Fifteen minutes later, the same elevator returned them to the ICU floor. They were both paler and more drawn. Heads down, they started down the dim corridor toward Janet Craig’s room, only to stop at the sound of Sam’s name and look up.
A policewoman stood by the nurse’s station holding the hand of a tousle-haired little girl who looked to be no more than five. The child was wearing a light jacket and sneakers over flannel pajamas. Her eyes were large and frightened.
For a minute, Sam didn’t breathe. Then he whispered, “My God. Oh my God.” Slowly, he approached the little girl. Though his voice had risen above a whisper, it was hoarse. “Courtney?” He reached out to touch her face, but she shrank back against her custodian.
“She was with a sitter,” the policewoman explained softly. “It’s better that she be with family.”
Bewildered, Sam looked from the woman to the child and back. “Where’s John’s family?” He’d thought for sure that his brother-in-law had parents or siblings in the area.
But the policewoman silently shook her head.
The look Sam sent Susan verged on panic. She was feeling a little of it herself. If Sam’s mother died, Sam would inherit a daughter. He didn’t know what to do with a child. Neither did she.
Someone had to do something, though. The policewoman couldn’t stand there forever holding the child’s hand, and the child was obviously scared.
Trying to recall what people had said to her when she was six and had been separated from her mother and Savannah in Saks, Susan came forward and squatted before the little girl. “Courtney’s a beautiful name,” she said gently. “Do you have a middle one?”
The child nodded.
Susan waited. When the name wasn’t forthcoming, she said, “I bet it’s Jane.”
The child shook her head.
“Alice?” Susan asked.
Another headshake.
Susan tried again. “Dawn?”
“It’s Marie,” Sam told her without taking his eyes from his niece.
Susan gave him a quick glance of thanks, then turned back to Courtney. “He knows that because he’s your uncle. His name’s Sam. Samuel John Craig.”
“I don’t know him,” the child said in a small, high voice.
“That’s because he lives way off in Rhode Island. But he’s your mommy’s brother.”
“Where is my mommy? She was supposed to bring me a Kit Kat, but it wasn’t there when I woke up.”
Susan tossed a helpless glance in Sam’s direction. At her silent bidding, he, too, hunkered down. “It’s still the middle of the night,” he said. “Are you tired?”
The child shook her head. Her eyes were wary, her tiny lips pressed together as though she might cry.
Susan didn’t want that to happen. Nor did she want another question about Courtney’s mom. Eventually the answer would have to come, but now wasn’t the time. Instinct told her that it was critical to establish rapport with the child.
So she exclaimed softly, “Oh my, what’s this?” The tip of something promising was peeking from the child’s jacket pocket. Very carefully pulling on a furry white ear, she extricated a small stuffed bunny.
“That’s Peter,” Courtney told her.
“Peter Rabbit?” Susan cradled the miniature creature in her hand. “He’s adorable!”
“The Easter bunny brought him. They’re cousins.”
“Peter and the Easter bunny? You must be very special for the Easter bunny to give you one of his cousins.”
One shoulder moved in a half-pint shrug, while she pinched in the corner of her mouth.
Sam spoke then. “Do you have any cousins of your own? Any people cousins?” He was having trouble grasping the fact that he might be the child’s only living relative.
