The Return of Connor Mansfield. Beth Cornelison
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be doing something with her art for a living, working for Mansfield Construction gave her a steady income, health insurance and, because the owners were her daughter’s grandparents, understanding and job security when she needed time off to take care of Savannah—a benefit that had been particularly welcome since Savannah’s diagnosis a couple months ago.
Mr. Orlean sighed again, and another hint of the familiar whispered down her neck. She shoved to her feet, feeling a bit stronger now, past the initial shock and dread of impending doom. She peeked in the room to check on Savannah, then pulled the door closed and resumed her position in the hospital’s corridor. “If that’s all, sir, I need to get back to my child—”
“Wait! I...” He cleared his throat again. “I still need to verify some things to satisfy the company’s questions about your policy.”
She straightened her spine, suddenly exhausted by the man’s endless questions. “Look, Mr. Orlean, I’ve paid my premiums on time, and if your company has questions about charges filed by the hospital, you should talk to the billing department. Not me. And if you try to deny my claims based on a clerical error or technical glitch and put my daughter’s health in jeopardy, so help me, I’ll sue your company ten ways to Sunday!” All her pent-up frustrations with Savannah’s illness, her helplessness to ease her daughter’s pain, her sense of being alone in the most important battle of her life boiled over. “If you think I’m going to lie down and let you walk all over me, you’ve got another think coming!”
A chuckle filtered through the line.
Darby saw red. “This isn’t funny! Do you think I’m kidding?”
“I know. I’m sorry, Darby. I...”
She stiffened hearing him use her first name, as if they were best friends. Hearing the way his Southern accent softened the hard ar in her name to Dahr-by. The way Connor used to say her name.
Pain clutched at her chest as Connor’s face flickered in her memory.
In the pause of the conversation, Mr. Orlean had apparently sobered. His tone was darkly serious when he asked, “What is Savannah’s prognosis? What are the doctors telling you about her treatment options, about her...chances—”
Darby felt the blood drain from her face. The best way she had of dealing with Savannah’s illness, the only way she had of not going stark raving mad with worry and grief and fear for her daughter, was to take things one day at a time. She couldn’t think about the long term, the odds of Savannah surviving her cancer, or she’d become so burdened with despair that she couldn’t be the mom Savannah needed now.
“I’m not sure why that matters to you at this point. Whatever the doctors feel is necessary and best for Savannah should be covered, regardless of how long it takes or whether she—” Her voice broke, and she paused for a reinforcing breath. “Or whether she responds to the treatments.”
“Of course. If Tri-State clears your policy after our review, we will cover—”
“If?” Darby shrieked then, clenching her teeth, she growled, “Listen here, buster. Don’t you screw around with me! I need that coverage to save my daughter’s life!” Just saying the words brought a rush of unwanted emotion, and moisture filled her eyes again. “Don’t take away my only means to give my baby the medical care she needs!” So much for the tough-cookie act. She was begging now, tears in her voice and the words. Pitiful.
Her shoulders slumped as she gave in to the tears, surrendering to the roller-coaster emotions that had her head spinning these past several weeks. She was a mess, and she had to pull herself together in order to be the rock, the comfort, the mother Savannah needed.
“Please, Ms. Kent, don’t cry. I’m so sorry this is happening to you.” The man’s nasally voice softened with compassion. She almost believed his sympathy was real. “This is all standard company procedure. I promise. Please know that I will do everything I can to see that all of your claims are processed in a timely manner. I want your daughter to recover. Truly I do.”
Darby couldn’t answer. Her throat was too clogged with emotion to breathe, much less speak.
“I’m sorry for upsetting you. I know you’re dealing with a lot.” He sighed again. “Alone.”
She frowned. How did he know she was alone?
“I wish...” he continued in a low voice, the nasal twang gone again. “I wish I could do...something to help. I—”
Darby stilled. Her heartbeat slowed. Without the nasal affectation, his voice sounded so familiar. She shook her head. It was just her turbulent emotions playing with her mind. Wishing. Longing...
“Actually, there is something you can do,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“Get yourself on the National Bone Marrow registry if you aren’t there already. The doctors say my baby’s best chance to beat this disease is a bone marrow transplant, but we need a donor. Her uncle was close, but not close enough.” Darby sighed. “It’s a long shot you’d be a match, but maybe you’ll be able to save some other mother’s baby.”
Silence answered her request.
“Mr. Orlean? Are you there?”
“Yes...I’m—I’ll do that. I’ll get on the registry this afternoon. I swear.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“I...have the doctors said...would her father have been a suitable match?”
A chill tripped down Darby’s spine, along with regret and fresh waves of grief. “Kind of a moot point since he died before she was born. That information should be in her file.”
“Yeah, I guess... I—”
Darby shifted her weight, uncomfortable with the personal nature of Mr. Orlean’s questions and tone. “Why do you ask?”
“I just...well, I thought, maybe...” He fumbled awkwardly, the nasal voice back. He sounded truly contrite, and Darby closed her eyes. The man sounded as if he really cared about Savannah’s plight, and she appreciated that he wanted to be more than just a cold company drone at the other end of the line.
“For what it’s worth, I bet he’d have been a match,” she blurted, not knowing why she was going down this road with a perfect stranger, other than the fact that the subject had preoccupied her mind for weeks. “She inherited so much from him. From his dark hair and light brown eyes to his stubborn streak.”
What if Connor were alive? Would his marrow have been able to save their child? She shook her head and shoved the what-if aside. She’d never know that answer. Connor was gone.
* * *
I bet he’d have been a match.
Connor rocked back in his desk chair and squeezed his eyes shut. Frustration and regret gripped his chest and twisted painfully. His daughter needed him. Needed his marrow.
“I have nothing to base this on other than my own speculation, of course,” Darby went on, the sadness in her voice almost more than he could bear.
When she’d started crying earlier, it was all he could do not to blurt out the truth and jump on the first plane back to Louisiana.
“But Savannah got so many other traits from her father, why not marrow type, too?” She paused for a humorless laugh. “And since Connor’s brother has some of the same markers and is a partial match, it seems reasonable to me that Connor would be a closer match. Right?”
Connor. He gritted his teeth, swallowing a groan of anguish. She’d unwittingly confirmed what he suspected, but hearing his name on her lips again was a sweet agony. The precious details about his daughter were like manna that he feasted on, but painful to hear, as well.
He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Sounds reasonable.” He grimaced, realizing he’d forgotten to mask his voice