Before I can answer the first question, she asks a second: “Where’s Mom?”
I know I shouldn’t be surprised by the third degree, but it burns all the same. The way she’s regarding me it’s obvious that what she said out on the garden terrace at her wedding was true. She’s kept that grudge going for far longer than I would’ve hoped.
“I told her to go home and get some sleep so she could be rested for today,” I inform CeeCee. “I knew she wasn’t going to want to leave his side after the surgery, so I offered to stay the night.”
“So much good that did. You were asleep,” she huffs, jerking her oversized bag higher up her shoulder.
“He was asleep too,” I point out, but not in a nasty way.
Her hands shoot up like an electric shock has just gone through her. “Sorry, we took a really late flight, Imogen was sleep deprived, and it was a nightmare, and now I’m here andyou’rehere, so this is all feeling a bit likeThe Twilight Zone.”
“In more ways than one,” I say, reminded again of my unfortunate situation. Not only am I stuck here, but I’m overwhelmed by this new development.
She squints at me. “What?”
“Have you…have you been getting my emails?” I know it’s a long shot, but there is a fraction of hope left inside me. The hope that whispers,Dad will be okay,andCeeCee will have answers.
Exasperation bursts from her immediately. “Our dad is about to go under for hip surgery and you’re asking me about emails? No, Nolan, I filtered out your many addresses years ago. Have you even spoken to a doctor this morning?”
I’m disappointed and uncomfortable. She hasn’t read my emails, which means she knows nothing about my situation. The whispering hope inside me promptly shuts up. I check my watch, attempting not to anger her any further. “There was a nurse in here about an hour ago. She said they’d start prepping him around nine.”
“Okay, well, it’s eight thirty now. Where are they?” She’s movingback toward the door with clear intent. “I’m going to go talk to somebody about this.”
“Eight thirty is not nine,” I say, standing, pulling my loosened tie from around my neck and stuffing it into my pocket. A physical reminder of where I should’ve been last night. If I were the true thirty-year-old me, I might be waking up hungover beside Harry right about now. I cringe at the thought.
CeeCee turns up her nose at me. “You’ve been on a hiatus from this family for God knows how long, so please don’t come in here and start talking to me like you know anything, okay?”
I reconsider my words. They were flippant. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” I say to her back as she’s barreling toward the door.
She stops in her tracks, absorbs what I’ve said, nods to herself, and then exits.
Mom arrives about an hour later, holding hands with a little girl I only recognize from the photos she showed me.
Imogen is the spitting image of CeeCee, who hasn’t come back yet, and it’s even more apparent up close. Her thick hair curls subtly at the end and is parted to the left. She has round cheeks and a big smile. She also shares CeeCee’s affinity for muted colors with bold patterns, judging by her salmon T-shirt paired with polka-dot leggings.
As soon as Imogen spots Dad in the bed, she freezes, half-moon eyes going full. “Why ith Gram-puh like that?” She points ineloquently across the way, except before she gets a suitable response, she snaps her head in my direction, noticing me for the first time. My breath catches. Suddenly, she’s real to me, and I’m real to her, and it’s too mind-boggling to make sense of.
Imogen skitters behind Mom’s leg, using Mom’s dangling purse as a shield. “And, and, and who ith that?” She’s got a slight lisp like CeeCee used to before she went to speech therapy in the second grade.
“That’s your Uncle Nolan,” Mom says with a smile.
Uncle.The word chills me. Not because I never thought I’d be one, but because in this timeline, I’ve been one for almost four whole years and this is the first time I’m even sharing the same space with my niece.
Surely a tour of mine stopped in Colorado, or at least passed through. Couldn’t I have visited? Perhaps a meeting or two would’ve quelled some of the fear Imogen is experiencing right now at the stranger sitting next to herGram-puh.
But maybe CeeCee told me to stay away. Maybe I self-isolated from them for reasons beyond me. I’m not sure which is worse, honestly.
“I have an uncle?” she asks, so much inquisitiveness packed into such a tiny body. She looks up at Mom with a sense of wonder I haven’t experienced in ages. It’s the first time it clicks that Mom isGram-muhnow too.
Mom nods. “Indeed you do, and here he is. Say hi. Can you say hi?”
Imogen offers the smallest, floppiest wave imaginable, so I offer the same kind back, which makes her giggle. We find ourselves in a waving war until there’s a groan from the bed. Dad adjusts but doesn’t open his eyes, and for some reason, I can sense all three of us holding our breath, watching, waiting.
Then, CeeCee enters in a tizzy. “They’re coming in now to start the prep…”
Dad’s gone still again, pulled back into slumber.
“I have an uncle!” Imogen shouts excitedly as James enters theroom. He’s gotten a bit stouter, eyes a little more sunken, and hairline a little farther north of his forehead. He looks like most of my friends’ dads from grammar school. Still handsome in a little-league-baseball-coach kind of way.
