Part of me is relieved to see him, alive and well. A bigger part of me is furious to see him, alive and well. His hair is messy in the front, where he’s likely been tugging at it, and his tie is loose around his neck. He hauls a flour sack of anxiety in on his back. His expression, worn and contrite, makes me thankful Ally’s in the nursery. I don’t want this man to be my baby sister’s first impression of her daddy.
He walks toward us. Meredith stiffens. He must notice, because he stops short of the bed. He looks from me to her, then back to me again. “Jillian, can Mer and I have a minute?”
“Where were you?”
He sighs, as if he has a right to exasperation.
“Dad, wherewereyou?”
“We’ll talk later. Go find the cafeteria, would you?”
“I’m not hungry.” And, jeez, I think I’ve earned an explanation.
“I’d love a decaf coffee, sweetie,” Meredith says. She looks at my dad, then gives me a smile. “You’ve been an enormous help already, but would you mind one more task?”
Traitor.
I leave, but I’m no idiot. Instead of closing the door behind me, I let it fall to barely cracked and step to the side—cafeteria, my ass. I lean against the wall and cross my arms like I have permission to loiter in the hallway. Break the rules blatantly and people rarely question you—a lesson I learned from Max.
I hear the vinyl chair creak and imagine my dad sinking into it. “I’m so sorry,” he says.
“Where were you?”
“Tacoma. Meetings. I had meetings all day.”
I hear Meredith sigh. “I don’t believe you.”
“Why would I lie?”
“You tell me. In this age of constant communication, how in God’s name could you have been inaccessible on a day like today?”
“I left my phone in my car. You know I don’t take it into meetings.”
“And you knew I could go into labor anytime. Jill and I called your office dozens of times. Where was Natalie?”
“She had the day off.”
“How convenient.”
The chair protests as my dad shifts his weight. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You knowexactlywhat it means.”
Dad, apparently, is speechless—a rare occurrence. But what is there to say?Sorry I missed the birth of our child, the baby we’ve been trying to conceive for years, seems glib. He’s so far up shit creek, I almost feel sorry for him. But then I recall Meredith, small and helpless in her hospital bed, without him.
The silence swells.
Finally, quietly, Meredith says, “You should have been here.”
“I know.”
“You have no idea what you put me through. What you put Jill through.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you?”
“Christ, Meredith. Do you think I didn’t want to be here?”
