It doesn’t.
Both boys start screaming and yelling. My head hurts even more, and I’m ready to call somebody—anybody—to come take these mini-psychos away from me.
A woman hustles toward me. She is obviously the prototype for the two marshmallow children, except larger and female. “Hey, what did you do to my kids?”
What the hell? “Nothing. They came over to talk to me. Which you would’ve noticed if you’d been watching them.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “What are you implying? I’m a good mother!” She raises her voice. “I take care of my kids, I watch ’em, and I teach ’em right!”
“You mean like letting them see movies like Lethal Connection?”
“This is America. Freest country in the world, and I’m entitled to let my kids watch whatever they want. I’m not some brainwashed statist!”
Clearly, I need to exit this conversation. At the same time, I’m stressed and about to erupt because her annoying kids think it’s okay to bother me when I’m doing my best not to talk to anybody. My fame does not give them the right to intrude into my private life. “Just take your kids and go away. Please.”
But Mrs. Marshmallow isn’t going to leave it alone. She starts to get in my face and scream hysterically about what a fit mother she is. She even demands that I apologize. For what? I haven’t said a single thing that isn’t true, and it’s not my fault she lets her kids watch R-rated movies and use foul language. The volume of her voice cannot make up for her lack of manners and common sense.
Unfortunately, her hysterics are drawing attention. I grit my teeth. Add this to the list of reasons I hate hospitals.
A young nurse comes over. She’s a tall, attractive blonde with light brown eyes and full lips that are currently turned down in disapproval. Still, she maintains her composure. Her ponytail swings as she turns to the loud woman first. “Ma’am, you need to be quiet. Or I’ll have to have security escort you out of the building until you calm down.”
The nurse might as well have tossed a bucket of gasoline over fire. The woman goes absolutely crazy. Spittle flies from her mouth, and her thick neck and cheeks go a deep shade of red even as the rest of her stays fish-belly white.
Another nurse comes up, fifty-something, and lays a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I’m very sorry, sir. I know you’ve been waiting a long time. Can you come with me for a moment?”
My gut tightens. I can’t read her expression, but it’s got to be bad.
I follow her down a long hallway. My feet feel like lead. I think of all the comforting words I need to say to Paige. “I’m so sorry” seems pathetically inadequate.
We come to the end of the hall and the nurse opens the door. I walk in, ready for some serious consolation action, then stop.
The room is empty. There are two cheap plastic chairs and a rectangular Formica table. No windows. As I make a slow circle in the center, my brows crease together. The place looks like something out of a spy flick—a torture room where the villain attempts to beat the truth out of the hero. All it needs is a lamp swinging over one of the chairs, casting dramatic shadows.
“It might be better if you wait here. More privacy. I’m sorry we don’t have someplace nicer, but we’re overflowing and understaffed right now.”
“Where’s Paige?”
“Paige?”
“My fiancée. Where is she?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll check.”
She turns, about to leave, then pauses. “Would you like some ice?” She indicates her lip with a sympathetic look.
“If you don’t mind. Sure.”
It doesn’t take long before she returns with the ice and cleans the crust of blood and other gunk off my lip. Her touch is professional, which I appreciate. I don’t have the energy or patience to deal with stalkerish behavior. And fan-stalkers are everywhere.
She gives me the bag of ice. “Just hold it on there. Should make you feel better.”
“Thanks. And can you let me know as soon as you get an update on Paige?”
“Of course.”
When the door closes behind her, I numb my lip with the ice and will Paige and the baby to be all right.
* * *