Chapter 4

4

Logan

Ever since Amanda came into my life, she’s been the center of my universe. Now, she seems to be the same for around a dozen kids. I can’t blame them. Amanda brings the light out of people without ever having to try.

I watch from the doorway as my girl smiles, her eyes getting wider with every word she speaks. She’s sitting in a chair in the corner of the hospital’s rec room, reading a Christmas story to the kids gathered at her feet. Around the perimeter of the room, parents of said kids watch her work her magic… and that magic is the giant grins and quiet giggles she somehow manages to get out of sick children—children who can’t imagine anything worse than being stuck here for Christmas.

For their sake, I hope that this is the worst life throws at them. I hope they never have to know about the other kids down the hall, and more so, I hope they never have to experience it.

Amanda mock gasps now, motioning toward me as she stands up, saying, “Look, everyone! We have a special visitor.”

She’s in a red dress with silver tinsel on the hem—a sexy little Mrs. Claus, if you will—and I’m already picturing getting her home and stripping her out of it. On second thought, she can leave it on.

Probably not the best thought to have in a room full of sick children, but I’ll never again take for granted how lucky I am to have her.

I push away any illicit thoughts, at least until later, and bellow, “Ho! Ho! Ho!”

“You’re not Santa!” a boy yells, and I’m not really sure where he got the idea that I was trying to be, but whatever.

“You’re Wolverine!” someone yells from behind me, and I turn toward the voice, instantly recognize him as Caleb—a boy I admitted only hours ago. When I told him my name was Logan, he asked, “Like Wolverine?”

I didn’t confirm or deny it, but now I’m Wolverine, and that’s pretty fucking cool if you ask me.

Amanda and I hand out presents to the kids in the rec room first, then slowly make our way down the hall to each room of the children’s ward. Some parents open their doors or curtains for us, letting us sit with their sick child for a few minutes. Others prefer not to be disturbed, so we hand them the gift if they’re willing to accept it and then quickly move along.

This has been our Christmas tradition for a few years now.

Amanda’s mom typically visits Amanda’s twin brother, Ethan, in Charleston during the holidays, while my dad always volunteers on Christmas Day. Since I want to follow in my dad’s footsteps, I volunteer as well. I just finished the day shift, and my dad, who we still live with, is somewhere around here, so Amanda spent most of the day alone. She says she doesn’t mind because it allowed her to wrap and label all the gifts we’ve received from our friends and the community. While I have connections to the hospital, this gift-giving project is all Amanda.

And I couldn’t love her more for it.

Though, I don’t know how she finds the time and energy to do what she does. Outside of her job as a child psychologist, she takes on all these other projects. Earlier in the year, she encouraged people in the town to donate their time and supplies to build a playground at the local church.

We don’t even go to church.

“I think this is the most donations you’ve ever received,” I muse.

“It is,” she says, her smile all-consuming. There’s a skip in her step as she shakes the bag holding the presents. “We even have some left over, so I’ll bring them to the shelter tomorrow if you want to come with.”

I take her hand, link our fingers. I don’t know if I’m doing it to slow her down, or because I need her touch, or just… need her .

Amanda seems to know how I’m feeling, because she knows me better than anyone. Better than I know myself. She stops walking immediately, turning to me with her eyebrows drawn in concern. “What’s wrong, baby?”

I heave out a breath, attempt to keep my emotions in check. For the last hour, I’ve gone through the motions. I smiled when warranted, listened when needed, and did my best to hide the blinding ache in my chest. In my soul. But with every step closer we got to here , the dread in my gut only amplified. I wouldn’t say I’m afraid; I’m just…

I’m reliving a fucking nightmare.

“Logan?” Amanda asks, and I blink hard, force myself back to reality. “Did you just check out on me?”

I lower my gaze so she doesn’t see the truth in my eyes. “Yeah, sorry.”

“What’s going on?”

“There’s, uh… there’s one more room we need to visit.”

“Okay.” She nods, looking around. “Where?”

I point over her shoulder to the door with a single window showcasing nothing but darkness. Amanda spins on her heels, and within two steps, she has her palm on the door, ready to push. I stop her with a gentle hand on her forearm and wait for her to face me. “I, uh…” I ignore the widening of her eyes, the confusion bleeding in her stare. Then I rub the back of my neck, no longer able to hide my nerves.

“Logan?”

“Do you mind if I do this one alone?”

It takes a moment for her to respond. For her mind to catch up to my words. “Yeah, of course.” She opens the bag of gifts and asks, “Do you know their age and gender?”

I shake my head. “I got this one.”

Amanda nods, still uncertain, but she doesn’t ask any more questions. She simply smiles, stepping to the side to make room for me. “I’ll wait right out here if you need… anything.”

What she means is if I need her , and I likely will, and she likely knows that already. I press my lips to her forehead, whisper my love for her before pushing open the door.

The room is dark, bar the few lights they keep on twenty-four-seven. Slowly, quietly, I make my way toward him. The boy is nothing but skin and bones, barely taking up space in the bed. His eyes hardly open when I approach—not by choice, but because the bruises and swelling have forced them that way. I don’t know if he can see me, but I know he can hear me. “Hey, Micah.”

His lips move, just a tad. “I thought you were a doctor.”

“Not yet.” I refuse to call myself a doctor until I complete my residency.

“Soon though?”

“Yeah… soon.”

I can’t look at him too long, not in the state that he’s in. His chart says he’s five, but he’s so malnourished, he could pass for years younger.

He’s been here for three days now, and his appearance hasn’t changed much. Cuts. Bruises. Fucking burns.

I was helping Dad transport and admit one of his patients when they wheeled him in through the ER. He was surrounded by so many nurses and doctors and cops , and from what I’ve learned so far, Micah’s dad is a real piece of shit. For… reasons, let’s just say that motherfucker’s lucky he’s sitting in jail right now.

The list of injuries on Micah’s chart is enough to make a grown man cry. Which I’ve done. Many times. Usually once his grip on my hand loosens when the drugs in his system have eased his pain long enough to allow him some sleep.

My dad knows I’ve been visiting with him often. I haven’t told Amanda about him. I’ve tried. I just… I struggle to get the words out.

I clear the emotion from my throat before saying, “I came by earlier to give you a present, but you were asleep.”

“A present?” Micah attempts to sit up, but he winces in pain, and I settle my hand on his shoulder, stopping him from moving.

“Don’t move too much,” I tell him. At the same time, he mumbles, “I’ve never gotten a present before.”

I ignore the weight of his words. For now. But I’m sure they’ll replay in my head when I try to fall asleep tonight, just like all our interactions before. “Well,” I say, forcing a tiny amount of cheer into my tone. I reach behind the side table, where I hid the bag earlier. Sure, I could’ve left it for him or had a nurse give it to him. But this is personal, and I wanted to be the one to give it to him. “I’m honored to be the first person to give you one.” I reveal the ratty old hat and overused baseball glove from the paper bag and show it to him. “It’s not much, but they were mine when I was your age. I figure, once you’re better and you’re out of here, maybe we could throw the ball around or something.”

For a long time, he remains still, and maybe… maybe I overstepped. Maybe I’m doing the one thing my dad told me not to do—get too close to a patient. But then again, if he followed his own rule, I wouldn’t be here.

After a long moment of silence, Micah finally says, “I don’t think my dad would let me do that.”

It’s not the first time he’s mentioned his dad, and it sure as hell won’t be the last time I think about him. But for now, it’s just us, in this room, where no one and nothing can hurt him. Besides, if the justice system is more than just a system , Micah will never have to worry about his dad ever again. “Maybe,” I say, not wanting to reveal my true disdain for the fucking monster who did this to him. “But we can try, right?”

“I’d like that,” he says. “When I’m better.”

“Yeah…”

He lifts his head, just a tad. “The hat.”

I grab the plain navy-blue hat and gently place it on his head, then crack the tiniest smile when he does. “It suits you.”

I swear, he actually laughs . It’s the faintest of sounds, but it’s one I want to bottle and keep in a vial, just like the rainwater Amanda saves. Speaking of Amanda… “Hey, I’d like you to meet someone. Is that okay?”

“Not another doctor?”

“No,” I say with a chuckle. “Not a doctor.”

“Okay.”

As promised, Amanda’s right outside when I open the door, and she smiles when she sees me, but the concern in her eyes is still present. “All good?”

Not really.

I take her hand in mine, but don’t bother answering. I wanted to tell Amanda about Micah first, and then hopefully get a chance to introduce them. But, like I said, I could never find the words. “I want you to meet someone special,” I tell her, stopping at the side of the bed and releasing her hand. Then I make my way to the other side so I can watch Amanda’s face when I say, “Amanda, this is Micah. Micah, Amanda.”

Even in the dull light of the room, I can see the tears that instantly well in her eyes, the way she attempts to blink them away while smiling through her pain. She’s seeing him for the first time, and I don’t have to imagine how she’s feeling. What she’s thinking. “Hi, Micah,” she says, just above a whisper.

Micah doesn’t respond to her, just slowly turns his head in my direction. “She your wife?”

“Not yet,” I answer.

“But soon?”

I nod. Laugh once. “Soon.”

“She’s pretty.”

“Trust me. I know it.”

Amanda collects the baseball glove sitting beside Micah and inspects it closely. She knows exactly what it is. What it means to me.

“Amanda?” Micah asks, and she replaces the glove before raising her eyebrows and giving him all her attention. “Do you think Santa knows I’m in the hospital?”

Amanda doesn’t skip a beat. “Santa knows everything.”

Micah sucks in a breath, releases it slowly. “I was just wondering because he couldn’t find me last Christmas. Or the year before. Or ever…”

I swallow the ever-present knot in my throat. Sometimes, Micah says these things—gives these little insights into his life—and he has no idea how devastating they are.

When my dad found me, I was so developmentally delayed that I could barely string two words together. I couldn’t tell him the parts of my life that still live in my nightmares. Not until I first learned how to speak.

“Maybe I was on the naughty list,” Micah adds.

“I’m sure that’s not why,” I’m quick to say.

“Yeah,” Amanda agrees. “I hear sometimes he skips houses when the gift is too big, you know? Like maybe it’s one enormous gift that’s years in the making…”

Micah doesn’t reply. He simply looks between us, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. “I know Santa’s not real,” he admits. “But…”

“But what?” I urge.

“But you are.” He lifts his hand, gesturing for me to come closer. I know what he wants, and I offer it to him without a second’s hesitation. He holds my large hand in his thin, weak little fingers. “Can you stay with me again? Just until I fall asleep?”

I look up at Amanda, watch for a reaction. She only looks at him when she says, “He can definitely do that.”

Micah reaches for her hand, holds it the same way. “And you too?”

“Of course.”

It takes less than ten minutes for Micah to fall into a deep sleep, and once he’s there, Amanda and I slowly and quietly leave the room.

I expect the questions to come right away, but they don’t. Instead, she takes my hand in hers, linking our fingers, and we walk silently, side by side, toward the exit. It’s not until we’re in the car, with me behind the wheel, that I even attempt to look at her.

She’s been crying, as I knew she would be, and a part of me wants to comfort her, but I know she won’t accept it, because in her mind, she believes I need to be comforted more .

So, instead, I sit with my back against the car door and just watch her. I watch her profile as she stares ahead, each intake of breath more uneven than the last.

I wait, readying the words in my mind for all the things she needs an answer to.

“How long have I known him?”

“How much time have I spent with him?”

“What the fucking fuck happened to him?”

But she doesn’t ask any of those things. Instead, she faces me, her eyes red and raw from emotion. “That was the hat and glove your dad gave you when you were?—”

“When I was like him?” I finish for her.

Amanda nods once, then blinks, releasing another set of tears.

I shrug, adjusting so I’m facing the windshield again. “It’s no big deal.”

“Logan…”

“Look, I love you. You know I do. And I know you want to fix this, but this is reality.” I think, deep down, this is why I couldn’t tell her about Micah. Because as much as Amanda wants to heal the world, nothing we do will change the reality of Micah’s life. Or the reality of my past. “These things happen to innocent children every day, and there’s nothing we can do about it. I wish there was more we could do to help him, but there isn’t.” And I’m done thinking about it. Done agonizing over it. I need to get the fuck out of here. Out of the hospital and out of my head. “You mind driving home from Cam and Lucy’s? I really need a drink… or ten.”