Page 120 of Salty Pickle

Rhett: Where are they?

Court: Vegas and France.

Rhett: You check Vegas?

Court: Right. Because that’s a town where it’s easy to find people who want to be lost.

Rhett: But she has a goat. A goat in Vegas will stick out about as much as a goat in Manhattan. Check social media. People might have posted videos.

Court: It’s useless.

Rhett: It’s not like you to give up.

Court: Fuck off.

Rhett: Yeah, I get it. I totally get it.

Does he? I doubt it.

I drag the swing to the living room. It looks ridiculous there, but at least it will be gone soon.

I unload drawers, but every stack of baby garments I pick up is a stab to my chest.

Maybe Maggie can do this. I just need to move the heavy stuff.

I start pushing the changing table into the hall when my cell phone rings on the dresser.

The caller ID reads UNAVAILABLE. I answer the call, my heart pounding. Could it be her? “This is Court.”

“Court Armstrong?”

My shoulders drop as I realize it’s not Lucy.

“Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it.”

I’m about to hang up when she rushes out the words, “It’s the OB/GYN’s office.”

I lift the phone back to my ear. “Is Lucy okay?”

“That’s what we wanted to ask you. We got a request for her records this morning, then a notice that she was in labor in a hospital in Denver, Colorado.”

I make up a lie, so it seems I’m in the loop. “She’s visiting her parents. Which hospital?”

She rattles off the name, and I race to the kitchen to grab something to use to write it down.

“Are you not with her?” the woman asks.

“I’m on the way.” That’s not a lie. “When did you get the call?”

“About two hours ago.”

She could have had the baby by now. Or it might be twenty more hours. It’s impossible to know.

The woman sounds concerned. “Naturally, Dr. Martin won’t be her doctor of record there.”

“I understand. Of course. The travel was unexpected. A family issue. Thank you for all you did for her.”

I hang up, running in a dead sprint for my bedroom. I have no time to pack properly. I slide everything from my bathroom counter into a duffel bag, along with a pile of random clothes.

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