I turn to the young adults behind me and nod. One by one, they approach the wall of the auditorium and hang up the signs and posters they made. The gentle clicking of their magnets connecting with the wall sounds like someone banging away on a typewriter. Some of them are exact replicas of the ones stolen from my room and some are more personal. Statements of who they are—who they love—what they face every day. When the last magnet clicks into place, and the final student turns and meets my gaze, I let the tears fall silently as I take them in. Then I nod, turn to the microphone, and say, “Thank you for these ten amazing years. I wish all of your children the best.”
I turn, walk down the center aisle between the metal seats, eyeing the black cord that runs along the path. But this time I make it without humiliation, my focus so singular that I barely hear the sound of murmured thank yous and growing applause as I push through the auditorium door. I just want to get out without incident—get home to my mother to celebrate the call I received from Dr. Basantis—to even out the adrenaline now pumping through my system with a nice cold beer. But I hear my name being called as I step out into the miserable wet chill and I stop wrestling with my jacket and slow my pace.
“Please, Ms. Gallagher. I need?—”
I stop, swallow down a freezing gulp of wind, and turn to find Mrs. Stoner staring at me—her face red from the chase. Or from anger.
“Ms. Gallagher. We need to talk.”
I shut my eyes, ready to be berated for my role in her daughter’s treatment. She needs someone to blame, and here I am, wet and cold and ripe for the picking. But no angry words hit me. I open one eye to see where they could have hit instead to find Jessica Stoner’s mother trying hard to wipe the tears from her cheeks with the palm of her hand.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Gallagher. There’s no—I should have—I didn’t know.” She lets out a low sound, a mix between a sob and a whimper and her pain shakes me so hard I feel it in my teeth. “That’s wrong. I knew. I knew something was going on. I was too scared to act. Jessica had always been so bright. So together. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know where to turn. And now?—”
Her words are cut off by her hands covering her face as another howl of icy wind slices through the parking lot between us.
“I understand, Mrs. Stoner.” And as I look at her fall apart before me, thinking of my own mother, I do. I’m not a mom, but I can feel the guilt radiating off of her like it’s heat. “There’s no handbook for this. No training for being a mom.”
She slides her hands off her face and lets out a breath.
“You saved her life,” she whispers, she puts both hands out in front of her. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
I take her hands and squeeze, then put everything I have into what I tell her.
“None of this is your fault. It’s no one’s fault. Jessica will be ok.”
She holds my gaze for what feels like an eternity. Then she nods, thanks me again, and makes her way back through thedoors that I passed through for 185 days of every year for the last decade of my life.
Chapter Fifty
Jeff
Lesson 51: The greatest things happen in recovery.
I’m spent. I need about ten hours of sleep and 64 ounces of caffeine to get ready for Sydney’s arrival tonight, but I only have time for the latter. I slip off my white coat and hang it on the back of my office chair. I’m grabbing my parka off the hook on the door when it pushes open and I need to slide out of the way or get pinned.
“Oh, I’m so sorry Dr. Harrison,” Danny says, wincing. “I know you want to get out of here, but there’s a patient in recovery that might need you.”
“Whose patient is it?” I ask, less annoyed than surprised that one of my colleagues would not be around to help after they operated.
Danny shrugs and lifts up his palms to let me know he’s just the messenger.
“Alright. I’ll be right there.”
I go to thank Danny for letting me know, but he’s already slipped back out into the hall, headed toward the nurses’ bay. I hang the parka back on the hook and shrug the white coat back on. Syd will kill me if I’m late to pick her up. Or worse, she’ll ask me if she can drive my car.
I slip my phone out of my pocket and check the time. I’ve got forty-five minutes to get out to O’Hare—an impossible task if it weren’t rush hour in Chicago. I blow out a frustrated breath and press on Devon’s video for the thousandth time today. Her clear voice bounces off the tile floor of the hospital hallway. I’ve memorized every word of this speech—every movement of her hands and tilt of her head. She’s a warrior. An angel of vengeance. And apparently, I’m only one of three million viewers who finds her fascinating.
I feel every ounce of respect and love that’s visible in the students’ eyes as they look to Devon from where they stand. Was I ever that brave? To stand for something like these kids did that night? No, I wasn’t. But I didn’t have Devon Gallagher to lead me. And Syd. Well, I’m not surprised by her anymore. She could hand me the moon and I would think, “makes sense.”
It’s been two weeks since this video surfaced and went viral. And still no contact.
I was stupid to believe this changed anything—that maybe Devon’s decision meant we stood a chance. I texted her against all instincts for self-preservation and—crickets. The silence has just added a second layer of heartbreak. Even Sydney has stopped pushing me to make some grand gesture. If Syd gives up, you know it’s hopeless.
The heels of my boots click through my self-pity as I approach recovery. It is eerily empty. No sign of the nurses who work tirelessly to keep our patients alive and well. Maybe Danny had it wrong. But then I hear murmuring behind aclosed curtain. I take in a strengthening breath and make my way toward the blue plastic, stopping when I hear Syd’s familiar voice.
“Just put your hair down. Try to look a little sexy?—”
There’s the sound of someone slapping skin, then a familiar giggle.
