Thief

She laughs and grabs a box of chalk. “It’s like a soap opera, mate. I just want to know what happens next.”

I stop at a tie-dye t-shirt kit. “Let’s get this, she’ll like it.”

Sara nods in approval.

“I haven’t reached out to any of our friends. She told me to leave her alone and that’s exactly what I’m doing. As far as I know — she’s knocked up and living f**kily ever after.”

Sara shakes her head. “Unfinished business is a bitch.”

“Our business is finished,” I say more sharply than I intend. “I live in London. I have a daughter. I am happy. So f**king deliriously happy.”

We both laugh at the same time.

I talk to my mother the day before she flies out with Steve and Estella. She’s acting odd. When I ask her about it, she stumbles over her words and says she’s stressed about the holidays. I feel guilty. Steve and my mother are foregoing their usual plans to bring Estella to me. I could have gone home, but I’m not ready. She’s everywhere — under every twisted tree, in every car on the road. One day, I tell myself, the sting will subside and I’ll be able to look at a f**king orange and not think of her.

Or maybe it won’t. Maybe life is about living with the hauntings.

I buy a tree and then scour the city for pink Christmas ornaments. I find a box of tiny ballerina shoes to hang on the tree and pink pigs with curly silver tails. When I grab two armfuls of silver and pink foil, the sales clerk grins at me.

“Someone has a daughter…”

I nod. I like the way that sounds.

She points to a box of pink flamingos and winks. I throw those on the counter too.

I set everything up in the living room so that when she arrives we can decorate together. My mother and Steve are staying at the Ritz Carlton a few blocks away. I figure I’ll let Estella choose what we eat for Christmas dinner, though if she asks for sushi or a rack of lamb, I’m screwed. The following day, I arrive at the airport to collect them an hour early.

I wait, sitting on the edge of one of the baggage claim carousels that aren’t in use. I’m anxious. I wander off to buy an espresso and drink it, looking out at an empty runway. I don’t know why I feel like this, but something ugly is curling in my stomach.

People start walking through the gate, so I get up and wait near the front of the crowd, trying to spot my mother’s hair. Blonde is a hard color to miss on a woman. My brother once told me that he remembers her having red hair when he was little, but she firmly denies it. I pull out my phone to check if there are any missed calls or texts from her and see none. She always texts when she lands. My stomach does the sick lurch. I have a really strange feeling about all of this. What if Leah has done something stupid? There is nothing I’d put past her at this point. I am about to dial my mother’s number, when my phone starts flashing. I see a number I don’t recognize.

“Hello?”

“Caleb Drake?” The voice is a woman’s, breathy and quiet, like she’s trying not to be overheard.

I get chills. I remember the last time I got a call like this.

“My name is Claribel Vasquez. I am a counselor at Boca South Medical Center.” Her voice drops off and I wait for her to continue, my heart beating wildly.

“There’s been an accident,” she says. “Your parents … your daughter. They-”

“Are they alive?”

She pauses. It feels like an hour, ten hours. Why is she taking so long to answer me!

“There was a car accident. A semi-”

“Estella?” I demand.

“She’s in critical condition. Your parents-”

I don’t need her to say anything else. I sit, except there is nothing to sit on. I slide down the wall I am leaning against and hit the ground, my hand covering my face. I can barely hold the phone to my ear I am shaking so much.

“Is her mother there?”

“No, we haven’t been able to contact your ex-wife.”

“Estella,” I say. It’s all I can manage. I’m too afraid to ask.

“She came out of surgery about an hour ago. There was a lot of internal bleeding. The doctors are monitoring her now. It would be best if you came back right away.”

I hang up without saying goodbye and walk straight to the ticket counter. There is a flight in three hours. I have just enough time to go home and get my passport and come right back. I don’t think. I just throw a few things in a bag, catch a cab back to the airport and board my flight. I don’t sleep, I don’t eat, I don’t think. You’re in shock, I tell myself. Your parents are dead. And then I remind myself not to think. I need to get home, get to Estella. I’ll mourn them later. Right now, I don’t need to think about anything but Estella.

I take a cab from the airport. I call Claribel directly as soon as the door closes. She tells me Estella’s condition hasn’t changed and says she will be waiting for me in the hospital lobby. When I run through the doors, Claribel is waiting for me. She is childlike in size, and I have to bend my neck down to look at her.

“She’s still critical,” she says right away. “We still haven’t managed to get in touch with Leah. Are there any other numbers we can call?”

I shake my head. “Her mother, maybe. Have you tried her?”

Claribel shakes her head. I hand her my phone. “It’s under in-law.”

She takes it and walks me to the elevator.

“You might want to call Sam Foster. If anyone knows where she is, he does.”

She nods and steps inside with me. We take the elevator to the critical care unit. I watch the floors light up as we pass them. When we reach the fifth floor, Claribel steps out first and swipes an access card through a keypad next to the door. It smells like antiseptic, though the walls are painted a warm tan color. It does little to lighten the mood, and somewhere off in the distance, I can hear crying. We walk briskly to room 549. The door is closed. She pauses outside and places a small hand on my arm.

“It’s going to be hard to see her. Just keep in mind there is still a lot of swelling on her face.”

I breathe deeply as she opens the door, and I step inside. The light is dim and a symphony of medical equipment is playing around the room. I approach her bed slowly. She is a tiny lump under the covers. When I stand above her, I start crying. A tiny piece of red hair sticks out from the bandages on her head. That is the only way I can identify her. Her face is so swollen that even if she were awake, she wouldn’t be able to open her eyes. There are tubes everywhere — up her nose, down her throat, snaking into her tiny, bruised arms. How did she survive this? How is her heart still beating?