Page 18 of Single Mom's Daddies
I exchange a glance with Roman. He gives a slight nod. Still cautious. Still not committed.
Lolita watches us like a cat at the edge of a chessboard. “You want someone older? Someone you think won’t look twice at the shadows around your house? Fine. But you need someone smart. Someone who can ad-lib with the best of them, and that comes from nine years of working in a peds office with nosy kids who don’t understand what’s happening to them and parents who are scared for their kids or mad about their bills or upset with a nurse, and so on. She’s your girl.”
Victor taps a finger against his glass. “Too much heart makes people curious.”
“Too much detachment makes people dangerous,” she shoots back.
“Give her my number,” I say. “She can text me to set up a time.”
Victor glares at me. “You’re really doing this?”
“We can interview her at the house, and see how she fits in. It’s not like our home’s location is some secret. She won’t see anything she shouldn’t, and we can feel her out.”
Roman doesn’t argue. Which, in his language, means he’s willing to try it.
Lolita straightens, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her shirt. “I’ll let her know. Don’t scare her off.”
“Can’t make promises,” I say.
She rolls her eyes and walks out with her tray, hips swaying. Just before the door swings shut behind her, she glances over her shoulder and says, “She’s a good one. Don’t fuck it up.”
The door clicks shut.
“I miss the days when people were scared of us.” Victor finishes his drink. “I still think this is a mistake.”
Roman glowers into his drink. “I’ll interview her. I’ll be interacting with her the most. Should be me.”
I sit back, arms draped along the back of the booth, thinking about the woman behind the name. Saffron. She has no idea what she’s about to walk into.
And that’s the only reason this might actually work.
5
SAFFRON
Hospitals always smell like lies.
Clean ones—disinfectant, soft cotton—but lies all the same. Like if they keep everything white enough, bright enough, we’ll forget that kids die here every day.
I hate that I know which vending machines never eat your dollars, which nurse makes the best coffee, which elevator skips the third floor when it’s too full. I hate that I can tell how Ivy’s doing before I ever walk in, by the way the machines beep outside her door.
Today, it’s the long beeps. The slow, rhythmic ones that mean stable, not crashing. I exhale before I step into her room.
She’s tiny in the bed.
Always has been, but somehow the sheets make her look smaller. Like she’s dissolving. There’s a coloring book open next to her, but she’s not using it. She’s curled up like a cat, knees to chest, wires trailing from both arms and across her chest. Her hair’s in two fuzzy braids, coming undone at the edges.
She opens one eye when she hears me. “Hi, Mama.”
“Hi, baby.” My voice is soft and cracked. I don’t mean for it to be. I just haven’t said anything all day that didn’t involve a medical code or insurance paperwork.
I sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle the IV line, and brush the backs of my fingers down her cheek.
She’s warm. That shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. She looks cold.
“You bring my socks?” she asks.
I smile. “The rainbow ones.”
