“So what’s going to happen to her?” the policeman asked.
“We’ve made arrangements with the State for her to remain here at Saint Ann’s.”
“You mean until someone adopts her, right?”
A sad expression crossed Sister’s face. “Of course adoption is what we hope for for all of our children. But most couples looking to adopt want an infant. I’m afraid her age will be a strike against her. Her refusal to speak, and the fact that she’s been abused, makes adoption less likely for her. But if we’re lucky and the Lord is willing, we’ll eventually be able to find a good foster home to take her.”
Sister was wrong. She didn’t need any foster home. Her mommy was going to come back for her just like she promised.
“She’s so little,” the policeman said. “It just doesn’t seem fair.”
“It isn’t. But then it isn’t fair for a child so young to have eyes that look so old. Unfortunately, that’s how it is with most of the children who come to us. That’s why we need your prayers.” Sister touched his arm. “Would you like to say hello to her?”
“I…uh, sure. Why not?”
Sister led him into the room and over to the chair where she sat. “Claire, you remember Officer Jamison, don’t you? He’s the nice policeman who brought you to us. He came by to see how you were doing.”
“Claire?” the policeman repeated from his crouched position in front of her.
Sister wrinkled her nose. “Somehow Jane Doe didn’t strike the other sisters and me as right for a little girl. Since you found her during Hurricane Claire, it seemed an appropriate choice. So until she tells us differently, we’ve decided to call her Claire.”
One
Twenty-five years later
“Where’s my wife?”
Her eyes snapped open at the whiplash demand in the man’s voice. Jerking upright in the bed, she winced as pain exploded inside her head. She groaned, lifted an unsteady hand to her aching head and froze as her fingers met a thick wad of gauze along her right temple.
“Damn it, I want to see my wife—now!”
The impatient command sliced through her pain and confusion. Angling a glance toward the sound of that hard voice, she spied the door slightly ajar and frowned. Apprehension skittered down her spine as she stared at the unfamiliar door, the tan-and-white tile flooring.
Where on earth was she?
Dropping her hand to her lap, she spotted the plastic ID bracelet circling her wrist. “Claire Gallagher,” she read aloud the name stamped on the band and waited for it to strike a chord of familiarity, some sense that the name belonged to her. When none came, nerves twisted into knots in her stomach. Suddenly anxious, she kicked at the sheets tangled around her legs, and pain streaked to her left ankle. Gasping, she clutched at her ankle and felt something tug on her arm.
With her heart hammering, Claire swung her gaze to her left, and the breath stuck somewhere between her chest and her throat at the sight of the IV contraption attached to her arm. One look at the tube and painful-looking needle taped to her hand had her stomach pitching.
“Oh, God,” she moaned. She was going to be sick.
Panic swimming in her blood, she clamped a hand over her mouth and willed herself to calm down. She needed to breathe slowly, try to focus, she told herself as she drew in several breaths. There was an easy explanation for this. There had to be. She simply had to sort things out.
Quickly she took stock of her surroundings—the narrow bed she occupied, the sterile white sheets and khaki-colored blanket twisted around her legs. Swallowing past the nerves that still tightened her throat, she swept her gaze over the rest of the room. A pair of utilitarian chairs filled one corner. A chrome table with a plastic water pitcher and a cup stood against the wall. Uninspiring beige drapes hung across a window. Even without the telltale ID band and IV strapped to her arm as clues, the decor alone screamed the word hospital and did nothing to settle her uneasiness. Slumping back against the pillows, Claire tried to think, tried to remember. But it was difficult doing either while her head and ankle continued to throb relentlessly. Everything ached. Even her hair seemed to hurt.
What on earth had happened? Had she been in some kind of accident? When? Where?
Fingering the bandage on her head, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember…something…anything that would tell her what had caused her to end up in a hospital.
But between the hammering in her skull and that hum of voices outside her door, concentration proved impossible. Besides, everything seemed so hazy. Just a vague recollection of a man in a white coat waving his hand in front of her face while shining a light in her eyes and asking her how many fingers she saw.
“Either you take me to see my wife now, or I’ll find her myself.”
Claire’s pulse kicked again. She pressed her fingers to the space between her brows and wondered for a moment why the man’s voice had such an unsettling effect on her. Did she know him? There was something about his voice…something that tugged at the fringes of her memory. But whatever it was, the memory stayed just out of reach. Giving up, Claire tried to focus on her own dilemma. But the more she tried to remember what had happened and how she had ended up in a hospital, the more her head hurt.
“You can go back to your station, Nurse Galloway. I’ll handle this.”
Claire jerked her head up and winced at the movement. But she recognized the second man’s voice—the doctor who had wanted her to count his fingers.
“Try to get a grip, Matt. You’re making a scene.”
“Yeah? Well unless I see my wife in the next ten seconds, I’m going to make an even bigger one.”
And he would make good on the threat, Claire thought, as she listened to the exchange between the doctor and the other man. There was no mistaking the steel in the angry man’s voice.
“You know, pal, I didn’t have to notify you that she was here. When they brought her in, she was barely conscious and didn’t have any ID. It was just pure luck that I was the one on duty and recognized her. Considering the situation between you two, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that I broke some sort of hospital confidentiality rule by calling you. Don’t make me regret making that call, Matt.”
“Aw, hell, Jeff. I’m sorry. It’s just when you said she’d been hurt, and that the guy had used a gun, I…I guess I went a little crazy.”
“A little?”
“All right. A lot. It’s just…I was afraid that…I thought—” His voice broke. “Hell, it doesn’t matter what I thought. The way things have been between us lately, she probably won’t even want to see me. But I need to see her, Jeff. I really do. I need to see with my own eyes that’s she’s all right.”
“Take it easy, man. No one’s trying to stop you from seeing her. But she’s been drifting in and out of consciousness since they brought her in. Give me a second to find out if she’s awake yet, and then you can go in.”
“Jeff, wait! First, I need to know what to expect. Be straight with me. How bad off she is. Is she…is she going to make it?”
Poor guy, Claire thought as she heard the anguish in his voice. Chiding herself, she turned away from the door. She had no right to eavesdrop, to listen to his anxiety over his wife’s condition, she told herself. Besides, she had enough problems of her own to worry about—like why she was in a hospital and why couldn’t she remember how she had ended up here.
“Damn, I could kick myself! I’m sorry, Matt.