Page 105 of Hush, Little Baby

I turn toward him. One hand hovers on the open car door. His dark eyes are gentle, watchful; the corner of his mouth quirks up.

“I was thinking about the balloons,” I confess.

He lets out a short, affectionate breath. I swing my legs out of the car and press my hands against the door frame. My knees wobble for a heartbeat before my muscles decide to cooperate. The increase in my muscle relaxer dose has definitely helped some, but nothing ever completely helps. I’m used to it. But maybe one day, we’ll find out what’s wrong with me, and there will be something that completely helps.

That’s why I’m here today.

Without a word, Nikolaus rests his hand on my lower back—steady, unintrusive, a quiet promise of support. Always there.

The building’s mirrored façade reflects clouds drifting across a pale-blue sky, and meticulously trimmed shrubs line the walk. Somewhere inside, specialists are waiting to poke, scan, measure, and analyze me. I should feel that old fear, but right now I’m just tired. Honestly, I think I stopped feeling that old fear after my first MRI.

“Charlie.” His voice pulls me back, and I look up at him. His brow is knit with concern, the expression that settles on his face whenever my health is involved.

“You don’t have to keep looking at me like you’re leaving me to die,” I joke, trying to lighten him up.

He sighs, shakes his head, then lifts an eyebrow in mock offense. “I am not.”

“You totally are,” I say, watching the tension ease a little from his shoulders as a reluctant smile flickers across his lips. “I’m just getting blood drawn and shoved into machines. Nothing new.”

“A Daddy has every right to worry about his boy,” he counters, and I snort at the seriousness of his tone.

For a moment, we stand in companionable silence. Then Nikolaus glances at his watch—a subtle movement, but one that catches my eye. He frowns.

“Your meeting,” I say softly, and he grumbles, looking guilty.

“I hate leaving you.”

“I know,” I reply, catching his hand in both of mine. The gesture feels braver than I expected. “But I’m really fine. For most of the tests, you wouldn’t even be allowed in the room with me anyway.”

His eyes flicker with protest.

“I’ll be okay,” I promise, my voice gentle.

He closes the distance and presses a feather-light kiss to my forehead. “Text me if you need anything.”

“I will.” I squeeze his hand.

“Anything,” he repeats, then hesitates, leans in for another kiss, and then another. By the third, I’m laughing, the sound bright against the clinical chill of the day.

“Go,” I tell him.

He takes a final, reluctant step back. “Call me when you’re done.” His eyes never leave mine. “And remember, Constantine will be here in an hour, so if there’s an emergency, he’ll be able to help.”

“I will, and I remember,” I say.

And then he’s gone, the town car pulling away from the curb. I watch it disappear into the distance, then turn and enter through the sliding glass door at the center of the building.

Four hours later, I’m sick of doctors. I’m exhausted from the relentless questions and invasive routines. My blood has been siphoned off. My reflexes poked and prodded. I’ve been X-rayed, scanned in MRI and CT machines alike, weighed on scales that measure more than just your weight, and bent into positions I personally feel victimized by.

A perky neurologist spent twenty minutes making me track a pinpoint flashlight beam, back and forth, until I wanted to launch it through the window.

I’ve had an ECG, EKG, and several ultrasounds, ending with the good ole’ urine sample.

At checkout, the receptionist smiles. “You’re all finished. Your results will be available online. You obviously had quite a few, so just keep an eye out. They won’t all be uploaded at once.”

“Okay, thank you,” I reply, giving her a responding smile as I gather my paperwork. My legs feel like overcooked spaghetti, my neck is protesting every movement, and my stomach is grumbling.

I push open the door to the lobby. A few people recline in armchairs, and a television murmurs in the corner, images flickering from slide to slide. I look around for Constantine, expecting him to notice me and stand up, but there’s nothing. He’s not in here.