This was a choice of cataclysmic consequences, and I was known to get stumped by a Dunkin’ Donuts display. How was I supposed to decide this so soon when glazed versus frosted could keep my brain in a knot for days?
“She needs a mom,” Dana persisted.
“I’m not her mom.”
“But you can learn. Even if you’re not her real mom, someone’s got to raise her.”
“No.” I shook my head as if the gesture would rid me of the excruciating decision. “I’m not mom material. He made sure of that.”
“And yet it’s you he wanted to take care of his daughter. No one else.”
I laughed again, though the sound was completely devoid of humor. “He doesn’t even know who I am.”
“But he chose you.”
“I can’t do it.”
“What other option do we have, Shelby?” Her voice was soft, but her words slammed a vise across my lungs that threatened my ability to breathe. “What other option does Shayla have?” She leaned across the table, her eyes seeking my averted gaze. “Take a deep breath, Shelby.” She waited while I obeyed. After a few moments, she smiled and added, “If you don’t let it back out, you’re going to pass out.”
I expelled the breath in a rush of frustration and helplessness and fear, tears stinging my eyes. “I feel like I don’t really have a choice at all.”
“Sure you do. Technically. But if you’re feeling like there’s only one right choice, I think that might be true.” She fished a Kleenex out of her giant purse and handed it to me as if she’d done it a thousand times before, which she probably had. “I suggest you and I go for a little ride. We’ll drop in and see her—just as casually as you’d like—and then maybe you’ll be able to wrap your mind around all of this.” She pushed her chair away from the table and rose.
“I’m not sure I can do this.” I swallowed past the boulder in my throat and bit my bottom lip to steady it.
“I believe you. But you still need to.”
“I’m scared, Dana. What if . . . ? What if . . . ?”
“You don’t have to decide today. Maybe seeing her will help you, though.”
“Help me what?”
“Help you to know.”
“You won’t tell her who I am?”
“It’ll be our little secret.”
“And you’ll stay with me?”
Dana nodded and hung her purse over her shoulder. “You ready?”
“No.” My laughter only almost masked my terror.
“You’ll be fine,” Dana assured me, coming around the table to squeeze my shoulder as I stood. “I’ll be with you—and we’ll take it nice and slow.”
“I need to brush my hair.”
“I was hoping you would.”
“Don’t insult me. I might change my mind.”
“Then you’re absolutely beautiful,” Dana said sweetly.
“And you’re a lousy liar.”
“Hey, if it gets you to the car . . .”
“I need a donut.”
“There are three Dunkin’ Donuts between here and Dream Acres.”
“Good,” I said bravely. “We’ll stop at all three.”
Bonnie’s sleeping pill was still going strong when the captain informed us that we were beginning our descent. She’d slept through a breakfast sadly devoid of donuts, waking only enough to mutter, “Leave me alone,” when a solicitous attendant had fastened her seat belt. The captain’s announcement had done nothing to rouse her from her drug-induced nap.
“You okay?” I asked Shayla, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
She twisted away and gazed in rapt fascination out the window again. There were Shayla-size noseprints on the glass and fresh smears of strawberry jam and chocolate milk below them. How she’d managed to eat her entire breakfast without taking her eyes off the clouds was a mystery to me. It was the first time she had flown, and after her initial nervousness at takeoff, matched closely by my own, she had either slept or been enchanted by the skyscape for the remainder of the flight. It was nearing midnight in the time zone we had left behind, but a lengthy nap and her innate enthusiasm had Shayla virtually hopping with excitement.
An airline attendant collected our trays and commented on Shayla’s riot of blonde curls.
“They’re only cute until I need to brush them,” I replied, trying to finger-comb them as I spoke. “Then they become the opening salvo of World War III.”
The attendant smiled and stowed the trays. “Well, she’s a beauty. And a great little traveler.”
“Thanks,” I answered, a little proud in spite of myself. That Shayla was beautiful had nothing to do with me, and yet . . . she was mine. There