Page 4 of Chasing Abby (Shattered Hearts 6)

“Yeah, I asked about you and Ewan said you were in the hospital for your heart.”

“You asked about me?”

“What’s wrong with your heart?”

I looked up into his gorgeous green eyes and tried not to collapse right there. I managed to hold it together long enough to tell him about my reaction to the old meds and to find out why he was in the hospital that day. His dad also had liver problems, caused by something totally different. In the ten minutes we spoke, I saw something in his eyes I’d never seen in Mr. Warner’s class.

Hope.

I type up my reply and hold my breath as I hit send.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: homework

134-139 and 156-158. 156-158 is the practice test and it’s hard. You should get started on that or you’ll be up all night. ;-)

My stomach flutters as I wait for his response. The moment my email dings, my fingers race to open the new message.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: homework

do you think warner will go easy on me if I tell him I couldn’t finish ’cause I was too busy emailing my future girlfriend?

Just a few simple, corny words and everything has changed. Just a few words and I have… hope.

CHAPTER SIX

A PANG OF GUILT twists inside my chest when I open the safe-deposit box. Between the holidays and three weeks standing vigil at Abby’s bedside in the hospital, we never made it here to deposit the pictures of Abby before Christmas, as per our agreement with the Knights. I’d like to leave a note of apology for not having the updated photos deposited in time, but Lynette and I both agreed we shouldn’t communicate with them until we’re ready for them to meet Abby. Besides, if we tell them Abby was in the hospital, it will just worry them unnecessarily. She’s fine now. For the most part.

I carry the metal box to the chair in the back of the room and set it down on the plastic seat. Reaching into my coat pocket, I pull out a stack of pictures of Abby I had developed yesterday during a trip to the drugstore. I open the small plastic case hanging from my keychain and lift out the memory card. I remove the stack of pictures and the memory card the Knights left for us and replace them with the ones I brought with me. Then I tuck the Knights’ photos and memory card into my coat pocket and heave a deep sigh.

I’ve been doing this every year since Abby was a toddler and I’ve never felt like I was doing anything wrong, until today. I feel like a damn thief, stealing my daughter’s memories and tucking them away in a box inside my closet until a time when I determine she’s ready to experience them.

When they brought Abby out of the hospital room more than thirteen years ago, all I wanted to do was hold her in my arms. Then they told us she hadn’t scored a two on the five-minute Apgar test. Her heart rate was slower than 100 beats per minute. They told us they would check her again at ten minutes post-birth. But they never did. They rushed her into surgery three minutes later.

I’ve recalled that day with such shame for thirteen years. My first reaction to Abby’s eight-minute-old body being wheeled away into a surgical suite was to make sure the nurses knew that the birth mother was not to be made aware of Abby’s problems. In my mind, she was my baby and bringing Claire into the situation would only complicate matters. I’d read about “failed adoptions” where the biological mother changed her mind after giving birth. Of course, Claire found out about Abby’s heart four months later when Chris Knight’s lawyer contacted us.

But not a single day went by when I didn’t wonder what would have happened if we had told Claire about Abby’s heart right when she was born. Would she have changed her mind about the adoption? Or would she have given us some critical piece of information that could have helped Abby? Would Claire have taken better care of Abby’s heart?

I can’t even fathom the answers to these questions anymore. Abby is my baby. She always will be, whether or not we introduce her to Claire and Chris.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Three days before

THE MALL PARKING LOT is packed, as usual, but Caleb manages to eke out a parking space near the entrance to the food court. He pulls his convertible 1967 Plymouth Barracuda into the space and kills the engine, but he doesn’t move.

“Put up the top. It’s supposed to rain,” I say, scooping my purse off the floor by my feet.

Caleb grabs my hand before I can exit the car. “Wait. We need to talk.”

I sigh and drop my purse onto my lap. “I’m fine, okay? I don’t want to talk about my birthday anymore.”

Caleb has been trying to make me talk about my upcoming eighteenth birthday for the past two months, but I’m not going to do it. In three days, I will be eighteen years old when I wake up. Then, and only then, will I decide whether or not I’m going to visit the safe-deposit box in Raleigh. I know myself. If I try to make that decision now, it will be too difficult to change my mind later.

“It’s not about your birthday, Abby. Can we please talk? I’m tired of you blowing me off.”

I glare at him in confusion. “I have not been blowing you off.”

He pulls my hand into his lap. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just really nervous about this.”

“Nervous about what? You’re scaring me, Caleb.”

He looks into my eyes. “I don’t want to scare you. I just want to talk to you. About something very important.”

Holy crap. I don’t think Caleb would break up with me, but I have seen Jodi Weathers trying to flirt with him after fourth period. What the hell does he want to talk to me about?

He takes my hand in both of his and mine disappears as he pulls it to his chest. “Abby, baby, I’m pregnant.”

I wrench my hand away and punch his shoulder. “You asshole! I thought you were gonna break up with me.”

He laughs as he grabs my hand and pulls me toward him. “Baby, don’t get mad. I thought you would take the news better than this.” I laugh as he takes me in his arms and pretends to cry on my shoulder. “Please don’t make me raise this baby alone.”

“Shut up, jerk.”

He chuckles and plants a loud kiss on my cheek before he lets me go. “It’s not my fault you can’t remember April Fool’s Day.”

“I remembered!” I insist, grabbing my purse and throwing the car door open. “I was just playing along.”

“You’re a bad liar, sunshine.”

He puts up the top on the convertible, then we head for the food court. I hate the food court, but I’ll do anything to get away from my house right now. Every time I look into my mother’s face, I see the silent plea for me to not visit that safe-deposit box on Friday. She doesn’t realize that her need to keep me from knowing my birth parents only makes me want to know them even more. I mean, what the hell is she hiding? What am I going to find in that safe-deposit box?

I keep expecting I’m going to find my birth mother is a drug addict and my father works at McDonald’s or something similar. But the way my mom seems intent on keeping their identities a secret only makes me wonder if maybe my biological parents aren’t strung-out losers. Maybe they’re politicians or movie stars. It’s possible.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is I’m not going to decide until Friday. On Friday, I’ll know what to do. Today, I’m too freaked out about my mom’s shifty behavior and my boyfriend’s fake pregnancy.

Caleb and I grab some Chinese food then walk around for about ten minutes before someone vacates their table and we swoop in to take it. Caleb wipes the table down while I hold our tray, then we sit down to enjoy our orange chicken.

“Do you want to know what I’m getting you for your birthday?” he asks, then he wraps his lips around his straw and takes a long pull of his soda.

The tattoo on the outer edge of his forearm always makes me smile. Caleb had a few tattoos when we first got together four and a half years ago, but h

is arms are pretty much covered in them now. The tattoo on the outside of his forearm is very simple, yet it’s definitely my favorite. It’s half of a heart. I’m supposed to get the other half tattooed on my arm when I’m eighteen. That way, when we hold hands, our hearts will be whole.

There’s no way my parents would let me get a tattoo before my eighteenth birthday, so I haven’t even bothered asking. I’m actually surprised they’re allowing me to visit the safe-deposit box on Friday, should I choose to do so. It’s their box. They don’t have to show me anything. They could tell me to go to the county courthouse if I want to find out who my parents are. But they haven’t. They’ve agreed to give me the key on my birthday, whether I want it or not.

“Why would I want to know what you’re getting me for my birthday? That would totally ruin the surprise.”

“Well, being surprised is not always a good thing. Look at how you reacted to my pregnancy.”

I roll my eyes and take a drink of soda. “Do you want to tell me what you got me for my birthday?”

He smiles and I don’t even have to know the answer to that question. Caleb is so terrible at keeping secrets.

CALEB PULLS THE ’Cuda into the parking lot of Eastgate Park at ten p.m. and I smile at his knack for remembering small details. He remembers where I was when I collapsed on the soccer field and was rushed to the hospital almost five years ago. He insists God was looking out for me that day. I wish I could feel as certain about that as he is.

We get out of the car and he immediately heads for the trunk. “It’s in here.”

“We were driving around with my present in your trunk this whole time?”

“Yep. And it’s not even wrapped.”

He pops the trunk open as I arrive at the back of the car. The moment I see it, my eyes begin to tear up and my throat constricts painfully.

“You got it?”