Until I Find You - Rea Frey Page 0,52

lucky they are to live here. The town is small, but safe. Kids can still ride their bikes and run to each other’s houses. Though they live in a modern world, Savi can still cling to a bit of that childhood freedom Crystal had when she was younger. Savi just needs to make some friends first.

At the ice cream shop, Savi presses her nose against the window. “Yum!” She pulls open the door and is gone before Crystal can even comment. She catches her reflection in the glass and is surprised to find herself smiling.

She steps in after her daughter and inhales the delicious buttery scent of fresh waffle cones and indulgent flavors. Savi asks for samples, straining on tiptoes. Crystal admires her daughter, her palms splayed on smudged glass, hair smooth and straight, eyes alight with an exciting childhood tradition. Her tanned calves flex, the peach fuzz more evident in her prepubescent years. A bright Band-Aid covers the side of her knee. Crystal memorizes this version of her daughter on a perfect summer day.

“Mom, what are you getting?” Savi turns, her gorgeous spray of freckles on display.

Crystal shakes out of her reverie. “Let me see.” She rubs her hands together and joins her to peruse the endless flavors. “What are my choices?”

A few minutes later, they sit outside, eating their ice cream cones. The heat melts the sickly sweet scoops, and Crystal hurries to lick hers before it makes her hands sticky. Parade participants prepare at the end of the block: dancers, band members with clunky instruments, oversized floats, even the mayor, dressed in a funny top hat and bright suit to match. Neighbors line the streets, their viewing spots solidified. She wonders where they should watch.

In her pocket, her phone buzzes. It’s Pam. She hesitates, then ignores it. She wants to sit with her daughter, enjoy the parade, and eat ice cream. A normal day.

She smiles at Savi, but a knot of worry sprouts while she continues to eat. Though she’s trying to create a new sense of peace for her family, what she’s really doing is biding her time until something—or someone—tears it all apart.

21

BEC

“Do you have an appointment?”

I keep my sunglasses on at the reception desk and try to plaster on a friendly smile. “I don’t, but I was wondering if you could help me.” I take a breath and keep my voice as steady as I can, despite the panic rotating in my chest like a ceiling fan on maximum speed. “I delivered my son at Prentice in Chicago, but I live in Elmhurst now. He had the digital footprint done there, but their system got hacked and he’s no longer showing up.” I play my trump card. “I’m blind, so having the digital scan is critical in case something were to ever happen. I was just wondering if I could get him scanned and entered into the system since this is our primary care?”

“You’ll have to make an appointment.” The woman taps a few computer keys. “Our next available is…” More pecking. “September twentieth.”

“That’s over a month away,” I say.

“That’s our earliest available.” She stops typing.

I weigh my options. Why didn’t I just start with some version of the truth? “I actually don’t need an appointment. I just need the scan.”

“I understand, but we don’t do the scan in this office. That’s actually done by a nurse when the baby is born—not at checkups. They can do it if he’s here for a well-child visit, but that’s all. You might try maternity?”

“Thanks.”

I back out of the office and ask someone in the hall which way to the maternity ward. In the hall, I extract my phone and research the company who actually does these scans: CertaScan. I think about calling them to see if they could access the database but decide to try maternity first. I locate the floor and suite number and figure out where I’m going thanks to a woman in the hallway. Memories terrorize me as I recall Jackson’s birth only three months ago. I rip away the anguish and approach yet another front desk.

“Hi.” I replay the same story I told pediatrics.

“Have a seat and let me see what I can do.”

The lies are just getting started, but I tell myself it’s what I have to do to get proof. An idea blooms while I wait. After twenty minutes, I’m called back and a kind nurse—Beatrice—leads me into what I assume to be a standard exam room. I’ve left the