Always the Last to Know(95)

“Were you?” I asked.

“Manly tears. Yes.” He smiled, that fast, flashing smile that was like a bucket of lust splashed over me.

“And then the baby’s head pops out, and there’s this gross little spurt of blood because of the tearing—”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” I said, my stomach rolling.

“—but it’s a baby, right? A baby!”

“As opposed to the hippo we’d been praying for,” Noah said.

“And then one more push, and there he was, all gross and slimy and fucking beautiful.” Her eyes were full of tears. “Best day of my life.”

“Mine, too,” Noah said, and he got up, kissed her head and sat down next to her, an arm around her shoulders.

“Well,” I said, “that was disgusting, but I’m glad you went through it, because I’m rather fond of this little guy.”

“Here’s my advice. Don’t have kids if you’re not dying to. They’re adorable, tiny terrorists, that’s what they are, holding you hostage till the day you die.” She slid her little finger into the baby’s mouth, and he popped off, treating me to a graphic view of Mickey’s nipple. Then she passed the baby to Noah, who put him on his shoulder and patted his back.

Noah Sebastian Pelletier was so . . . perfect. My face felt soft and gooey with adoration, same as when I saw pictures of Chris Hemsworth holding his children.

“What’s the prognosis on your dad?” Noah asked. “Any updates?”

“What? Oh. No updates, but he’s getting a lot better. Right, Dad? He said my name today. He’s a lot more attentive, too. Doing great.”

“No,” said my father, and we all froze.

“What’s that, Daddy?” I said.

“No.”

“Are you . . . Do you need something? Are you okay?” Keep it simple, LeVon had said over and over. “Dad. Are you in pain?”

“No.”

“Do you need something?”

“No.” His eyes, once the same seaglass blue as mine with a burst of gold around the iris, seemed faded and tired, but his gaze was steady on me.

My heart was pounding. He was trying to tell me something. Not just a word, but something important.

“Do you want us to leave, Mr. Frost?” Noah asked.

“No.”

“Um . . . are you worried about something, Dad?”

His face muscles worked as he tried to get the word out. “Bahr.”

“Barb? You worried about Mom?”

He didn’t say no. My shoulders relaxed. “Mom and Jules are in Boston. They’re having a little girl time. Here.” I pulled my phone from my pocket and showed him the picture. “See? They’re at a spa. Don’t they look happy? But I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”

He sat for a minute, looking peeved. Then he got up out of his chair, struggling a bit, and Noah passed the baby to Mickey and was by his side in a flash. “Where are we headed, Mr. Frost?”

Dad walked to the stairs, listing a little.

“I guess he wants to go to bed,” I said. “I’ll take care of this. You guys stay put and relax. I’ll be right down.”

Dad was halfway up the stairs, and I ran to catch up. He went to his old room, the one he’d shared with Mom. I steered him to Juliet’s old room, where he’d slept for years because his snoring kept mom awake. The bed there had rails for him to grab, and to keep him from falling out.

“You’re doing great, Daddy,” I said. “I’m so proud of you. I know you’re trying really hard, and you’re getting there.” There was a sick feeling in my stomach, though, and I didn’t know why.

I helped him get into his pajamas and put toothpaste on his brush. He knew how to brush his teeth. When he first had the stroke, he couldn’t even breathe on his own. Of course he was getting better.

He got into bed, and I secured the railing, then bent over and kissed his forehead. “I’m here for you, Dad. I know you’re in there, and I want you to know that however long it takes, I’ll be here. I love you.”

He closed his eyes.

Maybe he was just tired. That was probably it. Mom got him ready for bed most nights. He’d probably been trying to say he was done with visiting and wanted Mom to help him. That made the most sense.

I washed my hands in the bathroom across the hall and looked at myself for a minute. I hadn’t had a haircut in a while, and the longer it got, the worse it looked. I thought of the salon I went to in the Bronx, wondered if Robert, my stylist, missed me or wondered why I hadn’t been in. It seemed like a long time ago, that New York life.

When I got downstairs, Mickey and the baby were gone, and Noah was standing at my easel.

“Shit,” I said. “I’m sorry they left.”

“Marcus has a window of time where he needs to get to sleep or he’ll be up all night,” Noah said. “Is your dad okay?”

“Worn out. I mean, he spoke more today than he has since the stroke, at least on my watch. So it was a great day. I think he was just tired.”

He looked at me a minute. “You’re a good daughter, Sadie.”

“He was a great dad. Is a great dad.”

“And Juliet and your mom? How come they got to go to Boston and you didn’t?”