much worse, but furious with myself for letting Annie go.
Jason.
I have to tell Jason. It is now almost 4 a.m. in England. The last thing I want to do is disturb him in the middle of the night. Surely it can wait a few more hours, until morning.
And yet, if Annie was with Jason and something happened to her, even if she was going to be fine, as she is going to be fine, I would want to know. I would be furious if Jason didn’t tell me until the next day. I might never forgive him.
I go out to the car park and dial Jason’s home, praying the poison dwarf won’t pick up, taking a deep breath when I hear Jason’s familiar, sleepy voice.
“Jason? I’m so sorry I’m calling in the middle of the night. Annie was in a scooter accident today. She’s okay,” I say quickly, knowing adrenaline will be flooding through his body at the mention of the word “accident.” “I’m in the hospital with her now. She has a broken arm and possible concussion, but she’s going to be fine.”
“Oh my God. Scooter accident? What the hell was she doing on a scooter? She’s thirteen.”
“I know. I didn’t know.” Now is not the time to tell him she was also drinking, and the scooter was stolen. Keep It Simple. That’s what I learned in the rooms.
“Where are you exactly?”
“Nantucket Cottage Hospital.”
“I’m coming. I’ll start looking into flights now.”
“Jason, that’s silly. It’s really not serious enough to warrant you coming over here. She’ll be fine.”
“This is my daughter,” he says. “There’s absolutely no way I’m not going to be there.”
After I finish telling him the different methods of getting here, after I put the phone down knowing he is fully awake and will spend the next few hours organizing flights, organizing his life so he can leave it behind and come out to join us, I have to admit, I am glad he is coming.
Sam is an amazing friend, but no one loves Annie like I do other than Jason. No one understands how awful it is to see your child in pain, in a hospital bed, other than Jason. And even though she’ll probably be out of hospital by the time he gets here, even though she will be absolutely fine, there’s a part of me that simply wants him here by my side.
Thirty-one
Annie is discharged the next morning, with a list of all the concussion symptoms to look out for, things that would mean an immediate trip back to the hospital. I know we need to have a talk, but not yet; my daughter needs to heal before she deals with my upset.
I see Ellie just as we are leaving, her hair and clothes disheveled, looking more like Julia than Ellie. It is the first time I actually see a family resemblance. I think of walking over to her to say something, but there is nothing to say. I can’t make it better, and seeing me here will doubtless make it worse.
I am walking through the car park when I hear my name and I stop in my tracks, unwilling to be shouted at yet again, unwilling to turn and listen to whatever it is she has to say.
But I do turn. I walk slowly over to where she is standing.
“Cat, thank you.” Her voice is rasping and rough, but authentic. “Thank you for being here.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, and then she just looks at me, as if she is going to say something else, but she doesn’t, and I give her a rueful smile and leave.
I don’t know what Ellie’s story is. I don’t know if she drinks in the way we tend to drink in our family. I don’t know if she was drunk last night, or if she just needed to let off steam. I do know it is not my place to judge her. I do know that as I walk into the streams of sunlight hitting the car park, I am filled with gratitude that I am no longer the kind of mother that can’t be there for her child; I am no longer the kind of mother who goes AWOL, who finds herself in bars with strangers, is more interested in being in bars with strangers than raising her daughter. I thank God that I am not showing up in the morning drunk, smelling of booze and cigarettes, because my family was never my priority.