“Miss Aislin, Miss Aislin! Look how fast I can run!”
The four-year-old girl went flying by with arms and homemade cape flapping behind her; her rich, ebony skin glistening with sweat from the exertion of running up and down the porch in the New Mexico heat. The beads on her hair elastics clanked together as she jostled and stumbled in a show of prowess meant to impress me.
Unfortunately for her, I watched this same routine day in and day out, and even the addition of the purple cape I had sewed for her could not make it interesting. But I was good at pretending, too.
“You are so fast, Lilie! You’re practically flying.”
Her giggle echoed across the covered porch of her parents’ stately home. The Bryant’s were both well-known in the area — her father a lawyer, her mother a trauma surgeon. Her parents, like my mother, had immigrated from Ireland. Unlike my mother, they had made a name for themselves in our secluded New Mexico town. Their long working hours made it necessary to have a nanny, and I, for one, was grateful. I loved their Lilie like my own, and had been taking care of her since I graduated from high school when she was two months old.
I took a sip of my sweet tea as Lilie practiced her superhero tricks. Today was one of the rare days that the heat was too oppressive for me to join in her mischief, yet not oppressive enough for me to be able to keep her cooped up inside. I had been anxiously watching the clock all day, waiting for six o’clock and the sound of her father’s BMW.
It was only one.
“Lilie, nap time now.”
The little girl skidded to a halt. Her bottom lip jutted out so far I was certain a 737 could have landed on it.
“But Miss Aisliiiiin.”
“Lilie, now.”
Her little head dropped, defeated. I stood up as she ambled towards me, hand outstretched for hers.
The sound of Stravinsky erupted out of my pocket, and Lilie looked up at me with a grin that said, “I win.”
I pointed at the front door with one hand as I pulled my phone out with the other, and inside we went.
Once the door clicked shut behind me, I slid my thumb across the phone’s screen. Hospital, the screen said. I knew it would be my mother’s faded Irish accent on the other line. It was right at her lunch hour, after all, and she typically called to let me know about her day while Lilie napped. Lilie knew the routine and was bouncing up the stairs to her room.
“Hello?”
“Miss Kane?”, the deep voice on the other line was most assuredly not my mother.
“This is she. How can I help you?”
The throat on the other end cleared, and I felt my heart plummet into my intestines like Lucifer falling from heaven. There was only a handful of reasons I would receive a call from the hospital that wasn’t Mrs. Bryant or my mother, and all of them would be consequences of being an emergency contact.
“Miss Kane, I’m afraid I have some, uhhh, bad news for you. I’m not fond of doing this over the phone, so, uhhh, if you could come to the hospital I would appreciate it.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
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