Page 78 of Crave Me

With the exception of Wren’s voice in the background, and the laughter that comes from Susanna and Gavin as Wren finishes her story, there’s no other sound.

“Is Gavin’s condition treatable?”

I don’t know why I ask. I suspect it’s because neither Clifton nor Susanna have anyone to tell.

The shimmer in Clifton’s eyes reflects his grief as well as his love. “No. Everything we do only prolongs his life a little longer.” He laughs without humor. “The doctors originally told us he wouldn’t make it to see his second birthday. But because of the treatment he’s received here, he gets to turn four.”

My vocal cords constrict as I force the words out. “How long do the doctors say he has now?”

Clifton tips back his beer, taking several swallows before answering. “Not as long he deserves,” he says, pain and bitterness shadowing his features. “I’m going to outlive my son by decades, Evan. But because of your company, and everything it’s allowed me to give him, maybe I’ll get to see him attend his prom.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, never meaning those two words more. “Perhaps with medical knowledge and treatment advancing as it is, that will change.”

“That’s what we’re counting on,” he says, his resolve evident in his tone.

I lift the bottle to my lips when the quiet envelops us. In the next room, Wren asks Gavin what his favorite toy is. His mother answers for him when he appears to struggle to form his words. That doesn’t stop Wren from asking him more questions, her animated voice absent of the sadness I suspect is there.

How can it not be?

Any other day or situation, I’d find comfort in hearing her voice, and in a way I still do, although this time the effect is muted. I want to gift that small amount of comfort to Clifton and assure him everything will work out. But I don’t know that, and you can’t comfort a man who knows that each day that passes is one day closer to losing his child.

“We should head into family room,” he says. “Susanna bought crafts for kids to work on and I’m not sure if she put enough paint out.”

“It’s not much, a few birdhouses,” he adds when I finally take my first sip of beer. “But the kids will like it and the therapist says painting helps Gavin’s fine motor skills.”

“I’m sure they’ll enjoy it.” It’s all I manage to say. Because what the fuck else am I going to say? Life goes on, whether you want it to or not.

A few more people arrive, but not many children. The few who show glance around the living room as their parents urge them forward, evidently unfamiliar with their surroundings. Anne strolls in carrying a diaper bag behind a woman cuddling a small infant. She pauses when she sees me, waving madly.

The man who trails her almost runs into her when he sees me, as does the woman looking for a place to hang her coat. I recognize the man as Clifton’s apprentice and the woman as his intern. It’s safe to assume those who’ve gathered are the families from Clifton’s department.

I nod in their direction as Wren takes a seat beside me on the couch. The woman smiles nervously. The man offers a rather awkward tilt of his chin.

“Hey, Roberto,” Wren calls to him. “How’d you make out at the chiropractor?”

“Hey, Wren—I mean, Miss O’Brien,” he adds quickly after another glance my way. “It was a great experience. Real great. The best.”

He’s an articulate man from what I’ve seen through my brief interactions with him, but he trips over his words and finds elsewhere to look when I place my arm around Wren. It’s a natural response when she’s near me, and one I imagined would help him to relax. Instead, he moves further away, appearing to find an excuse to speak to his wife.

Wren places her hand on my knee, unaffected. “Told you I knew a guy.”

“What?” I ask.

She leans into me. “I referred Roberto to the chiropractor I’ve been bugging you to see. The poor bastard could barely turn his head before he saw Dr. Kapowski. Now, look at him. Good as the day he popped out of his mother’s lady parts.”

I chuckle, whispering in her ear. “Why didn’t you tell me we were coming here?”

She lifts her chin, speaking so low I strain to hear. “Because you would have found some new technology to research, a report to read, or an email to write. You wouldn’t have come, and you needed to.”

The way she regards me demonstrates nothing but warmth. Her intent isn’t to insult me. She’s simply stating a fact I can’t deny.

“Oh, by the way. We’re going to Anne and Stefana’s wedding in two weeks,” she adds. “The Justice of the Peace is coming to their house, and the reception will be in their backyard. It should be pretty with the flowers and trees blooming like they are.”

I smirk. “Anything else I should know?” I ask, watching as Susanna explains the art project as Clifton lays out more newspaper.

“Yeah, you’re giving Anne away.”

“I beg your pardon?” I ask, certain I misheard.

---