Page 17 of Sinful Promises

Roman placed his hand on my forearm, snapping me back to the present. “Are you going to answer that?”

Numb with fear, I nodded. Clutching the phone, I stood and forced my legs to take me out of the banquet hall. In the ancient stone-lined hallway, with my back against the wall, I swiped the phone to answer. “Hello. This is Daisy.”

“Good morning, Daisy. This is Doctor McLean from the St George Hospital in Sydney.”

“Oh, God.” A Mack truck of emotions drove through my chest. “Is Mom . . . is she—” I couldn’t say the words that were careening through my brain.

“She’s fine.” Doctor McLean was calm, possibly even amused by my quivering words.

I sucked in a shaky breath. “Oh, okay then.” Just swallowing hurt—like jagged rocks were embedded in my throat. “What can I do for you?”

“Actually, it’s what you can do for your mother.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and the image of my mother’s gaunt appearance flashed into my brain. “Does she need money?”

He made a noise like he was utterly exhausted, and I imagined he made these types of calls nearly every day. “That’s not important right now. She needs you.”

I snapped my eyes open. “Did she ask you to ask me that?”

“Yes, she said you didn’t understand the extent of her cancer.”

Once again, Mother had managed to sweet-talk another doctor into this phone call. “I understand perfectly, Doctor McLean. As I have already told Doctor Alberts, I can’t just pop in to say hi because I live and work in Europe. I’m in Austria right now and it’s nearly midnight. I have already told Mother I will be there just after Christmas when my visa expires.”

“Hmmm.” He went silent, and I wondered if he was in the same room as Mother, looking into those eyes that could get many a man to do what she wanted.

Yet I found my resolve crumbling. I inhaled a slow breath, trying to steady my wobbly throat. Pierced by a sadness that was as confusing as it was unwanted, I said, “How bad is she, Doctor?”

He sighed, and it was a heavy sigh, convincing me that she was indeed in the same room as him. “Patricia is in the metastatic stage of her breast cancer. We are giving her the best care.” He paused, and I heard him walking. I assumed it was to leave Mother’s bedside so she couldn’t listen to his side of the conversation. “Daisy, I’m sorry to tell you this over the phone, but your mother doesn’t have very long to live.”

A knot burned in my throat, making it hard to breathe. I squeezed my eyes shut and images of Mother flickered across my mind like a broken 8mm film: Mother drinking straight from a wine bottle as she danced in the sand; Mother lifting her skirt and giggling as she ran through a puddle; Mother smiling; crying; laughing; passed out drunk. Clinging onto that final image, I asked, “How long?”

“Days. Weeks. There is no answer to that, I’m afraid.”

I opened my eyes and Roman was right there, his face crumbling with distress. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around me. And with my hand clinging the phone to my ear, he pulled me to his chest. His heart thumped in my other ear—a regular beat, so out of tempo with my own thundering heart.

A sob crawled through my chest, but I held it back. My chin trembled, but I fought it. “Thank you for calling, Doctor McLean.” A tear trickled down my cheek. I flicked it away, angry that Mother still had that effect on me. She didn’t deserve my compassion. She didn’t deserve my distress. I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I need to sort some things out.”

“May I tell your mother that you are coming?”

“I already told her I was.”

“Okay, Daisy, but I would advise you not to wait long.”

I jabbed the red button, hanging up the call, and that wretched sob burst from my throat. And I hated myself for it. Mother meant nothing to me.

“Hey, Dais.” Roman curled his hand over my hair, down my back. “Is your mamma okay?”

Looking up at him was the worst thing I could have done. He too was distraught. Mother did not deserve his compassion either. I nodded, unable to speak.

“She hasn’t . . .” His eyes were filled with fear.

“No. No. She’s . . . she’s fine.” My throat constricted till I could barely breathe, and I fought the emotion—fought it so hard my stomach burned.

“Oh, Dais.”

The way he said my name, loaded with all the sympathy in the world, had tears pooling in my eyes. He tugged me to his chest, and I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the tears down once more. I did not need to cry for the woman who’d treated me like garbage for years.

I was angry with myself. Angry and annoyed and confused. She didn’t deserve me, and she sure as shit didn’t deserve Roman. I sucked in a breath and bit down my emotions.

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