Darling Rose Gold(82)

25





Patty


I burst through the hospital doors with Adam in my arms. The half dozen people in the waiting area turn when we walk in—Adam’s wails are hard to ignore. I scan the room. A few upgrades have been made since Rose Gold was a child, but, for the most part, the lobby is unchanged. I hurry to the receptionist’s desk.

“My baby needs to see a doctor,” I cry when the young man doesn’t turn away from whatever game I’m sure he’s playing on his computer. He strikes me as someone who’s been living in his mother’s basement too long.

His eyes flick from the screen to the bawling baby in my arms. Sympathy crosses his face. Then he glances up at me, and skepticism replaces sympathy.

“This is your child?” he asks.

I scoff. “Not unless he’s Benjamin Button. This is my grandson. He’s been vomiting for more than six hours. I can’t figure out what’s wrong, in spite of all my training. See, I’m a certified nursing—”

The receptionist cuts me off. “Is he a registered patient here?”

“Yes, he was born in this hospital,” I say.

“What’s his name?”

“Adam Watts.”

The receptionist types Adam’s name into the database and waits.

“He never throws up like this. I’m worried he somehow swallowed something when I wasn’t watching. Or maybe he has late-development pyloric stenosis. I read—”

The receptionist cuts me off again. “I don’t see an Adam Watts in the system.”

I lean over the counter, trying to see his screen. “Maybe you spelled it wrong. Watts is W-A-T-T-S.”

The receptionist bristles, but I don’t care.

“And Adam is A-D-A-M.”

“I know how to spell Adam,” he sniffs, “and that’s how I spelled both names before.” He types them again anyway and jabs the enter key.

After a few seconds, he (smugly) says, “No one under that name. You’ll have to fill out a new patient form.” He winces when Adam lets out a mind-numbing shriek.

I force myself to take a deep breath. “What about his mother, Rose Gold Watts?” I ask. “She has to be in your system.”

The receptionist hands me a clipboard with a blank form. “That’s not going to help you here, ma’am. Every patient needs their own medical file.” He gestures for me to choose a chair and is relieved when I move the screaming baby away from him.

The rest of the people in the waiting room don’t look excited as I approach with Adam. I give each of them a small “I’m sorry” smile; one elderly woman smiles back. I choose a seat next to her.

I begin filling out the form. I could have sworn Rose Gold told me she planned to give birth to Adam here. I remember saying how special it was that she was having Adam in the same hospital where I’d given birth to her. She hadn’t seemed moved by the thought, but I’d chalked it up to pregnancy nerves. She must have had to change hospitals last minute, maybe to Westview twenty miles away.

When the form is complete, I bring it back to the surly receptionist. I have half a mind to tell him off, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about the medical community, it’s that you want to keep them on your side or you’ll never get anywhere. I hand him the clipboard and smile.

“Someone will be with you soon,” he says.

I want to ask how soon, but know this will irritate him, so I don’t. Instead I turn my attention to Adam. His face is bright red from crying. We head back to our seat. I pull a bottle from his diaper bag. When I put it to his mouth, he starts to suck and stops crying.

“Oh, thank God,” a middle-aged man dressed in matching sweatpants and sweatshirt mutters. I shoot him a dirty look. People can be so cruel to children.

After thirty interminable minutes, a nurse calls Adam’s name. I hop up from my chair and sling the diaper bag, plus my purse, over my shoulder. Adam has started to cry again, and I’m eager to get away from the others in the waiting room—their patience is wearing thin. Sweatpants Monster’s eyes are in danger of rolling out of his head. I accidentally stomp on his toes as I pass.

I follow the nurse through a door and down a sterile white hallway. The patients’ rooms line the left and right sides. I remember a childhood game of bingo I made up for Rose Gold—she got to fill in a square every time we visited a new room. She’d finished the board by the time she was seven.

We turn right at the end of the hallway, leading us down another long corridor. The nurse walks much faster than I do, although in my defense, I am carrying a fifteen-pound bowling ball, plus all his accessories. I glance down to check on Adam and run straight into someone.

“Patty?”

I recognize the voice before I look up: Tom. This will not go well.

Stepping back, I tilt my head toward my former friend, dressed in scrubs. “Hi, Tom.”

“What are you doing here?” he asks with genuine confusion. He scans me for injuries, then sees Adam. His eyes narrow.

“Got to go, Tom. Chat later?” I try to sidestep him and run after the nurse. She’s disappeared around another corner by now.

Tom steps with me, blocking my path. “Why are you here?” he asks again.

“My grandson is sick,” I say impatiently.