One More for Christmas(7)

She needed to stop publication.

She needed to tell her publisher she wanted to rethink the book. How could she promote Brave New You when she was lying on the floor shivering like a wounded animal?

She opened her mouth and tried to croak out some words.

“She’s moving. She’s conscious! Gayle—Gayle, can you hear me?”

Yes, she could hear him. She was unloved—not deaf.

She forced her eyes open and saw a uniformed EMT and behind him Cole, looking worried. There was the cameraman, and also Rochelle, scribbling frantically. Making the most of an opportunity, Gayle thought. Taking the advice she’d been given and redesigning her life.

And that was when she had her second epiphany. Who said you could only design your life once? People remodeled houses all the time, didn’t they? Just because you’d lived with white walls for decades didn’t mean you couldn’t suddenly paint them green.

If she didn’t like the way her life looked, then it was up to her to fix it.

And, although she didn’t regret her actions, exactly, she did regret the outcome of those actions.

Maybe she could have done more.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to rebuild what had been knocked down.

But she had to be the one to make the first move.

“My daughter.” Her lips formed the words. “Call...my daughter.”

She saw Cole’s face pale. “She’s conscious, but she has a serious head injury. She’s confused. She has amnesia.”

The EMT frowned. “Why would you say that?”

“Because GM doesn’t have a daughter.”

Gayle thought about the baby they’d put into her arms. The way it had felt to be entirely responsible for the well-being of a tiny, helpless infant, knowing what lay ahead. How hard life could be. If it hadn’t been for the child, she might have given up, but motherhood had driven her on. How could she give up when she had her daughter to protect? She’d wanted to swaddle her in steel and surround her with an electric fence to keep the bad at bay.

“Gayle, do you know what day it is?”

Yes, she knew what day it was. It was the day she’d started questioning everything she’d believed was right. The day she’d realized that regret could hurt more than a bruised head and crushed ribs. How could she have got everything so wrong?

She tried again. “Call my eldest daughter.”

What if she died before she had a chance to fix things?

“Eldest...?” Cole looked nervous. “She doesn’t have one daughter, let alone more. Ms. Mitchell—Gayle—how many fingers am I holding up? Can you tell me?”

Right at that moment she wanted to hold up her own finger. Her middle one.

“Call my daughter.”

“She isn’t confused. Gayle Mitchell has two daughters,” Rochelle said. “I did a deep dive into her background before the interview. My research suggests they’re estranged.”

Estranged? No, that wasn’t right. True, they hadn’t seen each other for a while. Maybe a few years. All right, perhaps it was nearly five years... Gayle couldn’t remember. But she did remember their last encounter. When she thought about it—which she tried not to—she felt affronted and hurt.

None of it had been her fault. She’d been doing her best for them—which was all she’d ever done. She’d worked hard at being the best mother possible. She’d made sure she’d equipped her children to deal with the real world and experienced a mother’s frustration when her girls had made bad choices. She’d discovered the anguish of having all of the anxiety but none of the control. She’d done her best. It wasn’t her fault that they preferred the fairy tale to the reality. It wasn’t her fault that they were unable to appreciate how well she’d prepared them for adulthood.

Yes, relations between them were tense, but they weren’t estranged. That was a truly horrible word. A word with razor-sharp edges.

Cole appeared to be suffering from shock.

“She has kids? But that means that she—I mean she must have had—”

The fact that he was struggling to picture her having sex wasn’t flattering. He clearly thought his boss was a robot.

“All right. If you’re sure, then we should call the daughters.” His voice was strangled. “Is there a phone number, Ms. Mitchell?”

Would Samantha have changed her number?

She hadn’t called, so Gayle had no way of knowing. She’d been waiting for both of them to call her and apologize. Days had melted into weeks and then months. Shame flooded through her. What did it say about a mother when her own children didn’t want to make contact?

If she admitted the truth, would her judgmental staff and the medical team decide she wasn’t worth saving?

Instead of answering, she moaned.

That caused more consternation among the people gathered around her.

“She’s struggling to speak—can we find out her daughter’s number?”

“I’m searching...” Rochelle tapped away on her phone. “One of her daughters is called Samantha.”

Gayle gasped as the EMT and his assistant transferred her to a gurney.

Cole was searching, too. “There’s a Samantha Mitchell in New Jersey. Comedian. No way.”

Was he implying that she didn’t have a sense of humor? That laughter didn’t figure in her DNA?