Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69129 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69129 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
My son admires the handiwork coating his tiny frame. “Have duperdowers.”
“Which ones?”
“All dem.”
Clark lightly chuckles at the same time he inquires, “Because of all the superhero band-aids?”
Wy instantly nods at his grandfather prompting the Hispanic woman from the first encounter I witnessed to lift her hand and mouth behind it, “They’re all for show.”
Relief curls my lips upward as the other females in the room begin making their way out, waving sweetly and blowing kisses for him to catch out of the air.
I’m not this liked.
Adored.
And while Bryn has an unusual charm to her people grow to love, it’s typically not their default feeling.
Where did he get this irresistible nature from?
Is this uncle J.T.’s doing?
“Do you need to go potty, Wy?” Jessie lovingly inquires while swooping up his go bag.
“No.”
“Have you been potty?” Clark follows up with a point down to his grandson’s lower half. “Has Gotham had rain?”
“No.”
“Do you wanna try?” I gingerly suggest knowing pushing him only seems to bring out the stubbornness everyone swears he inherited from us both. “See the cool, big boy potty they’ve got right next door?”
His lips pull to one side in obvious contemplation.
“You so should,” says the white coat woman still in the room. “It’s got Nemo fish painted on the seat.”
“Cownfish,” Wy corrects without hesitation.
“Excuse me?”
“Nemo is cownfish.”
An impressed expression crosses her face during her nodding. “You’re right.”
“I know.”
“Wy,” scoldingly escapes prompting him to dramatically sigh – which he gets only from Bryn.
“Mom a marleen myologist,” my son does his best to explain. “I know all fish.”
Rather than argue, she simply smiles and proposes the usage of the bathroom again. “Why don’t you go check out our clownfish potty while I talk to your dad about your superhero tests?”
“Otay!” He enthusiastically agrees and angles himself towards Clark. “Gampi, you make me!”
“Take you,” he casually revises. “T-t-t-take you.”
Wyland starts practicing the sound creating the perfect opportunity for me and the doctor to step to his doorway, completely out of sight.
The instant we’re there, she politely offers me an open palm, “I’m Doctor Veronica Ramos.”
“Wilcox.” I shake in return. “Weston Wilcox.”
“You make great whiskey,” she unexpectedly compliments upon our grips separating. “And great kids.” Her hands find their way to her coat pockets. “Wyland is an absolute sweetheart.”
“Little pushy.”
“Merely curious,” Ramos insists with a smile. “It’s quite natural for all children to question and explore the boundaries particularly in a new environment, especially in one they weren’t expecting.”
An ache is instantly sparked in my chest.
“From what the first responders said along with the ER doc, Wyland did wonderful. He listened. He was polite. And having his nanny, Jessie, along with his security detail there seemed to make a major difference. They provided the constant in an otherwise scary and trauma inducing situation.”
I swallow the discomfort over having more questions than answers to investigate, “You said the bandages were simply for show?”
“Yes.”
“Does this mean he has internal injuries?”
“Not at all.” Her small lips temporarily press together. “His mother, Mrs. Wilcox-”
“Bryn.”
“-took the bulk of the hit. She used her body to shield his, and it was effective.”
The ache swiftly spreads.
Deepens.
Drills into the marrow of my bones where it lingers.
Whimpers.
Whispers that I should’ve been there.
That I should’ve been the one protecting our son.
“Wyland seems to have suffered some scrapes along his legs from where he was dragged during the attempted abduction; however, his knee-high socks appear to have cushioned most of that damage. There’s some very minor bruising on his forearm from the grip on the area that he mentioned feeling a little sore, so we gave him a dose of Tylenol when he first arrived to alleviate that pain and will administer another in about an hour to ensure it stays at bay. His vitals are strong. There’s nothing to be concerned about in his blood work. We’re still monitoring the development of bruise patterns and possibilities of infection from exposure to anything foreign – perhaps as a additional branch to the abduction – but if nothing changes in the next couple of hours, he’ll be ready for release.” She pulls her long, thick hair to one side of her surprisingly cut jawline. “He’s honestly one of the happiest, healthiest, most charming, band-aid obsessed kids I’ve ever met.”
Instead of spewing how grateful I am to have valuable data regarding his wellbeing or how comforting I find it or how I appreciate her diligence in his care, I moronically mumble, “I’ll pay for the band-aids.”
Ramos sweetly shakes her head, easy to adore smile still prevalent. “Not necessary, Mr. Wilcox. This is the children’s wing of the hospital. Band-aids are kind of already in the budget.”
“Then I’ll donate more to insure you never have to worry about having enough to entertain other children like you have mine.”
“Mr. Wilcox-”
“And I’ll have my company begin writing yearly donation checks to the department to guarantee other children continue to have the best care just as mine has.”