieved exhale. “I’ll meet you in the main lobby at Seattle General. I’ll walk you through everything once you arrive.”
The drive from the airport is a complete blur, with my thoughts racing a mile a minute. Part of me is in disbelief, convinced this is all one huge mistake, and the other part of me is terrified out of my mind at what I’ll be walking into.
The driver is barely at a stop in the drop-off zone when I mumble an incoherent thanks, and race to the entrance.
I haven’t spent much time in hospitals, but every time I’m in one, I’m reminded how uneasy they make me feel. Between the harsh fluorescents, distinct antiseptic-latex smell invading my senses, and the mix of hushed whispers and panicked voices, my stress levels skyrocket.
There’s a woman pacing near the front desk in an ill-fitting, wrinkled blazer and slacks. She looks to be in her mid to late forties, wearing an exhausted expression as she clutches a folder against her chest. Though we’ve never met, our eyes lock—and somehow, we both instantly know who the other is.
“Gavin Ledger?”
I nod, my mouth drying up in an instant.
She smiles at me like she understands I’m at a loss for words. “Thank you for coming so quickly.” She extends a hand. “I’m sure you’re exhausted and I know this is a lot.”
Clearing my throat, I blink several times as we shake hands. “That’s an understatement.”
“Let’s sit for a moment,” she suggests, guiding me to a private waiting room off the corridor. Once we’re inside and seated at a round table, she opens the folder and hands me a paper to sign. “I’m going to cut right to the chase and get started.” She points to a signature line. “This acknowledges yourvoluntary contact with CPS and confirms you’re open to submitting a DNA sample for paternity testing.”
“So we’re not sure I’m the father?”
“Legally, we can’t assume paternity without a test. But,” she continues gently, “as you’re aware, Allison listed you by name on the birth certificate. And given the circumstances, her parents would like to move quickly in establishing guardianship—either by you, or themselves. Hence the urgency.”
Staring at the paper, the words distort out of focus. It’s not as if it matters what this flimsy piece of paper says, there’s only one option.
“I’ll sign it,” I tell her without hesitation. I’m not going to live my life wondering if I have a kid or not. I crossed an ocean to find out the truth. “But I want to see her—if that’s allowed.”
The words are out before I can stop them. Maybe some part of me believes none of this will feel real until I see her with my own eyes.
Rebecca nods. “Of course. Allison’s parent’s stepped out to freshen up so the timing is perfect. But before we go up, we’ll need to go over a few things.”
She walks me through NICU protocols. The sanitation. The rules. The fact that I’m not allowed unsupervised access until paternity is confirmed. Still, she reassures me, the hospital is supportive.
We leave the private room and step out into the buzz of the hospital.
“They’re keeping Lily here until she’s weened off the high-flow oxygen, but her levels have already improved so I anticipate a discharge in the near future.”
My ears snag on the name as I follow closely behind. “Lily?” I ask.
“Allison named her,” Rebecca says. “Before she passed.”
Hearing her name jolts something in me. I rub the back of my neck, gripping it hard—painfully—like I’m trying to wake up from whatever this is. I can’t have a kid. I don’t even have a fucking address. Who in their right mind would think I’m capable of being a father right now?
Sure, someday I figured I’d meet someone, get married, settle down, have kids. That future was supposed to be ten years from now. I’m not ready.
“Hey,” Rebecca says gently, like she can see the war playing out across my face. “Tell me what’s going through your head right now.”
A short, panicked laugh slips free. “I’m kind of freaking out.”
She nods once, steering me toward the side of the long, narrow hallway that leads to the elevator banks. Nurses and hospital staff pass by in various shades of scrubs, completely unaware that I’m either having a heart attack—or something that sure as hell feels like one.
