Move to Strike (64 page)

‘Please, David,' Chelsea began, her eyes searching his for some indication as to what he was going to do. ‘I know we should have told you, but in the end we had nothing to cling to but the legacy our mother had given us. She wanted us to have the life she could not – and while we did not know her before she met our father, we always had the feeling she wanted us to live as she once lived, before the walls closed in around her.'

David was not sure what to say, and even if he wanted to, he had no time to respond, as a knock on the conference room door made them all jump, and Amanda Carmichael walked slowly into the room.

‘I'm sorry,' she said, realising the children had been crying. ‘I've interrupted.' And then, perhaps noticing the red in David's own eyes she continued: ‘Is something wrong? I mean, if there is any other way I can help – if there is something else you want to run by me, I might be able to . . .'

David turned back to the children, their eyes now set on his. And in
that moment he realised that the lies, the deception . . . they were the only tools these children had to bring their father to justice. They had stuck to their original premise to protect their mother's memory – and no matter what, David knew, he had no right to take that away from them.

‘There's nothing, thanks, Amanda,' he said, scooping the New England Organ Bank report off the table. ‘The kids are just glad this is over.'

An unsure Carmichael, her brow slightly furrowed, finally relaxed her face and nodded, as she stood aside for two other people to enter the room.

Nora Kelly entered first, her left cheek bandaged, but her bright smile wide.

‘Hello, children,' she said, before nodding at David and returning her smile to the kids. ‘I want you to both thank Miss Carmichael for making this possible.'

But their blank stares obviously told her that they weren't quite sure what she was referring to.

‘Oh dear, I am sorry,' she said. ‘I am not explaining myself very well. It's just that Miss Carmichael here arranged for you to have another visitor today, just a short visit, mind you, until things can be made more permanent.'

Then Nora stepped aside, to take the hand of another woman standing just beyond the door.

‘Children,' said Nora. ‘I would like you to meet your grandmother.'

And Deirdre McCall, without the jumpsuit and handcuffs David knew she was supposed to be wearing, moved nervously into the room.

The children stood, and did not hesitate before moving forward to embrace her. And as their grandmother's arms held them close, their three heads bent as one, J.T. Logan turned his neck ever so slightly to look at David once more to mouth a simple ‘Thank you'.

David nodded, knowing that there was not now, nor ever would be, anything else to say.

Very early the following morning

R
isks.

That was what everything came down to. Those you face and those you shun, those you embrace and those you avoid, those you accept and those you reject. And in the end, David figured, the number of risks you took was what made the difference between living and just existing, between walking the fence and bravely taking the plunge.

He was doing that now – taking another plunge. But this was not like the other gambles he had wagered. This risk – this huge, almighty venture that he and Sara were undertaking was, he knew, perhaps the greatest they would ever tackle in their whole, entire lives.

‘Okay, Sara,' said Doctor Taylor. ‘You can push now, the baby is almost here, in fact, as far as I can tell, it has its father's hair.'

‘It's fair?' asked David.

‘Yes,' said the doctor. ‘But I was actually referring to its dishevelled style,' she added.

David squeezed a now exhausted Sara's hand and smiled.

‘Oh, God,' she said, as she used every last ounce of energy to finally give birth to their child. And seconds later they heard its first cry and David
watched in wonder as his child was lifted up and over so that it could be placed in its mother's arms. It was so small and vulnerable, but at the same time so loud and strong, and he almost felt humbled just to be in its presence, something so pure, so unaffected, so real.

‘Please, Doctor,' said Sara through her own tears of joy, ‘I want David to take the baby first. I want him to be the one to give it to me, so that it knows we are in this together.'

David took the tiny life in his own two hands –
his
child,
his
future, the greatest thing he had ever created, before moving to the woman he loved more than anything, and kissing her gently on the cheek.

‘You haven't told me,' she said, as she reached out her arms.

‘Told you what?' he asked.

And she could not help but smile.

‘Oh God, I'm sorry,' he said, as he looked at his child once again. ‘It's a girl,' he added, as if it was the most important piece of information he would ever impart. ‘We have a daughter, and she is perfect and . . . Sara – it's a girl.'