AN: Thanks everyone for the reviews. I hope I continue to do justice to this story and to y'all's expectations. Let me know. As usual I don't own anything related to OTH.
Chapter four
It's past midnight when I stop the car in front on Brooke's house. I get out and accompany her to the door. We share a tight hug.
"Will you be ok?"
"Yes, Broody. I'm actually doing better. Go take care of your fiancee tonight. I'll see you tomorrow at the hospital."
"Very well. See you tomorrow, then."
I drive home slowly, thinking of the day past, and what's coming later. It's getting harder to keep my feelings for Brooke under wraps. I hope Angie provides enough of a distraction to make things a little easier.
The house is dark and quiet. I tiptoe to my bedroom, and look at Peyton, asleep in the bed. She is wearing a grey t-shirt and sexy white panties, looking like a million bucks on the messed up bed. There's a brittle, fragile quality to Peyton's beauty and spirit that still calls to me, even after spending a long day with the true owner of my heart. It's a good time to try to reach my mother, and tell her the news.
Someone picks up the phone, after a few rings. It's a five-dollar-a-minute call, so I try to be brief.
"Hargrove here."
"Andy, hi. It's Lucas. May I speak to my mother?"
"Oh, hi Lucas. Just a second."
"Lucas?"
"Hi mom. Glad to hear your voice. Is everything ok?"
"Everything is fine sweety. Your sister is taking a nap. What about you, is everything ok?"
"Yes and no. Brooke and I are adopting a very sick baby, a six-month-old girl from outside the US. Her name is Angela, but we call her Angie. She is arriving tomorrow."
"Is this ok with Peyton?"
"I'm not really sure."
"All right, son. I hope you know what you're doing. Please, keep me in the loop. I'll include my granddaughter in my prayers. Also, send your sister a picture of her niece as soon as you can. Be well and good luck, dear."
"Bye, mom."
I turn around and I see a half asleep Peyton standing in the hallway. "I'm sorry, Peyt. I was hoping I wouldn't disturb you."
"What time is it?"
"It's close to one."
"I was about to grab a glass of water."
I follow her to the kitchen and watch her as she pours herself a glass and drinks it. Afterwards, she comes next to me for a kiss. I'm game enough, but as she tries to deepen it I pull away.
"I'm sorry Peyt. I'm too wired, and too tired for that. It's been a long, exhausting day."
She smiles, hiding her disappointment. "What about a backrub instead?"
"Now, that's just what the doctor ordered."
I undress down to my boxers, lie down, and she straddles me, kneading my shoulders and back muscles, using some kind of sweet oil. It's probably fifteen minutes until I'm fast asleep.
I wake up with a start. It's still dark outside, I check my watch. It's a bit after five. I carefully disentangle myself from sleeping Peyton and go to my office. I get my computer out, turn it on and find a copy of an old file. I work at it for about three hours, chopping pieces off, tightening it updating the tone and the voice to a more mature pitch. I was seventeen when I first wrote this. I end up with a credible first version, about seven thousand words, of a text entitled "The girl behind the red door." It's a love letter, a rather sweet one, if I must say so. It is also discreet enough that my fiancee will not Bobbitt me if she reads it. I left the protagonist nameless, and a lot of the details in the story are only known to two people in the world. There's still a substantial bit of work left before I send it to Lindsay, but it's fairly routine polishing. I come out of the office, and Peyton is awake, doing yoga stretches on a mat in the living room.
"Good morning gorgeous."
"Good morning yourself. You were working?"
"Yup. Lindsay asked me for some short stories, and I working on an old idea. I'm going for a quick run, than shower and breakfast. I have to be at the hospital at ten. You're coming?"
"I can't. I have a band on the studio today until three. I'll meet you at the hospital after that. We have to talk."
"I know."
I put on runners and I give Peyton a peck on the lips on my way out. I do a forty minute run, and come back to the smell of coffee and bacon. I follow my nose to the kitchen. "Scrambled eggs, bacon, buttered toast, coffee and OJ."
"You're an angel."
We gobble up our breakfast, and I follow Peyton to the bedroom. I'm pretty sweaty, but so is she and I know that glint in her eyes. We undress and do a quick, but very satisfying one. I make sure I use one of the condoms I bought at the airport last night. We shower together, and I'm leaving the house by nine thirty. I can't entirely avoid the idiotic sensation that somehow, in some way, I am cheating on Brooke with Peyton again.
She is not there yet, so I take up a seat in the waiting room next to the hospital's reception. About ten minutes later, Brooke comes in, tight jeans and a purple sleeveless turtleneck, white wedges and hair tied in a high ponytail. Breathtaking, as usual. The bruises from the attack seem to be finally gone.
I get up and smile as she approaches. "Hi, Brooke."
She frowns a little at me and speaks archly. "I hope you're using protection." Apparently I'm not the only one with an idiotic point of view about my sex life this morning.
"Any news?"
"They've already landed. They are waiting for an ambulance to transport her here. She'll arrive thought the emergency room dock and be sent directly to the pediatric ICU on the fifth floor. The initial paperwork is all prepared, and we just have to sign when they arrive. The doctors and the hospital are still donating their work as part of the original fostering arrangement, but now we have to sign the medical consent forms."
"I'm sorry, Brooke."
"It's none of my business."
"Do you have fifteen minutes?"
"I'm not doing you, Broody."
"It's just a little experiment. Follow me." I find a bathroom next to the reception area and get in after Brooke. I don't bother locking the door. Next I pick up a condom from my pocket. She looks alarmed. "Patience, Pretty Girl. Give me a second." I open the foil package, unroll the condom and put it in the sink, filling it with water. I pull it up and... there. A couple of very thin streams of water come out near the tip. "I picked this up from my nightstand drawer this morning."
"Shit, Lucas."
"I actually used a condom I bought at the airport yesterday. I know my girl, Brooke."
Brooke looks sadly at the condom. "I used to know her too. Apparently, not anymore. Why the hell are you with her, Luke?"
"You don't want to go there now."
"Perhaps."
"I'll say this. We pushed her, Brooke. She feels threatened, scared of losing what she thinks is hers. This is her fighting back. It's pretty underhanded, but we didn't leave her that many options either. On one hand, it suggests that she sees Angie and a threat, which both of us would find unacceptable. But I do find her willingness to fight by any means comforting. You know my story. Women I care for don't fight for me. They just throw me away."
She frowns as she looks at me. "Is that how you see it?"
"Am I wrong?"
"Not entirely, I guess. But never mind, Broody. We have more important fish to fry anyways."
I'm distributing back graded essays to my sophomore language and literature class. The assignment was to write an essay on Quentin Fields, who was attending this particular class before he got killed. "And the last essay, Samantha Walker." The girl raises her hand and I give her back her essay. A very good B-plus. I look at the girl. She is new in the class, came in after Quentin died. The name sounds familiar... ah! Of course. The CoB thief. Brazen little thing, if I remember the story. The bell rings and the students begin to leave.
"Samantha, would you stay back a bit?"
When the rest of the class left, I examine the girl. Short, physically underdeveloped brunette. Modest clothing, probably second hand. Sullen and defiant. Bright, lively eyes, brimming with intelligence. Clearly becoming uncomfortable with the silent examination. "I'm sorry Samantha. I was lost in thought for a bit. I just wanted to say I liked your essay very much."
"You didn't give me an A."
"Well, mostly it needed a revision. But you have something that many professional writers don't have. A voice. You sound clear and distinctive, and that is a very unusual talent. In fact, the only person I know who had such a distinctive voice at your age is now a best-selling author."
"Who is it?"
"Lucas Scott. An unkindness of Ravens?"
"You mean Coach Scott?"
"That's right."
"All the girls in junior class have a crush on him. And they also gush about that book. I didn't realize he was the author."
"Did you read it?"
"No."
"Do it. He wrote it during his senior year here at Tree Hill High. That's a special assignment for you. Read it, and write an essay on what the book tells you about how the author views and experiences the world. You can even interview him, if you want."
"Is he any relation of yours?"
"He is my brother in law."
The ambulance opens its doors and We finally lay eyes on our daughter. She is in a basket with wheels, with an IV in her ankle and an oxygen mask. She looks smaller than she did three weeks ago, her skin has a blueish cast to it and she is breathing with difficulty. My knees start to give way, and it's just Lucas strong arm around my back that keeps me upright.
"Damn, Brooke."
"My bunny. Holy shit, Lucas. I didn't think..."
A middle aged black woman that came with the ambulance addresses us. "Miss Davis, Mr. Scott?"
"Yes?"
"They will be taking her to pediatric ICU. You'll be able to follow her shortly. Right now, we need to complete some paperwork. The most important one, is the issuance of a new birth certificate. As per international treaty, she becomes an American citizen the moment you sign the adoption papers. Her name in Angela Davis-Scott, is that correct?"
"No. Her name is Angela Scott."
"Wait. Brooke, I'd say her name is Angela Penelope Scott."
I look at him and blink. "Not Angela Eugenia Scott?"
"Damn! Please, not that."
I giggle. "You would really inflict my Penelope on her?"
"I'm giving her a name, you'd be giving her one and her birth family gave her one. It fits. I'll even call her Angie Penny, on occasion."
God, I love this man. "All right, then. Her name is Angela Penelope Scott."
"Very well." She scribbles on her forms. "Please sign, here, and you here, Ms Davis."
"This act, duly notarized by me, transfers full legal responsibility to you for the infant in question. This other document is a letter from the international organization responsible for the adoption, assuming financial responsibility for Angela's care with respect to the present course of treatment. Finally, this is a personal letter from Angela's biological mother, to Miss Davis. You'll have to sign consent forms for Angela's treatment, but this is the Hospital's responsibility. My job here is finished. I wish you and your daughter the very best of luck."
"Thank you."
I whisper in his ear. "You never called me Brookie Penny."
"Broken penny? Is that a good name for a millionaire fashion diva?"
"It's what I feel like, sometimes."
"To me, you're always a bright, shiny and new Penny."
"Corny, much?"
"We just chose a new name for our daughter. I'm entitled to a little corny."
"That's fine, as long as you don't start calling me Penny."
"And why not? I've been seeking a replacement for Cheerie for quite some time, cause I haven't seen much cheer from you in a while. Penny is appropriate and it suits you."
"You wouldn't be the first boy to call me that."
"Really? Who was it?"
"There was a little boy on fourth grade. He called me Penny for a long time, and, for some reason, he stopped."
"Did you liked the little boy?"
"Oh, I still do. His name is Nathan. And I know exactly why he stopped calling me Penny."
"Why?"
"I started calling him His Royal Highness, Highness for short."
He laughs and gives me a kiss in the cheek. "I love you, shiny Penny."
It doesn't sound so bad the way he says it, I guess.
At the pediatric ICU, they are installing her at a crib, transferring her IV and switching her oxygen to the Hospital line. They hook her up to half a dozen monitors, which show blood pressure, temperature, heart rate and blood oxygenation level, among other things. They also hook her up with a catheter.
"You are the parents."
"Yes."
"The doctor will be here to talk to you momentarily. Please wait here."
"All right."
I approach he crib and caress her hair. "Oh, bunny. What happened? You were doing so well."
Lucas opens his backpack and brings out the purple monkey that was her favorite toy, and that I gave Lucas after she left. He carefully places the monkey next to her on the crib, and holds her tiny hand on his fingertips. We are still hovering over her crib when someone clears his throat behind us.
"Brooke."
"Dr. Copeland." I feel a flood of relief seeing his face. "Lucas, this Dr. Ethan Copeland. He was the surgeon who operated on Angie a month ago."
Lucas shakes his hand and asks. "So, Dr. Copeland. Can you tell us more details about what we are facing here?"
"First, let me introduce Dr. Mary Ann Sequeira. Dr. Sequeira is a pediatrician, and she will be the main contact of the medical team working on Angela with you. Let me just add one thing. You were right, Brooke. She should have stayed another week. Any doctor should know better than to ignore a mother's instinct. I'm so, so sorry."
"You're saying that if she had stayed another week, this wouldn't have happened?" I wave an arm at the crib.
"Probably not. She would have gotten a fever, and we would have given her the right antibiotics right away and probably, there would have been no secondary damage to her heart."
"Damn you." I don't know what to say, so I just grab a hold of Lucas and stick my face in his chest.
"I've written to the foster program with a strong recommendation to amend the guidelines for post-op stays. Hopefully it won't happen again."
I take my face out of Lucas shirt and growl at Dr. Copeland. "All right. This was the past. So, how do we deal with what we have now?"
"I'll have Dr. Sequeira go over this with you. I'll be back this afternoon to check on Angie, all right?"
I give him a half wave, dismissing him. "That's fine. We will see you later."
Dr Sequeira is a tall, trim brunette in her early thirties, with a dry manner which I find comforting, although I hope she is a little warmer with her clients. She is also wearing a CoB blouse under the light pink smock, which makes me like her a bit more. "Very well, Ms Davis and Mr. Scott, let me first go over the current situation with you. Angie is suffering from a post-op infection called endocarditis, from the open heart surgery performed on her three weeks ago."
Lucas interrupts her. "You mean she still has the infection?"
"This will go easier if you let me finish, Mr. Scott. To answer your question, yes. She still has the infection. If you look at the monitors you will see her temperature is slightly elevated, which is a strong indicator of a low grade infection. They didn't identify the precise bacteria in her home country, so they treated her with broad spectrum antibiotics. This was enough to control the infection, but not to eradicate it. This, in turn, allowed time for the bacteria to damage her heart. Our first step here is to identify the precise bacteria that's causing the infection. After that, we will start an aggressive course of treatment with a targeted antibiotic and monitor closely to determine when the infection is gone. Her heart is basically healthy. However, she sustained damage to both valves that control the outflow of blood from her heart, the pulmonary valve and the aortic valve. Our immediate concern is the pulmonary valve damage. It's compromising blood flow to her lungs. This creates a general lack of oxygen throughout her system, and causes fluid build up in her lungs. This is the immediate threat to her life. The damage itself is not severe, so, as soon as the infection is controlled, Dr. Copeland will attempt a laparoscopic repair. This will eliminate the immediate threat to her life, and improve her condition considerably. With the aortic valve defect she can lead a nearly normal life, but will generally tire easily and have a hard time keeping up. The damage itself is a bit more extensive, so the best option there will probably be a valve replacement. However, this means another open heart surgery, so we will wait until she is fully recovered to attempt that, several months at least. Right now, she is struggling to breathe due to the fluid in her lungs. This is very uncomfortable, so we will be keeping her sedated. I'll discuss other issues as the situation becomes clearer. Do you have any questions so far?"
Lucas asks. "Just one. Can we hold her?"
"Yes. This is actually known to promote well being in infants. It's a little difficult, given the IV, the oxygen line and the monitoring wires." As she speaks, she clears the tubes and wires to the sides and deftly scoops Angie from the crib. She is listless, but she whimpers weakly as she is pulled up. The doctor carefully places Angie in my arms. "I think we can even arrange things so that you can sit on a chair while holding her." I stop listening and focus entirely on the sick baby in my arms.
I whisper to her. "Oh, funny bunny, I missed you so much. You're going to get better, aren't you? You're a very brave little girl, and mommy loves you so much..." I can feel her relaxing a little in my arms. An armchair appears near me and I sit. I hear Lucas telling me that he is going to take care of paperwork and that he would be back. He gives me and Angie a kiss in the cheek. The world fades away, and It's just me and her, as she struggles to hold onto her dear little life.
