Page 74 of Lillian

So try not to panic, right? Un-freaking-likely.

I’min the hospital bathroom fixing my hair into a low, neat bun and touching up my makeup when a knock rapts on the door. “Lil, if you don’t leave soon you’re going to be late,” Kim calls from the other side, making me look at the time on my watch.

Shit.

She’s right.

With one last look in the mirror, I decide it’s about as good as it’s going to get. I swipe the black blazer that is hanging on one of the handicap rails and rush out.

It’s mid-morning Wednesday. Court day.

After Grace was admitted in the middle of the night Monday, or I guess Tuesday morning, they took some scans and saw her left lung was fifty percent filled with fluid, and there was some inflammation on her right lung, too.

The older, kind nurse told me the doctor would want to keep Grace for several days to give the antibiotics time to work and make sure the fluid drains. For that, they told her to stopswallowing the mucus she was coughing up—which I didn’t even know she was doing—and spit it in a cup.

Since she can’t leave yet, I’m going to the hearing alone while Kim and Nicky stay here with Grace.

Not having her in the courtroom is a mistake,my lawyer had said when I called to tell him Grace wouldn’t be there.We have a strong case, but nothing is going to be as strong as the judge seeing her with you and hearing her say she wants to live with you.

But I shut that down fast. Even if it would help, I refuse to jeopardize Grace’s health to take her to this farce of a hearing. I’m the one who has been taking care of her for four years. That has to be enough.

My modest, one-inch heels click across the linoleum floor as I hustle over to Grace. “I love you. I’ll be back tonight. Be good for Aunt Kim and be polite to the nurses.”

She doesn’t even look up from Nicky’s gameboy he brought from home. “Love you, Mommy.”

Well, at least I got that. I grab my phone from the stand beside her bed, blow a goodbye kiss to Kim, and leave the room. When I make it to my car, I check my phone for any calls or texts from Michael, my lawyer. There’s just one telling me to show up on time.

No shit,I want to type back, but just go with ‘okay’ instead.

Then I check the one from Lincoln. In another bout of terrible news, Becca’s hearing was moved up. To today.

They paid someone in the judge’s office off. They had to have. That’s the only way something like this moves so quickly.He was absolutely fuming on our phone call late yesterday afternoon when he got the news. I had called to tell him about Grace that morning, and he wanted to drive to Flagstaff to be here for her. I told him not to worry about it, to stay in Phoenix.What a blessing that turned out to be because he would have ended up missing the letter stating the date was moved.

So we’ll both be in the same courthouse, at the same time, fighting for our family. If it wasn’t so unbelievably screwed up, I’d almost see the irony in it all. But it is screwed up, and I have this terrible feeling in my gut that won’t go away. That feeling pretty much sums up a question I’ve been asking myself all day.

What are the odds we both leave the courthouse today with a good outcome?

Pulling up to the courthouse is a test to my already fried nerves. I have to make three passes around it before I can find a parking spot, and now I’m a few minutes behind schedule. Michael is waiting for me on the steps as we walk in.

“Sorry I’m late,” I pant as I run up to him.

He shakes his head. “You're not late. I always tell my clients to be here thirty minutes before I need them just to be safe. Let’s go in.”

I can’t tell whether I’m annoyed or impressed by that. As a little bead of sweat drips down my back and a few hairs whip into my eyes from where they fell from my once neat bun, I go with annoyed.

“I need to go to the bathroom to freshen up,” I grumble at him, and he nods and pulls his phone out as he stops next to it to wait for me.

Standing in front of the mirror, I grab some paper towels, untuck my blouse, and dry all the sweat from my back and undermy boobs. Shirt tucked back in, I take a little water and tamp down the frizzies in my hair.

Michael is still in the same place he was when I walk back out, fussing with the length of my skirt. He sees me and puts me at ease. “You look fine, don’t worry. Mature and professional. You did good.”

A little hope creeps in. Professional enough to convince a judge to let me keep my child, hopefully.

“Remember,” he starts, and I interrupt him, nerves already frying my control.

“Turn off my phone, be respectful, don’t look bored, let you do the talking.” I wring my hands together as we walk to the room where Judge Whittington is hearing our case.

The smirk on Michael’s face is amused. “You got it.” Then the smirk drops off as he gets serious again. “Listen, this is a hearing where you’re trying to keep your child. Don’t talk over the judge or anything, but showing him how much you love Grace is paramount. Since she isn’t here for him to see it for himself, you have to fight for her.”

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