Page 15 of Without You, Scotch and Sammy 2

Even Ed is here.

There’s something about Shari and her baby that forces us both out of our routine, and I don’t understand why. I slowly attempt to pry the blanket away again. “You could get up. I’ll help you have a shower.” I peel the blanket back far enough, then I startle at the blood-soaked sheets beneath her. “Oh shit.” My eyes snap to hers, though she remains impassive. “Shit.” I slam my hand down on the call button to get a nurse in here, then I turn my eyes back to the mess. “Shari, what’s happened?”

“Just my period,” she replies blandly. “S’okay.”

It’s not okay. The rest of us don’t sleep in our mess like that. We get up and we change a pad. We shower. We go to the toilet.

Nurse Barbara comes rushing through the door, then stops with a squeak when she spots my hands and the mess beneath them. I move Shari’s hospital gown aside as Barbara walks toward us, then flicking the nurse call-button off, she gently shuffles me away. “When was the last time you got up? You need to get up, honey. Shower. Move around.”

“Did,” Shari mumbles weakly. “Got up, went for a walk.”

“When?”

Her hand comes up lazily, waving us off. “Before.”

Barbara’s disbelieving eyes meet mine, then she begins fluttering around the bed, peeling the blankets away completely, and removing the TV remote and setting it aside. “Alright, hon. We’re going to go have a shower, okay?” She uses all her strength to push Shari to sitting, and though she goes, Shari offers no help.

I stay outside the bathroom while they work in there together. The shower runs and Barbara speaks loud enough to be heard through the door, but although Barbara speaks as though she’s getting answers, I don’t hear Shari at all.

I lean against the wall and study the bed, the crisp white sheets marred by the gruesome blood as it soaks and spreads in a circle more than two-feet round. I spoke to Shari yesterday, and though she wasn’t acting a whole lot different to today – lethargic, almost bored, nonresponsive – at least she was getting up to use the bathroom. My eyes slowly sweep around the room, taking in the ugly print on the wall, a hand wrapped around another as though in an artistic embrace, though the blues and greens of the print are faded and make it look tired. There are posters everywhere, illustrating how to resuscitate a patient, how to breastfeed, numbers to call to reach lactation consultants, who to call if you suspect you’re suffering from post-partum depression. I continue to study the room, then my eyes stop on paperwork sitting on the lunch tray pushed up against the opposite wall.

The white envelope on the bottom, and the stack of papers on top, seem so out of place, so corporate, the complete opposite to the room’s occupant. I step toward it, and though I vow not to touch, I can’t deny my curiosity.

My eyes are immediately drawn to the logo at the top - Montgomery Law - and a million memories wash through my consciousness; Arthur Montgomery. Megan Montgomery. Sneaking out of the Montgomery house to go find the guys…

Once upon a time, Montgomery Law used to be Ricardo and Sons, then Ricardo and Montgomery, then once I got my folks out of town and Mr. Montgomery bought my dad out, I assume it simply became Montgomery Law.

I haven’t thought of Meg’s father in a long time, but Meg and I sometimes text. She’s married now. She’s a trophy wife with nice boobs and zero responsibility beyond coordinating parties for her lawyer husband. She’s just as nice to me as she was in high school, but we don’t have a whole lot in common anymore. She disagreed with my decisions back in senior year, and in all my teenage wisdom, I shut her out when she called me on it. I now know she only wanted to help me, but I couldn’t see past my own feet at the time, and I wasn’t up to listening to logic. If I’d simply taken a deep breath like she asked me to, if I’d only considered my actions, if I’d devoted one more single day before I made big choices, my life might have worked out differently.

She called me out for my stupid choices, I called her out for being an opinionated bitch, and now our friendship is polite, but nothing deeper. We don’t share our secrets like we once did. We don’t call each other after a long shitty day, and we don’t call to gossip. We’re strangers who were once best friends, and though that’s a tragedy – because every girl needs a best girlfriend – it’s the least traumatic loss of my life.

I take a deep cleansing breath as my eyes refocus on the envelope, and with shaking hands, my finger traces along the embossed logo. I know Arthur Montgomery specializes in adoptions. And though it’s a huge coincidence that Shari chose to use that law firm, from that small town, that’s not the reason my hands shake and my heart thunders in my chest.

The ramifications of the envelope’s contents is what has me sweating. Shari’s going to give her baby up. Despite my efforts, despite my offers of help and begging that she try to bond with that sweet baby girl, she’s still going to give her up.

Just the thought of never seeing her again hurts my heart, so I mentally make plans to oversee the case and assess the potential new parents. Lily and I have bonded, and I’m not going to walk away so easily.

“I want you to adopt my baby, Ms. Samantha.”

Gasping and spinning, I come face to face with Shari’s serious eyes. Her hair is wet, her body cleaner than it was ten minutes ago, her cracked lips moist from the shower. Her eyes are hard as they pin me to the spot and her voice is stronger than it was earlier. There’s no monotone anymore, but a fiery hot demand. She leans past me and picks up the envelope. “I already got some stuff drawn up.”

“It doesn’t work that way, Shari. We aren’t transferring ownership of a car.”

“I don’t know how it works exactly.” She leans against the counter on the wall adjacent to me in a fresh hospital gown. Barbara follows her into the room, then obviously listening in but feigning nonchalance, she strips the bed and whistles softly. That’s fine with me. I need a witness to this car crash conversation.

“I just know my daughter needs a home and I want you to take her.”

“I can’t.” I really, really can’t. Pushing aside wants and desires and worries about the what if’s, I literally can’t. My problems are bigger than anyone even knows, and they revolve largely around Sam Turner, my… husband.

“I want you to make it happen, Ms. Samantha. We were meant to meet. You were meant to be my baby’s mama.”

I shake my head and start to walk across the room. “I can’t--”

“You foster babies?”

“Yes. I have. But I’m just a temporary home, Shari. I take care of kids for a night or a week, but eventually they move to their permanent homes. I’m not the person you need.”

“Well,” she shrugs casually, her attitude and faux confidence a stark contrast to her demeanor from only minutes ago. “Start with a night, then a week, then go from there. I won’t be leaving this hospital with her, Ms. Samantha. I can’t take care of her.” The confidence leaves her as tears flood her eyes. “I can’t even take care of myself. Lily needs a home. Please take care of her.”

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