Page 5 of Blue Lines and Lullabies

“Mr. Dawson?” A middle-aged woman stares expectantly at me from a small desk inside the office. “Please come in.”

As soon as I step into her office, I realize what bereavement means. It means death. “Oh, shit. She died, didn’t she? This Nicole chick died.”

“Yes. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mr. Dawson.”

I move to sit in the chair opposite her desk. “I really don’t know why I’m here then if she’s dead. Did she list me as the person to pay her medical bills or something?”

“No, she had medical insurance. That’s not the problem. You see, Mr. Dawson, Ms. Givens suffered a rare complication while undergoing a cesarean section that proved to be fatal. Doctors tried relentlessly to bring her back, but she couldn’t be saved.”

“Cesarian? That’s giving birth, right?”

“Yes.”

“Did the baby survive?”

“Yes. A little girl. She’s being monitored, but she suffered no ill effects from the birth.”

“Oh, that’s good.” I let out a small exhale, relieved for at least one piece of good news. “I still don’t get why I’m here —”

Oh my fucking God.

Time slows to a crawl. The clock above Sandy’s head slowly ticks; each time the second hand moves, my brain pulses.

Nicole Givens.

“Nicole is blonde, right? Was blonde. Blue eyes, I think? Star tattoo on her shoulder.” Suddenly, my memory is crystal clear. She wasn’t a puck bunny, but someone I met at a bar outside of town, and with whom I had spent one night.

“Yes.”

“Is the kid mine?”

“That’s what we’re hoping to find out. We’d like you to take a DNA test.”

“How did you find me? I mean, how?”

“She listed you in the paperwork when she came in for her induction.”

I can feel the blood pulsing through my veins, my heart beating so hard I bet it’s visible on the outside. Am I a dad? How is this fucking possible? “She had — I used a condom. And she said she was on the pill.”

“No birth control is one hundred percent, Mr. Dawson.”

“Why the fuck am I just finding out about this now? She fucking lives here! She could have told me months ago! I would have been here, could have been here when …” I trail off. I don’t know what I would have done. And now I’ll never understand why she chose not to tell me about my daughter.

My daughter.

“Can I see her? The baby?”

“Yes. I’d first like you to sign off on these bereavement papers so I can relinquish Ms. Givens’ personal belongings to you, and then we’ll get the paternity test completed.”

“Shouldn’t her stuff go to someone who knew her? Parents or something?”

“Ms. Givens said her parents passed on many years ago. She didn’t speak of any friends, but nurses said she was very excited about becoming a mom.”

Jesus Christ. I can’t believe this.

Two hours and a DNA test later, I’m whisked into the neonatal intensive care unit, where I’m immediately told to scrub my hands and arms up to my elbows, then asked to suit up in a paper gown, hair net, and booties.

“I thought you said the baby was fine?” I ask nervously as I slide the booties over my shoes.

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