Page 50 of Sinful Promises

Stepping back from the elevator, I stared down at my suitcase, waiting for my thumping heart to simmer down. That suitcase had been with me since I got my cruise ship job. The two of us had done some serious miles together. I huffed out a huge sigh, and in that instant, I made a promise to myself:

Before the tick of the clock to my thirtieth birthday, I would find a place that I could call home.

That gave me seven months to figure my life out. Mission accepted.

With that decision made, I swallowed the anxiety in my throat and pushed the up button for the elevator.

After following a series of signs, I arrived at the reception for the oncology ward and was greeted by a young woman who looked like she was nearing the end of a fourteen-hour shift. Her hair was ruffled, her lips were puffy, and her uniform was crinkled. Either that or she’d just shagged a doctor in the utility cupboard.

Hoping it was the latter, for her sake, I smiled and stepped forward. “Hello. My name is Daisy Chayne, and I’m here?—”

“Daisy!” Her eyes lit up. “It’s so nice to meet you. Oh, your mother is going to be so pleased you’re here.” She came out from behind the counter. “Let me show you to her room. I want to see her reaction.”

Grabbing my suitcase handle, I followed the excited nurse as she continued rambling, barely pausing for air. “Patricia is so lovely. She brightens everyone’s day. Poor thing is going through a bit of a rough trot at the moment. But she never complains, you know? And her stories—oh, what a life your mother has led.”

I stared at her, wondering if she had me confused with another Daisy Chayne. But of course, she didn’t. Mother was the queen of telling stories, and she could bend and mold those stories to suit any situation, depending on her own selfish needs.

“I wish all my patients were like Patricia,” the nurse babbled. “It would make every day a pleasure.” She paused outside room 519. “Here we are.”

Before I even entered the room, a ghastly combination of bleach and bacon smells invaded my nostrils. There were three patients in that room, each one separated by a curtain. From my vantage point at the door, I could see three beds. On the first bed, a pair of bare feet were visible. Although the white curtain concealed the owner of the feet, a tiny tree-of-life ankle tattoo and the ring on her toe, left me with no doubt they were Mother’s. While they were embellishments I’d never seen before, both of them suited the woman I used to know perfectly.

If nothing else, my mother had always remained true to herself.

The nurse trotted ahead of me, and as she tugged back the curtain, she said, “You have a visitor, Patricia.”

“Oh, I hope it’s Doctor Alberts. He’s such a lovely man.” Her brittle voice cut a swath of sorrow through me. In my childhood, my mother’s beautiful singing voice had mesmerized many intimate crowds into the small hours of the night.

I inched forward, staring at the veins crawling up her legs. They were also confronting. Mother had always had beautiful shapely legs that she wasn’t afraid to show off in skimpy shorts or a dress with a split that went all the way up and played peekaboo with her thighs when she walked.

Forcing myself to move forward, I stepped around the curtain.

Mother’s head rolled toward me. Her eyes snagged on my hair and then met with mine.

“Hello, Mom.”

“Daisy?” Tears pooled in her eyes. “Daisy!”

I stepped forward and she clutched my hand in hers.

“Oh, it’s so lovely to see you together at last.” The nurse fluffed about with Mom’s pillows. “I’ll leave you two alone for a bit. If you need me at all, you just press this button here. Okay, Daisy?”

I nodded.

“Daisy Chayne. I just love your name. And the story of why your mother chose it—” The nurse clutched her heart. “Oh my. Talk about tugging at the emotional strings.”

I blinked at her. Blinked at my mother.

Fucking hell. A complete stranger knew the origin of my name before I did. Typical. I added that question to my already enormous list.

As the nurse wrote a few things on Mother’s chart at the end of the bed, she hummed a chirpy tune that was so out of place with her dire surroundings. It was interesting. The only images of hospital rooms I could conjure from my memory were ones I’d seen on television. They always had flowers, or balloons, or get-well cards.

Mother had none of those. I guess you needed friends or loved ones to get such treats. Clearly Mother still had neither.

The nurse said goodbye and vanished out the door, leaving us with the sounds of beeping and the ragged breaths of one or possibly both of the patients in the neighboring beds.

“I can’t believe you are actually here.” Mother burst into shallow sobs.

I had no idea why, but as I squeezed her hand with mine, I cried with her.

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