Page 15 of Saint Nick
The snowplows had finally come through, and he decided to run back to his place to grab some clothes and toiletries. There were only two more days until Christmas, and he wanted to stop by the mall to pick something nice to give to Sandy for their first Christmas together. He didn’t want to assume that they’d have more holidays in their future, but he hoped like hell that they would.
When he told her that he was going to run back to his place, he could see the disappointment on her face. That was all the evidence he needed to ask his next question. He wanted to grab some of his things and come back over to her place, and he was happy when she agreed. Hell, he wasn’t sure what he wanted next with her, but he was sure that he needed to be with her while he decided that.
Being at her house felt natural to him—it felt right. At first, he felt as though he was intruding in her space. He had invaded her home, her life, and her daily routine, but after a while, he felt as though he belonged there with her. It was as ifhe was supposed to be with Sandy at her house, and that was when things really blossomed between the two of them. He allowed his walls to drop, allowing her into his heart, and damn if she didn’t hold residence there now.
The call came just after he finished throwing things into his bag. Nick was anxious to get back to Sandy. She was lucky enough to be able to work from home as an editor, but he still needed to stop by his office to pick up a few files that he needed to work on. It felt strange to be away from her for so long, even though it had only been hours. They had spent every second together since the night of the Christmas party at his club, and being without her now felt foreign in so many ways. So, when his phone buzzed on the coffee table, slicing through the quiet, he thought for sure that it would be Sandy, asking him when he’d be home. The idea of calling her place home made him smile as he picked up the phone to check the caller ID. He hadn’t expected the call would be from an unknown number, but it was. Usually, he let those calls go straight to voicemail, but for some reason, he found himself intrigued by his mystery caller.
He checked the number again, and his gut went cold when he saw the area code. It was for Albany—the town he had lived in for the first four years of his life with his mother. He had almost forgotten about that place and that area code. The last time he talked to anyone from Albany was when he called Child Protective Services to get his files released from the foster care system. He wanted some record of his time there, for some odd reason. Maybe he was looking for answers that life hadn’t given to him yet, but he found none in that manila folder that contained most of his childhood.
He almost didn’t answer, but for some reason, he couldn’t stop himself. “Yeah?” he almost shouted into his cell phone.
“Is this Nicholas Carter?” The voice on the other end was clipped and sounded formal. He knew that what the person was going to say next was something that he’d hate instantly.
“Yes, I’m Nick Carter,” he breathed.
“This is Officer Hall with the Albany PD. We’re contacting you because Margaret Carter was brought in earlier tonight. She listed you as her next of kin.” The name slammed into him like a sucker punch.
Margaret Carter.
His mother.
The woman he hadn’t seen since he was four years old. The woman he thought was dead from the beating she received just before CPS took him away and put him into his first foster home. His fingers tightened around the phone. “She’s dead,” he shouted into the cell phone. “They told me that she was dead.” Every single home that he was shoved into had foster parents who liked to remind him that he was all alone in the world. They told him that his parents were dead—or even better, that they just didn’t want him. Over time, he fully believed both stories. It was one of the main reasons why he had contacted CPS to get his files released, but he found no different story inside his folder when he looked it over.
“I’m not sure why you believe that she’s dead, but she’s alive—just not well. She was found outside a shelter,” the officer continued. “In poor health. She’s stable now, but she asked for you. We thought you should know.”
Nick leaned back, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. “Yeah,” he said after a long beat. “Yeah. I got it. Thanks for the information.”
“Can I tell the hospital to expect you?” the officer asked. He was still trying to wrap his head around the fact thatsomeone had just told him that his mother was alive, and now, they wanted to know if he’d be driving up to Albany for a visit. He didn’t answer right away. His instinct screamed to tell the officer no. That woman was part of a life he’d buried deep and locked away. Seeing her meant digging through everything he’d spent years trying to forget—namely, that he was all alone in the world.
But then he remembered the way she used to hum to him when she strung lights on their tree. The way she’d hold his hand when his dad’s rage shook the walls. She had tried to be a good mom. She wasn’t perfect — but she seemed to love him. That was what he was going to tell himself and try to remember.
“Yeah,” he finally said. “I’ll come.” He was going to have to tell Sandy that his dead mother was back in the picture and asking to see him, then he’d make the drive up to figure out what she wanted. He had questions and hopefully, she’d be able to give him some answers—the first being why she let him believe that she was dead for so long.
Nick knocked on Sandy’s door, not sure what the proper etiquette was now that he had all but moved into her place. He knocked again, wincing at how loud it sounded. He didn’t even realize how hard he’d hit it until his knuckles ached. But then again, everything in him ached right now.
The world had tilted on its axis twenty minutes ago from just one phone call, and one name he hadn’t heard out loud in twenty-five years. And suddenly the ground under his feet didn’t feel steady anymore.
When the door swung open, Sandy stood there, soft lightspilling out from behind her, wrapped in one of those sweaters that made everything about her look warm. She blinked at him, concern already knitting across her face.
“Nick?” she whispered.
He swallowed hard, but the words scraped their way out anyway. “She’s alive.”
Her brow furrowed, “Who?” she asked.
“My mom,” he whispered. Saying it out loud felt strange, foreign — like forcing a rusted lock to turn. Her breath caught, and he could see it in her face—she knew what those two words meant to him. He hadn’t given her much of the story that night, but she’d seen the rough edges of it, and hopefully explained why he hated Christmas so much.
“I thought that you said that your mother is dead,” she reminded. “You need to come in.” She wasn’t asking. Sandy simply grabbed his hand and hauled him into her house, out of the cold.
“Yeah, I thought that she was dead, but apparently, she’s been alive this whole time. A cop called to tell me that she’s in a hospital up in Albany, where I’m from.” He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling restless, trying to ground himself in something solid. “He said she asked for me and that I’m listed as her next of kin.”
“Are you sure that it’s her?” she asked.
“As sure as I can be without running up there,” he said.
“Do you want to go?” she asked softly.
“No,” he admitted, and sighed. “I don’t know. I have so many questions, but what if she refuses to answer any of them?” The air felt too thin. He turned and paced the length of her living room, boots thudding against the wood. “I haven’t seen her in twenty-five years, Sandy. Twenty-five damn years. What the hell am I supposed to say to her? Hey, Mom, Ithought that you were dead.” He barked out his laugh, causing Sandy to jump. He hated that he was scaring her. It was the last thing that he wanted to do.
