I glance at the time and calculate the couple of hours I have before I have to be on set for the commercial.
“I have to go shopping.” I grin at the woman who’s always been more of a sister to me than anything else. “Love you, kiddo.”
“I want photos, Rhys O’Shaughnessy. You’ll need my input.”
“Good point. Okay, I’ll send photos from the jewelry store.”
“Tiffany,” she insists, pointing at me. “If it doesn’t come in a blue box with a white bow, we don’t want it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh my God, you’re buying a ring!” She does a little happy dance in her chair.
“This is our secret, Mary Katherine.”
“Call me Mary Katherine again and I’ll slash your tires.”
“Promise me you won’t tell. Not even Eli.”
She sighs, blowing her lips together in a raspberry, but finally nods. “Okay, I won’t tell Eli, or anyone else. But make it quick.”
“I’ll see her on Sunday.”
I end the call and rush out of the hotel, catch a cab to Tiffany, and spend the next several hours searching for the perfect ring for my girl. I send several photos to Kate, but each time she replies with a simple no.
And I agree, none of them are right. Finally, the saleswoman, who has been exceedingly patient and kind, says, “Wait, I just saw something come in this morning that might be perfect.” She leaves for several minutes and then returns with the perfect ring.
Perfect.
“It’s vintage inspired,” the saleswoman begins. “That means it has an older feel, almost like an heirloom. As you can see, there is etched scrollwork on the sides, with diamonds, and the stone on top is a princess-cut. It’s three total karats.”
It’s so Gabby. She has such a love for tradition, for older styles. I can just see this on her hand.
“I’ll take it.”
“I didn’t even tell you how much it is,” she says with a chuckle.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s hers.”
***
It’s the second day of filming. I’ve had lunches and dinners and other meetings crammed between shooting short scenes for the commercial for the children’s hospital. And in between it all, I’ve taken time to actually sit with the kids.
They’re the best part.
And they make me miss Sam, and so damn thankful that he’s healthy and whole. Having a very sick child must be its own special kind of hell. I didn’t like it when Sam had the flu. I can’t imagine having a child with cancer.
I can feel my phone buzzing in my pocket, but can’t take the time to answer it as I’m once again surrounded by fans and parents of the patients, wanting to say hello and get their baseballs autographed.
When the crowd thins, a petite woman about Gabby’s age approaches me with a shy smile.
“I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Fiona. My son is a huge fan of yours, and I was wondering if you’d be willing to say hi to him?”
“Of course,” I reply with a grin. “Where is he?” I glance around, but I don’t see any little boys nearby.
“He’s in room 432. He’s not well enough to come out here.” She bites her lip, looking hopeful.
“No problem.” I catch Melanie’s attention. “I’ll be back. I have a fan to go see.”
“We’re done here,” Melanie replies with a smile. “No worries.”
I nod and follow Fiona to her son’s room. He’s lying in the bed, hooked up to IVs and other machines that I’m not smart enough to know what their function is.
He’s completely bald. No eyelashes or eyebrows. But he’s smiling widely, and his dark brown eyes, rimmed with dark circles, are overjoyed.
“You talked him into it!” he exclaims.
“I wasn’t a hard sell,” I reply and shake his hand. “I hear you’re our biggest fan.”
“I’m your biggest fan,” he says and tries to sit. “Mom, will you push me up?”
“Sure, buddy.” She pushes a button and his bed inclines. “But you know you can’t stay this way for long.”
“Just for a little while,” he says. “Are you coming back next season?”
“Absolutely. I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Thank God! They suck without you!”
“Andrew!” Fiona narrows her eyes on her son. “Be nice.”
“It’s okay.” I chuckle and shrug. “I don’t know what to tell you, kid. But I will be back in the spring.”
“Good.”
“How old are you?”
“Seven,” he replies. “I have osteosarcoma in my legs.”
Same age as Sam.
“It means I have bone cancer.”
The fact that a seven-year-old even knows the meaning of the word osteosarcoma makes me sick to my stomach. I sit with Andrew for a long time, talking about baseball and TV shows, and when his eyes are so heavy he can hardly keep them open, I say goodbye, then walk out of the room with Fiona.
“Thank you for that,” she whispers. “He’ll talk about that for the rest of his life.”
“Here’s hoping that’s a very long time.”
She nods, but looks sad when she shrugs. “They’re doing everything they can do. Now we wait and hope it works.”
“Will you keep me posted?” I ask without even thinking. “I’ll give you my email address. I’d like to know that he’s okay.”