Page 50 of Nanny for the Firefighter

I’ve tried the cops to an extent, but in LA Jai knew the captain of the department close to our house. He has pull.

Pull I don’t have.

So, running seemed like the better thing to do. I’m not so sure anymore, and maybe it’s time I reconsider my plans.

I’m terrified something will happen to Mason or Mia, and myself of course, but I think I might be more terrified that I’ll be stuck in this loop forever.

Run, hide, panic, repeat.

I can’t keep that up.

“Well, for now, I’m going upstairs to get changed. I have some errands to do for Mom.”

I stand up from the table, looking down at Meredith. “Thank you. Really.”

“Any time, Bridget. I’m here whenever you need me.”

With another smile and a quick over-the-shoulder hug, I go back upstairs to get ready for the day.

I know I have to figure all this out, but I have time. There’s no rush yet.

At least, I hope so.

FOURTEEN

Bridget

I realize that I’m not the one going to the doctor, and I’m still panicking. My mother doesn’t seem too fazed, but I know that she’s a pro at compartmentalizing.

She’s been doing it since we lost Dad, and here I am, wondering if I’m going to lose her too.

I can’t do that. I won’t make it—not with everything else going on in my life.

“Beverly Monroe?” A nurse calls out, and we head to the door.

Mom follows along behind the nurse, apparently familiar with the route, and I feel like I’m just tagging along.

We’re shown into a small room with a number on the door, and my mother sits down on the examination table, which she needs my help to climb.

I sit across from her in a little chair that is less than comfortable, fiddling with her purse strap as I hold it for her.

It takes everything to keep the calm smile on my face, and I’m sure it’s not convincing. After a few moments, the doctor walks in, and I’m actually surprised we didn’t have to wait long.

The benefits of being a chronic illness patient.

“Hi, Bev. How are you feeling? Do you think the new medications are helping?”

Mom brightens up, grinning over at the younger doctor who greets her like an old friend.

“Hi, Dr. Anderson. Yes, I think they are. Plus,” she looks over at me, “I have help remembering when to take them all now. This is my daughter, Bridget. She’s been getting me all set up with a pill case and a schedule. I swear, it’s like living withmymother again.”

The doctor chuckles lightly, her voice relaxed and low. “Nice to meet you, Bridget.”

As she walks over to my mom, she does the classic checks, heart rate, breathing, etc., and it’s easy to see how this woman got into medical school.

Her movements are methodical and thorough, and she is personable. Still, I can sense the impressive focus she has for her work.

“So, doctor,” I start, trying not to stick my nose in even though this is my mother, and I’m more than “allowed” to know how she’s doing, “how are things looking?”

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