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By Root 758 0

’s magazine scattered on tables throughout the room. She does not even listen to Charlie’s iPod, which she promised to keep for him while he was in the OR. She does not want an escape of any kind. Instead, she wants to remain alert, simply enduring the agonizing minutes, waiting for someone to emerge in the doorway and take her to her son. She hopes that someone will be Nick, for no other reason than she is certain that when she sees his face she will be able to tell right away that everything went smoothly. She knows by now that he is a straight shooter, and she spends her mental energy visualizing the moment she sees his reassuring smile, almost willing it to unfold accordingly.

Only at one point, about two hours after the surgery begins, does Valerie lose focus and let her mind wander to her foolish Saturdaynight stunt. She feels her face grow warm with shame, even though she knows she escaped unnoticed, that nobody will ever know what she did, and that it will never happen again. Still, she asks herself what she had hoped to gain or glean. And, God, what if Nick had seen her—or worse, he and his wife had both spotted her? What then? Would they have chalked the maneuver up to a mother so distraught that she lost her moorings, pitying her in more ways than one? Or would their explanation have been less benign, accusing her of stalking? Would Nick have been disturbed enough to recuse himself and turn Charlie over to another, lesser surgeon? The thought makes her literally shudder as she pulls her cardigan more tightly around her.

She asks herself why again—what made her go there?—and does her best to ignore the disturbing answer taking form in her mind. That there is something between them. An attraction. Or at least a connection. She shakes her head, dismissing her conclusion as wrong, delusional. She couldn’t possibly have feelings for a man she barely knows. And he certainly does not have feelings for her, other than mere compassion. She is just vulnerable, that’s all, and he is her salvation. She tells herself that it must be a common phenomenon—patients falling for their doctors, confusing gratitude with something more. In fact, she remembers reading something about it when she was pregnant—how some women develop crushes on their obstetricians. She thought it seemed inconceivable at the time, but looking back, perhaps she was just too preoccupied with Lion for a crush of any kind, however fleeting, to materialize.

So that is it, Valerie decides. She is a textbook case, nothing more. It suddenly makes perfect sense to her, especially given that Nick is so frightfully good to look at. Anyone could plainly see his beauty—his eyes, that hair, those shoulders—which is why so many of the single nurses swooned and giggled around him. Even those who were married, the kind who carried around brag books filled with photos of their husbands and children, seemed smitten.

Valerie crosses her legs and shifts her weight in her armchair, feeling relieved to find such a logical explanation for her erratic behavior. Nick is a brilliant, handsome surgeon—and she, not only single but, these days, utterly walled off from the rest of the world. She looks up, watching the second hand sweep across the face of the clock above her, convincing herself that the crush will soon pass, until a figure moving behind the frosted glass door of the waiting room breaks her concentration. She sits up straighter, hoping it is someone for her, someone with news or an update of some kind. Hoping that it is Nick.

Instead, Valerie looks up to see two women looming in the doorway. She recognizes one, but is slow to place her. She finally does, stiffening as she hears the woman say her name.

“Romy,” Valerie replies. “What are you doing here?”

Romy raises a big wicker basket filled with a bouquet of white and yellow flowers, which appear to be handpicked but artfully arranged, and fruit so waxy and perfect in appearance that it looks fake.

“I brought you this,” Romy says, carefully placing the basket at her feet. Valerie looks down, noticing a bottle of