Page 2 of Tough Love

The low power warning flashes up on the screen of my phone, and I set it to battery save mode.There goes my entertainment.I slip the device into the pocket of my coat, and fidget with a frayed patch on my designer jeans. I used to feel bad about spending the amount of money I do on clothing and accessories, worried that somehow it portrayed the belief that I thought I was better than the average Joe. But that’s not why I choose to drop two hundred dollars on super-skinny denim.

It’s because I earned the right to.

I studied, I went without to focus on my goal, and I worked my damn arse off to get where I am now. The opportunity to work on half-million dollar apartments around the country, to coordinate their interiors and advise the elite on what style best suits their schedule, isn’t thrown in the laps of the lucky. It’s earned; fought for and won through determination and fire.

I made my life what it is, and so I deserve the rewards, shallow as they may seem to some.

“Ms Harris?”

I glance up at the nurse, who looks apprehensively down at me. “Yes?”

“They’ve collected your sister’s son. He’s here.”

TWO

“How did they pick him up without consent? I mean….”

“In cases of emergency, the police are allowed to collect dependents.” The nurse glides down the corridor with a speed that belies how softly her sensible flat shoes strike the linoleum. “He doesn’t know what happened, how bad it is, just that he’ll be with you until his mum feels better.”

I reach out and catch her elbow, bringing her to a halt. She looks down at the connection, her arm stiff around the patient files she holds close to her chest.

“How old is he?”

Her face says it all:He’s your nephew. How can you not know?

“It’s complicated,” I offer. “I’m not close with my sister.”

“He’s six.”

If she’d said two, four even, maybe it wouldn’t have been such a surprise. But hearing that he’s six, and adding at least nine months to that timeframe, somehow makes it hurt a lot worse when I realise Kath and I had barely parted ways when she fell pregnant with him.

And my family never said a thing. Why?

“Where’s his father?”

“Ms Harris, we can only do so much,” the nurse says gently. “You’ll need to discuss that with your sister when she’s well enough to talk.”

Ifshe’s well enough to talk.

“Of course.” I gesture for the nurse to go ahead, and we resume our flight through the halls.

Mint green gives way to baby blue as we cross into an area that holds no sign of the trauma we’ve left behind. Televisions strategically mounted in the top corners of the large waiting area play sitcoms; something light to lift the mood, no doubt. The furniture is plush and inviting, the toys that spill over in the children’s corner invoking a false sense of home.

The nurse, whose name I never bothered to catch, swings left and leads me past an elderly couple reading tabloids, down to the far corner where the child I presume is my nephew is overshadowed by a uniformed officer. The space between my escort and me grows as my feet slow of their own volition; the realisation dawns that whatever this is, however this situation turns out, it’s all too real now.

I cross my arms over myself and draw my coat over my torso as though it’s a protective shield from the harm this innocent child’s presence can inflict on a cold heart like mine. The nurse catches the officer’s eye, and jerks her head toward me, before leaving just as fluidly as she arrived.

“Ms Harris?” His hushed tone wraps around me like a velour blanket, inviting and comfortable.

“Yes.” I can’t look away from the dark-haired boy as he builds what appears to be a garage out of a pile of blocks.

“You’re the mother’s next of kin?”

I nod, my breath firmly lodged in my throat as the child looks up and questions me withhiseyes.What the hell?She couldn’t have. Shewouldn’thave. Would she?

“Are you in a position to take on his care temporarily?”

I know what Mr Smooth Operator is asking in those dulcet tones: have I got my shit together enough to be in charge of something so precious?

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