Chapter 22: Whose Baby

The ward was dark except for the desk lamp at the nurses' station and the green numbers on Lydia's monitor.

She was sitting up when I came in.

She had washed her face, and her hair was tied back with a hospital band.

She looked about fifteen.

"Sit," she said. "Not in the chair. Here."

I sat on the edge of the bed.

She took my left hand in both of hers and turned it over, and ran her thumb across my bent little finger.

"I rehearsed this for ten years," she said. "Every version starts with me saying I'm sorry."

"You've said it."

"I'm going to say it again after."

"Lydia. Tell me."

She took a breath.

"The first year at the gallery, he came once a month and shook hands."

"Then he started asking for me by name."

"Who?"

"Say it for me. I can't."

"Miles's father."

Her face crumpled.

"Yes."

The monitor ticked.

I did not move.

"He gave me a raise, and a reference, and a flat."

"He asked me to coffee, and I went, because who says no to the man who signs your pay?"

"He asked about Mom. I told him she was sick and far away. He said he'd look after me."

"Did he..."

"He never forced me." She said it to the blanket.

"I've gone over it every night. He never raised his voice. He owned the room I worked in."

"In June, after the summer reception, he drove me home. He came up. I didn't say yes. I didn't say no."

My hand tightened on hers.

I wanted to find him.

I wanted it so badly my vision narrowed.

"In July I found out," she said. "I went to his office and told him."

"I thought he'd be angry."

"He was pleased."

"He was..." She stopped. "He was pleased. He said it was the best thing that had happened to the family in thirty years."

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