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“But, I want to take care of you, Graham. Don’t you know that?” I said, tears coming to my eyes.
He reached out and wiped the one lone tear that escaped. “Please, don’t cry, Annie, or you’ll have me blubbering like an old fool, as well.”
I smiled at the childhood nickname. “Graham, I’m worried that even knowing I’m having his baby won’t make a difference in how Carson feels.” I finally hiccup through my sniffles. The baby hormones seemed to be already making me even more emotional.
“Poppycock,” Graham muttered. “He can’t be that unforgiving. If he is, he doesn’t deserve you.”
His words felt like a balm for my wounded heart. “Thank you, Graham. I can always count on you to be my champion.”
“Of course you can. You know, I only insisted we marry to ensure you receive my inheritance. If it wasn’t for Neal…”
“Graham, we’ve been over this. I won’t leave you. Ever. Even if Carson did come around, he probably wouldn’t understand that I want to care for you,” I said in a firm voice.
“My Anna, I think my stubbornness is rubbing off on you.” A sudden fit of coughing wracked Graham’s already frail body. Panic surged through me as I scrambled to grab his medication.
When he finally stopped coughing and leaned back against his pillows, he patted the empty space beside him. I moved closer and gave him a hug, being careful of the medical tubing. His weak arms went around me, and he patted the back of my head, “In that case. I’ll leave everything as is. But if the time should ever come.” I tried to stop his flow of words, “No, Anna, I mean it. If you ever need to be released from our agreement. I will make sure it’s done.”
“I know, Graham. That means a lot,” I said softly. He then patted my head to comfort me, like the time as a child I scraped my knee. “Annie, it’s going to be alright. At least I’ll die knowing you and your child are taken care of.” I didn’t protest because we both knew the cancer would eventually take him.
After Connor was born, I helped Graham hold him. He took such delight in watching Connor grow from an infant into a toddler. It was almost three years to the day before Graham passed away quietly in his sleep. I was inconsolable at first, feeling all alone.
When Connor crawled into my lap, his tiny hand instinctively reached for my tear-streaked cheek. I held him close, the warmth of his small body a welcomed comfort against the emptiness I felt. Connor was too young to understand the loss, but his presence offered a sweet hope for the future, a future I had to build for both of us.
Connor was too young and doesn’t truly remember Graham, but I hope he can recall the love that he lavished on both of us.
My phone buzzes beside me, and I blink my eyes. It’s the alarm I set up as a reminder so I wouldn’t miss picking up Connor. I look down at my tear-stained silk shirt, knowing I have to change it before I leave.
I wearily pull myself out of the armchair. My heart is heavy with remembered grief. I miss Graham. I once teased him that only the good die young, and he gave me a weak smile and said, “That’s why I’ve made it to seventy-two.”
I shake my head at the fond memory and pick up my keys on the way out the door.
At the school, my gaze fixes on Connor as he shuffles towards the car. Instead of his energetic gait, he advances with sluggish steps. His face looks pale, lacking its usual healthy color.
“Hey, Baby. Is everything alright?”
He shrugs, “I dunno,” he mumbles as he leans his head back against the seat. “I don’t feel so good,” he says in a voice barely above a whisper.
Worry knotting in my stomach, I immediately reach over to feel his forehead. “You’re burning up. Did you tell your teacher or the school nurse?”
“No, I thought I’d get feeling better,” he says, his lips turning down in a frown. “But I don’t.”
“Let’s get you home,” I say as he buckles his seat belt.
Once we enter the apartment, I suggest quietly, “Why don’t you lay down for a little while?”
When Connor just nods his head and does as I suggest without protest, I know he’s feeling bad.
He changes into his sleep clothes and then crawls between the cool sheets. I approach with a thermometer, and he dutifully opens his mouth.
“Doesn’t anything hurt, Baby? Your tummy or your chest?”
“My chest hurts sometimes,” he mumbles.
“When does it hurt?” I probe for details.
“When I take a deep breath,” he gulps in some air and then starts coughing.
I frown as his cough sounds raspy. “Let me call the doctor.”
