Chapter 9: Our Son

The fourth floor of St. Anne's was painted yellow.

Quincy stopped the car at the curb and did not get out.

"If I go in, he wins the story."

"I know."

"I'll be here with the phone on."

"Quincy."

"I'm not going anywhere."

I went in alone.

The boy was in a room with a glass wall, small under the blankets, a tube taped to the back of his hand.

A nurse was changing a bag.

"He's stable," she told me. "He asked for you."

I looked at the clipboard on the end of his bed.

*Next of kin: G. Stockwell.*

*Guardian on call: G. Stockwell.*

Preston's name was not on the page at all.

"Where's his mother?" I said.

"Family room. Down the hall."

I leaned over the boy.

His lashes lay against his cheeks, and a wet curl had stuck to his forehead.

"I'll be right back, buddy," I whispered.

His eyes opened.

They were gray-green, and they were not Preston's, and they were not Lillian's.

"Aunt Suzie," he said. "Am I going to die?"

I sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Not today," I said.

"The nurse says it's not nice to ask."

"It's nice to ask me."

He looked at the ceiling.

"I don't want Mommy to cry," he said. "She cries when I'm sick. Uncle Ken doesn't. He just holds my hand."

My throat closed.

"I know," I said, and stroked his hair, and could not tell him one true thing.

He slept again.

I pushed the door shut and went toward the family room with my shoes still in my hand.

Voices came through the half-open door.

Keep reading free with an account. Start The Butcher Fiancé, My Saving Angel from Chapter 1, then sign up free to read the rest of this chapter.