Before I Let You Go(49)

“I’ve asked for something more,” she mutters, but she seems embarrassed, and that’s pretty much confirmation that she is playing us.

“I’ll stop past the office on the way out and ask them to review your dosage, okay? You need to sleep well tonight so you can make the most of your time with this little one tomorrow.”

Annie’s eyes fill with tears, and she nods.

“Thank you, Sam, that’s all I’m worried about,” she whispers unevenly, then she glances at me. “He’s a keeper, Lexie.”

“I know,” I murmur. I glance at Sam again, but he’s staring down at the baby. “We should go, then.” I bend to kiss her forehead. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

We walk Daisy back to the NICU—Annie can’t lift her yet, and the baby will need close monitoring over the next few days. Once she’s safely back with the staff we walk through the corridor alone. Sam takes my hand in his and glances at me. “Tough day, honey?”

“It could have been a lot worse,” I say, but suddenly, I feel tired all the way down to my bones—and I still need to call Mom. “I just can’t wait to get home.”

“I’ll quickly speak with the consultant about her meds. They’re probably being conservative with the dosage.”

“Or the dose is perfect and she just wants a harder hit.”

“No, I could see it in her eyes,” Sam says. He says it with complete confidence, but I hear the arrogance in his tone, and it irritates the hell out of me.

“They’re dosing her high enough, Sam. She’s playing you.”

“Lex, trust me, okay?” He says this dismissively, and my hackles rise. “I deal with post-op pain all day, every day. I know the signs, and your sister was in genuine discomfort.”

“But she—”

“Let me talk to the staff. It will be obvious from the dosage if you’re right.”

It takes all of thirty seconds with the nursing staff to discover that I’m not right—the consultant has ordered a standard post-caesar morphine dose for Annie. All of this leaves me completely confused. I’m angry for Annie, and I regret that I didn’t believe her and advocate for her—and I’m embarrassed to have doubted Sam.

But I’m also fatigued, and part of me thinks it’s her fault that I’m so suspicious of her. I’ve fallen for her tricks before.

“I’ll go back and tell her,” I murmur to Sam, when he reaches for the phone to call Eliza. He nods at me, and I walk back down the corridor to Annie’s room. She startles when I open the door, and I see that she’s been crying.

“Are you okay?”

“It hurts,” she whispers, but she avoids my gaze and stares at the ceiling instead.

“The dosage is wrong. Sam is calling Eliza to get the order fixed.” She nods once, so I know she’s heard me. “I forgot to tell you, I’ll call Mom to let her know,” I add hesitantly. When Annie shakes her head, I say softly, “Annie, she needs to know.”

I’m insistent even though I know the conversation is not going to be a fun one. Surprise! Annie just had a baby. Oh, and she’s been charged with child endangerment, and she’s going into court-ordered rehab in seven days. If that doesn’t work, she’s probably off to jail for a decade. So that’s our news—how’s the weather over there?

“She’s going to be so pissed.”

“I’ll deal with her.”

“Do you think she will come?”

“I honestly don’t know. Do you want her to come?”

Annie thinks about it for a while before she shakes her head.

“I don’t want her to see me like this.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, she’ll only come if Robert lets her.”

Annie finally looks at me, and we share a sad smile. I turn back to the doorway, then ask, “Is there anyone else I should call?”

“You think I’m pathetic, don’t you?”

Her sharp tone seems to come from out of nowhere. I look to Annie, confused.

“Don’t, Annie . . . I’m just trying to help.”

“I have a feeling that seeing me like this is probably satisfying to you,” Annie says bitterly. “Did you just know that one day I’d come begging you for help again? It’s probably killed you that it’s taken two years.”

She can be so mean, so condescending—and I’m so tired. The day has been emotionally exhausting—a roller coaster that seemed to be winding its way toward a peaceful rest—until now. I want to get out of the room before things deteriorate further, so I take a hasty step toward the door. “I’ll be back in the morning. I’ll bring you some things—some breakfast again?”

“Don’t fucking bother. I don’t need your charity.”

I open the door but I hesitate before I step out, and the impulse to bite back is too strong. I ignore the weariness on her face and the pain in her eyes as I whisper bitterly, “If you really don’t need my charity, I’ll have the hospital send you the bill for your care then, shall I? And the lawyer? And the rehab clinic?”

I step out of her room before she can reply, although I know it’s unfair of me. I don’t understand why she does that—why she has to push me away. What more could I possibly do for her than I’ve already done in the last few days? What more can she possibly expect from me?