Page 74 of That Weekend in Paris
Klein
“If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything.”
?Mark Twain
MY FLIGHT TO Nashville goes through Atlanta, and by the time we touch down, it is a full eighteen hours since I received the call from Curtis. I had grappled with the thought of texting Riley, but I’m afraid to give her a heads-up. I don’t want her to know that I know anything. Given the fact that she lied to me, I have no idea what to expect when she finds out I know.
I get an Uber from the airport and go straight to Vanderbilt. My suitcase and guitar are still with me. The Uber driver lets me out at the hospital’s front entrance.I walk up to the information desk, the woman working behind it looking up. “I’m wondering if you would mind holding my guitar and suitcase here while I go upstairs and visit someone. And if you promise not to let on that I’m in the hospital, I’ll give you two front-row tickets to my next concert.”
She smiles at me and says, “Oh, you don’t have to do that. Your secret’s good with me, Mr. Matthews. I’m a big fan, and I’m happy to do that for you.”
I take note of her name tag so I can send something for her later, and give her a sincere, “Thank you,” before heading for the elevators.
Curtis had texted just before I landed and given me Riley’s room number. I press the button for the floor and push back a weight of nervousness. He hadn’t been able to tell me anything other than Riley was still in the hospital. He had no news of the baby.
The elevator doors open, and I step out into the hallway, looking left then right and following the numbers on the wall to Riley’s room. The door is cracked, and I stick my head around the edge before knocking.
She is asleep. There’s no one else in the room, so I step quietly inside. I walk over to the bed and stand there, looking down at her. She looks peaceful and exhausted, even in sleep.
I wonder how things could have gone so wrong between us, how we’ve arrived at a place where we’ve failed each other so miserably.
Riley opens her eyes wide as if she has heard my thoughts. She stares at me for a couple of seconds before saying, “Klein? What are you doing here?”
“Curtis called me and said that you were in the hospital having a baby.”
Her eyes go wider, and she has the look of someone who’s been caught in an awful lie. Which she has.
“Did you have the baby, Riley?” I’m holding my breath for her answer, part of me desperate to know and another part terrified of the answer. That something will have gone wrong.
Shock is replaced with something much more like anger, and she says, “Yes. But I owe you nothing, Klein, much less an explanation.”
“Yes, you do owe me an explanation, Riley. You told me you’d—”
“Because you didn’t want me,” she interrupts, trying to sit up in bed, and suddenly I feel guilty for upsetting her when she’s obviously worn out.
“I don’t want to know anything right now except whether the baby is okay or not.”
I watch as she wrestles with an answer. I’m guessing she knows there’s no point in lying since all I have to do is walk outside and find the nurse to discover the answer for myself.
She relents, then reluctantly says, “She’s early and in the neonatal unit. I was so out of it when the doctor was explaining things to me that I’m not sure what’s going to happen.”
She. A baby girl. Emotion grips my heart. “Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yes. I think so,” she says, looking surprised that I’ve asked.
“I’m going to go check on her. I’ll come back and let you know what I find out, okay?”
“Yes,” she says, more contrite now than I’ve ever seen her. She lies back on the pillow, closing her eyes.
Rather than ask which floor the neonatal care unit is on, I pull my phone from my pocket and do a quick search. Turns out, it’s on the same floor, so I follow the signs until I find it.
Approaching a nearby nurse station, I find that I have no idea how to explain my situation. So I decide to go for the closest version of the truth I can manage. I tell her that my ex-girlfriend has delivered our premature baby, and I would very much like to see her.
The nurse I’ve approached is older, with steel-gray hair tucked into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her expression says she has pretty much seen and heard it all.
And so for once, I decide to use the fact that she might recognize me. I take off my cap, and it’s only a couple of seconds before recognition flashes in her eyes, and she says, “Oh, my! You’re Klein Matthews.”
“Sorry, I just wanted you to know I’m not some psycho coming in off the street trying to look at someone else’s baby.”
