Before I Let You Go(5)
And then I looked out at my whole school, somewhere between spellbound and dumbfounded, and I saw that Lexie was on her feet clapping with her hands over her head, and Mom was standing on the side of the room, still beside her class but wiping a tear from her cheek, and even my dad was standing on his chair at the back of the room cheering and clapping. He pumped his fist in the air and I saw him shout, and the applause felt like thunder rolling over me.
Dad carried me home on his shoulders that day. Lexie told me she was jealous that they made an award just for me—for all of her achievements, that had never happened to her. Mom let me pick the restaurant for dinner; I picked Italian because I knew everyone liked it. While we waited for dessert, Dad and Mom gave me a present wrapped in silver foil with a big pink ribbon around it. It was this journal.
“For my future writer,” Dad said. “I can’t wait to see where your talent takes you, my little love.”
That night, Dad tucked me into my bed with the notepad in my arms cuddled close to me like a teddy bear. I remember thinking that my notepad was too precious to use on ordinary words so I’d have to save it until I could come up with a worthy story. It’s telling that I’m thirty years old and I’ve only just written in it today, and only because you suggested it. Maybe the only thing that makes this story special enough for this journal is that I’m clutching at straws. I have tried everything else to get better—maybe this link back to those happier times with Dad has some magical power that methadone maintenance programs and rapid-detox regimens and inpatient rehab centers do not.
The day I got this journal was the very best day of my life, which is pretty pathetic, isn’t it? But I do still remember every aspect of it—from the chalky smell of the auditorium, to the feel of Dad’s strong shoulders beneath my legs as he carried me home, to the taste of the Parmesan on my spaghetti at dinner. I remember most of all the way that, although he’d swapped his standard day shift to a night shift so he could make it to the assembly and although he really had to go to work that night, Dad lingered in the room I shared with Lexie after he put us to bed. For the first time, I could see that he was every bit as proud of me as he was of her.
“Look after your baby sister, huh?” Dad said to Lexie when he finally rose to leave. He often said that to her, ever since they brought me home as a newborn and she was jealous of all the attention I got. You were so cute, Mom used to tell me. We had to convince her that we actually got you just for her so she wasn’t jealous. Long after my cuteness had worn off, the phrase lingered—meaningless, other than a small reminder to us both that as sisters we belonged, in some small way, to each other.
But that night, as she did every other time Dad said it, Lexie nodded with utmost seriousness, and even after Dad had left the room and I was drifting off to sleep, I heard her say softly, “I’m proud of you, too, Annie.”
Those words meant so much, and the day meant so much, and I closed my eyes that night as the happiest seven-year-old in the world.
But although it was a great day, Luke—I actually remember the exact date not because that was the best day, but because the worst days followed.
3
LEXIE
Annie freaks out when Sam tries to call an ambulance, and I calm her by suggesting that we could maybe just drive her. Soon we are making our way to the car, headed for Sam’s hospital—and the panic within me gives way to dread. There are closer hospitals, and certainly more suitable options, but he is adamant that she will get the best care with his colleagues. Annie hesitates again when she realizes that Sam works at one of the more upmarket hospitals in the county. Maybe she’s worried about the bill. Well, if she is, that makes two of us.
“Can’t we just wait until morning and go to Lexie’s clinic?” she asks, and I almost wish we could—at least then I could keep her from his workplace.
“You need to be admitted to a proper hospital. My clinic doesn’t have the right facilities.”
“My hospital,” Sam repeats firmly. “It’s the best option.”
Still, I catch his arm after he helps her into his car and pushes the door closed.
“But she won’t have insurance,” I whisper somewhat awkwardly.
“It’s fine, Lexie. She’s family—we’ll take care of it,” is all he says. I spend the thirty-five-minute drive worrying about how this is going to play out. Sam’s parents covered his tuition—but I have hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt between my student loans and the credit cards I used to put Annie through rehab, plus Sam and I did just buy the house, and the bill for Annie’s treatment could be immense. Maybe Sam will get a staff discount, and Medicaid will surely cover some of it . . . but even so . . . this is likely a huge financial undertaking.
I’d have covered her bills myself, probably without even thinking twice about it. But Sam is involved now, and it feels wrong for him to pay for Annie’s care. And then there’s the potential for untold drama—the last time I let Annie near my clinic, she was caught breaking in one night raiding the meds cabinet, and I almost lost my job over it.
Annie is in the front seat and I’m in the back, so I can’t actually talk to Sam about my concerns. We will just have to sort it out later, once the emergency passes and we’re sure the baby is fine.
As he drives, Sam calls the obstetrics ward on the Bluetooth car kit and briefs the consultant obstetrician on the situation. I notice the way that he carefully avoids any reference to Annie’s addiction, other than a quiet murmur right toward the end of the call, when he simply says, “There is potential for the infant to suffer NAS.”