Chapter Twenty-Seven
"Frankie!" Luke said loudly as he placed a hand on the boy’s chin and directed it toward his face. "I have your guns back at the bar for safekeeping. You can’t have guns in the hospital." Frankie’s frantic blue eyes looked at Luke, but didn’t really see him. "No," his voice sounded tremulously. "Johnny. I want Johnny. He’ll keep ‘em away. Dey’re gonna kill me. Get Johnny." Luke held his shoulder and arm down as the boy kept twisting and trying to get off of the bed.
Frankie started breathing faster with a raspy sound, and Luke became concerned as he watched the doorway for Laura to return with the medical personnel. Frankie’s eyes closed, and his long eyelashes fluttered wetly against his tear-stained cheeks. His hand kept reaching for his chest, and Luke had to repeatedly move the hand away from the area of his chest tube. "Hurts," Frankie said softly. His eyes opened one more time, and one set of teary blue eyes met another. Luke took hold of Frankie’s hand and squeezed it. "They’ll be here in a minute, son," he said quietly. "Just hang on. Try not to move." Luke reached a hand out to stroke the boy’s forehead, hoping to calm him. Frankie coughed several times, and Luke looked at him with alarm when his son’s pain-filled face suddenly relaxed with his mouth hanging slightly open and his chest rising and falling rapidly.
Luke’s face fell with relief when Laura returned with two nurses. "He woke up, became upset and tried to get out of bed," Luke explained as he stepped away from Frankie to allow the nurses access to his son. He nervously rubbed his hand over his hair as his eyes never left Frankie. He gestured toward the silent boy. "He screamed in pain, and he’s been trying to touch his chest a lot." Luke sniffed loudly and ran his hand under his nose. Laura stood near the doorway with a worried look on her face. She repeatedly glanced at Luke and then back to Frankie as her lips quivered with emotion. Laura placed her hand over her mouth as her eyes filled with tears.
"Call for a portable xray, and a physician," the more senior nurse ordered the other. She proceeded to take Frankie’s vitals, and brought over the oxygen equipment when she noted that his oxygen saturation levels were decreasing. She lifted Frankie’s nonresistant head and placed an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. "Breathe in deeply," she instructed.
"I don’t think he’s awake anymore," Luke said tensely.
The nurse nodded as she placed latex gloves over her hands and began to examine Frankie’s chest and the medical apparatus. "His chest tube is definitely dislodged, and the sutures are torn," she explained. "A physician will replace it. If you wait outside, we’ll have more room to work, sir."
Luke scrunched up his face in disagreement, hand on hip, ready to fire off a negative comment, but he looked at Frankie and then said, "Okay," in a small voice. He glanced at his son again as he headed for the door. "He’s in pain," Luke added worriedly.
"I realize that, sir. We’ll let you know how he’s doing after the physician arrives," the nurse responded.
~*~*~*~
Luke joined Laura in the hallway outside of his son’s ICU room. He leaned against the wall with a stunned look on his face. Laura glanced at Luke but didn’t say anything. The two parents waited in silence for several minutes before a nurse rolled a portable xray machine into Frankie’s room. Several minutes later, a physician followed her, and Luke could hear the flurry of activity and conversation in the ICU.
Luke suddenly started shaking, and he slid down to the floor in a daze. He was overwhelmed by volatile emotion as years of helplessness, anger, fear, and pain washed over him. He felt like he was being sucked under by the undertow, drowning in an ocean of guilt and self-blame. His son’s pleading, tear-filled blue eyes haunted him as visions of an intense wall of killing fire were replaced in his imagination by a blaze of gunfire aimed directly at Frankie. In his mind’s eye, Frankie screamed in pain as his torso was brutally twisted and thrown to the floor.
Luke lowered his head onto his knees and placed his hands over his head as if to protect himself from a natural disaster. He rubbed his hair back and forth until it stood on end. His shoulders shook as the sobs welled up within him and erupted in fourteen years of long-repressed pain. The pain that he’d experienced each anniversary of baby Lucky’s death didn’t hold a candle to the agony that he was now experiencing, an agony that he should have expressed so many years ago, but had kept locked up so tightly that it was inaccessible.
As Luke continued to sob, Laura’s eyes filled with tears that escaped from her eyes and rolled down her trembling cheeks. She knelt beside Luke and extended a shaking hand until it reached his shoulders. Luke stiffened when he felt the hand on him, but he didn’t raise his head or stop crying. Laura sat down on the floor and gently pulled Luke toward her until his head rested in her lap, and she stroked his hair, trying to comfort him. She felt surreal, as if it were fourteen years earlier, a time when she would have wanted to do this for him, but he wouldn’t allow it. She looked down at the man as years of anger and blame seemed to become more foggy and ethereal, less the bricked and mortared wall that had isolated a grieving mother and father into separate, hostile camps.
"It’s not your fault," Laura said softly. "Now or then."
Luke raised himself from her lap and wiped at his eyes. "Yes it is," he said tearfully. "I’m his father. I’m supposed to protect him. What’s happened to him all these years? There’s a stranger lying in that bed, and he’s my son." Luke shook his head as the tears threatened him again. Laura offered him a tissue, and he sighed and blew his nose loudly, the sound echoing in the sterile hallway. "All he wants are his guns and some man named Johnny, whoever that is." Luke left it unsaid whom Frankie didn’t want. Luke rose from the floor and leaned against the wall, lightly batting the back of his head against the solid surface. He stopped and shook his head. "I’m a damn mess," he said bitterly as he blew his nose again.
"This isn’t easy on anyone," Laura said. She dabbed at her eyes with her own tissue. She sighed and raised her eyes to the ceiling. "There are so many questions, but no answers. Who has been taking care of our son, raising him all these years? Frank Smith?" she asked with a note of hysteria. She laughed dryly. "That’s a punishment suiting his warped sense of revenge."
Luke’s red-rimmed eyes widened slightly "That’s why he was sent here," he said almost in a whisper. "Revenge."
Laura looked quizzically at Luke, but he waved his hand as if to dismiss his comment. He wasn’t ready to talk about his suspicions until he had some proof.
Laura looked down at her hands as they folded her tissue neatly. "Did you meet him, our son, before…this?" she asked quietly. Her inquiring eyes met her ex-husband’s blue eyes. "What is he like?" she asked curiously. Her mind went back to his hooker comment. "Besides his active imagination," she tittered. Laura put her hand to her hair in a fake pose. "His mother, the showgirl hooker."
Luke laughed. "Who knows where that came from?" he said. "Ohhh, let’s see. The boy has a mouth on him, that’s for sure. He nearly cursed me out the first time I met him. I touched his car, a greater sin was never committed." Luke smiled with a lopsided grin. "He likes astronomy, it’s his favorite subject."
"He goes to school here?" Laura asked.
Luke nodded. "He’s fast friends with my nephew. He saved his hide in gym one time when the other boys wanted to engage in a slugfest with Sly. He’s brave. My Aunt Ruby likes him. Said she could tell he was a Spencer right away." Luke rubbed the back of his neck. "She actually asked me if I had an illegitimate son," he chuckled. "She was so sure that he was mine."
Laura’s lips turned up slightly. "We’ll find out more about him as he recovers," she said decisively.
Luke looked worriedly at the ICU room and then at the floor.
"He’s going to recover," Laura stated firmly as she placed a hand on Luke’s arm. "We won’t allow any other scenario. He’ll be fine. He has to be."
Luke nodded and raised his head. "Thanks, Laura," he said appreciatively as he looked at his ex-wife. "For everything."
~*~*~*~
Luke unlocked the back door to the bar, and entered. He held his breath as he entered the main room where his son had collapsed a day earlier. He blinked rapidly as he walked over to where Frankie’s vest lay on the wooden floor. His hands reached down to pick up the vest and inspect it. It was small, not man-sized, and obviously custom-made to fit a small-framed boy. Luke gulped and his mouth turned dry when he saw how saturated the side and back were with Frankie’s blood. His fingers ran over the irregular surface, counting ten indentations made by bullets. He lay the vest on top of the bar, noting that the bar still contained the indentation of his son’s vandalism.
Luke reached under the bar counter and laid out the eight guns from one end of the bar counter to the other. He picked up each gun, unloading bullets and inspecting the make and model. Luke was flabbergasted. The kid had been carrying eight loaded pistols. What in the world had happened to frighten a boy that badly? And what type of boy resorted to homicide to solve his problems? Luke raised his head and lay down the last pistol when he heard the knock at the door. He walked to the door and smiled when he saw the postman with a small box in his hands. "This is addressed to Sylvester Smith," he said. "But, it has your address on it, and there’s a Sylvester Eckert that lives here, so I’ll let you sign for it."
Luke accepted the package and carried it back over to the bar. He slit it open with a knife and wondered at the name on the address. His eyebrows raised when he opened the box and discovered its contents. Inside were the odd combo of two boxes of ammo and a plush black bear with a red collar and a metal leash. Luke unfolded the note included within the box and laughed. "Dear Mr. Smith, thank you for using Limousines International. Our driver discovered your possessions upon return to company headquarters. We look forward to continuing to provide you with the finest transportation services in New York State. Chester Hobbs, Manager."
"So the kid is using Sylvester’s name as an alias," he said aloud. "Okay, I understand the ammo, but what in the world is this toy?" Luke frowned as he dangled the bear and looked at its beady eyes.
"There you are!"
Luke turned and his face reflected his gratitude at seeing the owner of the voice. "Alexis-babe," he replied.
"They told me at the hospital that you’d gone home to rest," she stated. "What’s going on? And why do you look like crap?"
Luke raised a hand to his hair and scowled. "Thanks ever so much," he growled. "I had a minor meltdown at the hospital earlier," he added softly. Alexis’ face showed her concern, and she walked up to Luke, giving him a hug. "What happened?" she asked.
Luke shrugged. "The kid woke up, which is good, but he became upset, insisted that he wanted his guns, that someone was after him. I couldn’t calm him down, and he accidentally pulled out his chest tube when he tried to get out of bed. He was in a lot of pain, Alexis. It was so hard to watch. They kicked us out to work on him, and then when the doctor said that he was okay, but sedated and sleeping, I decided to come home for a break. I need to clean up this mess." Luke waved his hand to show the huge pile of bullets and gleaming firepower lining the top of his bar.
Alexis picked up the bulletproof vest and made a pained face as she noted the blood and indentations. "How are you now?" she asked sympathetically.
"Oh, darlin,’ I lost it," Luke said with embarrassment. "I was bawling like a baby, and my ex-wife had to comfort me. She did a pretty good job of it, though." Luke ran a weary hand over his face. "It was like it all came back to me, the fire, the death, how I’ve continued to feel so guilty and helpless. And, with his current crisis, it all came out like a volcano. But, I feel better now, clearer somehow - and, more determined to make this situation work out for everyone, especially my son."
Alexis gave Luke a small smile. "You look like crap, but yes, you do look, I don’t know, fresher somehow?"
"Fresher?" Luke laughed incredulously. "What am I? A deodorant? Apply a little Luke and make your day sparkle?"
Alexis swatted his arm. "Smart-ass," she grinned. "No, I mean, you seem to have unloaded some of your burdens. It shows."
Luke nodded and frowned as he flexed his hands. "I didn’t realize how much of that I was stuffing inside. No wonder Laura hated me."
Alexis shook her head. "No more face slapping, then?" she asked sarcastically.
"No, she seems to have let out her own mini-volcano," he quipped. "Got it all out of her system – let’s hope."
Alexis took in the major artillery lining the bar. "Get rid of this," she ordered sternly. "Make it like it never existed."
Luke gathered up the bullets and guns and placed them into the box on top of the bar, careful to set the stuffed bear to one side. "What’s up on the legal front?" he asked.
"Let’s go sit down at a table," Alexis stated. "A lot is going on that you need to hear about."
Luke sat down carefully at a square, wooden table, crossing his legs with his eyes never leaving his fiancée’s face.
Alexis drew an envelope from her purse. "First of all, it helps that my brother is CEO of the hospital. A little well-placed hissy fit is great for results." She pointed to the envelope. "Your DNA test results," she said. "Open them up, let’s find out."
Luke’s face tightened with tension as his fingers grasped the envelope and tore open the sealed flap. His intense eyes met Alexis’ confident brown ones, and he drew out the folded paper. He took in a deep breath and opened the paper, reading in a careful, measured voice. "The results of the following DNA test are a 99.9% positive paternity match for Lucas Lorenzo Spencer, Senior and Lucas Lorenzo Spencer, Junior." Luke’s face broke out into a wide, relieved grin as his eyes lit up. "He’s mine," he said gratefully. "He’s my son. I mean, I knew it already, but this is…wow. I feel like a new daddy!"
Alexis laid her hand on top of Luke’s. "I’m happy for you," she said genuinely as her eyes sparkled. "That’s such a relief."
Luke nodded. "Now we have to get him better. He’s still not out of the woods. I’m worried about him, Alexis. He’s terrified to be in that hospital. They’re going to send a child psychologist to talk to him this afternoon, to try to find out why he’s so scared. He needs to rest so he can heal."
"I’m going to be busy this afternoon," Alexis stated as she took back the envelope. "I’ll file for custody in your name, but I have to warn you that the social workers are going to come calling as soon as I do that. We need to be prepared for them – meaning get rid of those guns and any mention of his lifestyle. We don’t have proof of that anyway. The boy was kidnapped, his kidnapper was murdered, and you as his natural father of course are filing for custody of your son. That’s it. I want you and I to contact the FBI later this afternoon so we can establish that the boy was indeed kidnapped, not given away or sold or something unsavory."
Luke looked quizzically at Alexis. "What?" he asked.
Alexis shrugged. "We’re covering all bases." Alexis folded her hands and looked intensely at Luke. "Do you want me to serve as Frankie’s attorney?"
Luke frowned. "I guess so. You think he needs one?"
"Oh, yes," Alexis replied quickly. "Especially after what my PI dug up."
"I’m not going to like this, I know it," Luke mentioned resignedly.
"Obtain the child’s personal effects from the hospital as soon as possible. Hide his signet ring. If anyone asks, tell them you lost it."
"The flashy gold one with the huge FS on it?" Luke asked bitterly.
Alexis nodded. "I’m afraid it’s no secret that Frankie was Frank Smith’s appointed number two man. No one is talking much right now out of fear that Frank might still be alive, but the PI did find out that Frankie was installed in some type of elaborate swearing in ceremony on his fifteenth birthday. There was a lot of controversy over giving a teenager so much power in the organization. There was an attempt on Frankie’s life earlier in the week. That may be when he received his untreated bullet wound. The best that the PI could piece together was that some type of confrontation in Frank Smith’s personal office led to a shootout and the death of three persons – all of them shot and then subsequently burned in a fire. They’re still conducting post-mortems, but one of the men almost certainly is Frank Smith."
Alexis shook her head and continued. "The National Guard found an elaborate escape tunnel leading directly from Frank Smith’s office. There is a network of tunnels connected by iron doors that acted as barriers to entry – enough time for someone, Frankie perhaps, to escape." Alexis paused and drew in a deep breath. "There is a long concrete stairway leading to another door. Blood was discovered on the stairs and on a pillow on a cot in the room leading to the exit door. I think you can safely bet that Frankie’s blood and fingerprints will be a match. It’s serious, Luke. He could be accused of murder and certainly of mob activity. I’m already preparing a defense for him, but I need to talk to him as soon as he is able. Don’t allow him to talk to anyone without my assistance. I’m going to play up the angle of him being a victim in this whole charade." Alexis cleared her throat, and her eyes flickered with sadness. "The PI was able to talk to several members of the household staff that were released from custody. It seems that Frankie was an abused child."
Luke looked up sharply from his view of the wooden table’s wood grain. "What?" he breathed in surprise.
Alexis nodded. "The child was beaten frequently. Staff overheard his cries and on occasion saw his father, I mean, Frank hitting the boy. Frankie usually sported a black eye or other bruises while he was in the mansion. I can use this information in his favor. Since he is only fifteen years old, I’m hoping that the FBI will overlook much of this, especially since he has biological parents coming forward to accept responsibility for him."
Luke beat his fist against the hard surface of the table. "No," he said. He felt mowed over by guilt again, responsible for his son’s suffering. The pain welled up inside of him and lodged firmly in his heart.
"Don’t," said Alexis gently as she took his arm. "This will do neither you nor your son any good, and I need you to concentrate on winning custody of Frankie. Will you help me to do that?"
Luke nodded and turned his face away from Alexis. "Yeah," he said wearily. "By the way, file for joint custody – me and Laura. It’s better that way for everybody. I don’t want any confrontations, not when my son is at stake."
"I know that this is a lot for you to absorb, but do you still want to marry me?" Alexis suddenly asked with a sheepish look on her face.
Luke’s brows knit in confusion. "Sure. Why?"
"Because I’ve already taken my blood tests this morning and called a realtor," she explained. "With the social workers that will come beating on your door, I think we should get married this weekend." Alexis’ eyebrows raised in apology. "It looks better, like you’re more stable. You know, wife, family…"
Luke ‘s face scowled. "House, picket fence, yada yada, yada," he continued. "But only with my Alexis," he said as he took her hand and kissed it lightly. "I love you, woman."
"And I love you, too," she replied. "You’re not bad - for a Neanderthal."
~*~*~*~
The child psychologist quietly approached Frankie’s bed and pulled up a chair. For a minute, she silently watched the boy who appeared to be asleep. His breathing was regular, but he was still receiving oxygen to correct his deficiency, and a nasal cannula looped under his nose, providing him with supportive oxygen while he slept. Since he’d regained consciousness, he was connected now to a machine that dispensed morphine upon patient demand – all he had to do was press down on a button to receive medication when he needed it. His face twisted as he moved his legs, and she was startled to find a bright pair of blue eyes suddenly staring at her with a leaden expression.
Frankie was staring at this lady who he’d never met, a lady seated beside him. He looked her up and down and decided that her middle-aged plumpness and sensible short, brown hair ruled her out as one of Frank’s women. "Who are you and whaddaya want?" he asked hoarsely, the frown never leaving his tense face.
The psychologist started a bit in her seat but quickly recovered. "I’m Priscilla Hunt," she said as she held her hand out to greet Frankie. He looked at the hand, but didn’t take it. "I’m a psychologist. I want to talk to you for a minute and ask you why you were so upset earlier. I’d like to help if I can."
Frankie’s unwavering blue eyes stared her down, and he remained silent, his jaw twitching as his teeth ground together.
"Do you remember how you felt when you first woke up?" she asked gently.
A hurt look flickered briefly in Frankie’s eyes, and he nodded. "I felt like shit," he gritted out. "I don’t wanna be here. Get me the fuck OUT!" His hostile eyes bore into the woman’s face.
"Have you been in a hospital before?" asked Priscilla. She searched the boy’s face for a reaction.
Frankie sighed and closed his eyes. "Yes. I dunno. Yes," he answered hesitantly.
"When was that?" she asked respectfully.
"When I got shot," he replied shortly. "Fucking Sicilians," he muttered under his breath.
"Was that recently?" she asked.
Frankie shook his head. "Nah, I was a kid."
Priscilla noted that he didn’t seem to view himself as being a child anymore. "How old is a kid – to you?" she asked.
Frankie laughed. "I dunno. Nine, ten, younger dan dat?"
"What happened to you when you were nine or ten?" she questioned.
Frankie’s eyes welled up with tears, and he angrily turned his head away, biting his lower lip, blinking furiously and wiping surreptiously at his eyes so the lady beside him wouldn’t notice. "Kidnapped," he said with a choked voice. "Fuck ‘em," he added as an afterthought.
"Did they hurt you?"
Frankie became acutely aware that he was lying in bed naked except for a sheet covering him from the navel down. He shifted uncomfortably. "Don’t look at me!" he ordered.
"I can look away," said Priscilla. "Will you answer my question?"
"Dey cut me and den dey shot me a buncha times. Dat’s it. I don’t wanna talk about it no more," he said tensely as he kept his eyes averted from the lady.
"Do you know why you’re in the hospital now?" Priscilla queried.
Frankie took in a deep breath, held it and then let it out. His cheek twitched as he thought of smiling and then reconsidered. He shrugged and grasped the sheet tightly in his hand. "Shot. In da chest like before," he replied. "Dey told me dat. And, dat man, he said my kidney was hurt. But I know dat."
"What man?"
"Dat Luke Spencer dude," Frankie replied.
"And who is he?" Priscilla asked.
Frankie’s hand shot up to his face and covered his eyes. He seemed to breathe in faster as he tried to maintain control. He turned his body away from the psychologist. "Frank," he said tearfully. "He told me, Frank…no!" Frankie curled up slightly, and his shoulders shook as he lost control and broke down crying. "Frank," he said again. "I want my dad."
"What happened to your dad?" Priscilla asked carefully. She didn’t want to push much further as she could see how distressed the boy was becoming at the subject of his father.
Frankie shook his head in refusal. "No," he said. He continued to cry and ignore the woman.
Priscilla rose from her chair and placed it back against the wall. "I’ll let you rest now, Frankie," she said. "If you want to talk to someone, you can ask for me, okay?" Frankie wept inconsolably and ignored her as she exited the room.
~*~*~*~
Frankie wept for about fifteen minutes, and then he suddenly stopped, lifting his head and looking around his room with narrowed, purposeful eyes. I gotta get outta here, he thought. He looked down at himself, a mass of bruises, tubes, wires and needles. The sound of the cardiac monitor registered in his brain. "Shit," he said out loud. I gotta find out if Johnny was killed. Man, Johnny, I need you. Caruso is dead, but who knows who sided with him? If dey find me like this… Frankie shook his head and gritted his teeth. "I need my guns!" he said angrily to no one else in the room. I’m a sitting duck, all hooked up like this. I can’t move. And, why do I feel so tired? I must have slept for a day. I can hardly keep my eyes open. Where’s a phone? I need a phone. Shit. I need to tell dat Maxie dat I’m sorry. Oh, man. I’m in trouble here. Think, think, what would Johnny tell me to do?
Frankie heard the beeps increase on the cardiac monitor as he panicked. He used the palms of both hands to try to raise himself up from the bed, but he was greeted with a cacophony of shooting pain exploding in different quadrants of his body. He gasped and quickly dropped back onto the bed, panting with the exertion. A nurse entered the room and frowned. "You’re not trying to get up again, are you?" she scolded. "Didn’t you learn your lesson with that chest tube? That hurt you, didn’t it?"
Frankie watched her warily and didn’t reply. His hands were shaking with the adrenaline racing in his blood. "Gimme a phone?" he asked sadly. His wide blue eyes stared at the nurse. She shook her head. "No phones in ICU, I’m sorry," she said. "You need your rest. You can make phone calls when you’re in a regular room."
"Get me outta here. I need a phone!" he insisted angrily as his eyes swept around the room in a panic.
"Close your eyes and relax," the nurse instructed as she turned off the lights around Frankie’s bed. "You need to rest so you can heal." She injected his IV with the mild sedative that was ordered if he became emotionally agitated with elevated vitals.
Frankie blinked his eyes, but it was no use. He was so tired and now he was loosing the battle to save himself. "Johnny," he whispered.
~*~*~*~
Johnny paced in his hotel room, his hand brushing against the brown leather holster strapped around his broad shoulder. He rubbed his chin and shook his head. None of his contacts had any information about Frankie. It was as if the kid had vanished. Johnny had checked out Las Vegas and other favorite Frank and Frankie watering holes, but no dice. Most people assumed that Frankie had been killed, but that the body hadn’t been found yet. Johnny had been so relieved when he heard that Frank had been killed. It was like he could feel the heavy shackles and chains removed from his wrists and ankles. Freedom was a long forgotten memory, but now he remembered its taste.
Johnny had one more wild idea. Surely Frankie wouldn’t have returned to Port Charles. It was only a mission. Yes, he’d enjoyed spending time with that girl and the boy he called Sly, but was that enough to pull him back to a strange city, small hole in the wall that it was?
Johnny picked up the phone and dialed the one number in Port Charles that he knew by heart.
~*~*~*~
"Barbara Jean!" Luke called out as he let himself into the Brownstone. Bobbie came rushing in from the back room. "Luke," she said with a smile. "How’s Frankie? I’m not working today, so I haven’t checked in on him yet."
"Frankie is…" Luke sighed. "Frankie is holding his own. We had a little scare this morning when he accidentally pulled out his chest tube."
Bobbie’s face creased with concern. "Oh, Luke," she said quietly. "That must have been painful for him."
Luke nodded and looked down at the floor while he rubbed his neck. "Yeah, you could say that," he said as he coughed back his tears. "But they took care of him. He’s okay now. He’s resting comfortably they said. Where do they come up with those terms anyway? Resting comfortably."
Bobbie rubbed Luke’s back, and they sat down on the sofa. "He was so scared, so upset," Luke said with wide eyes. "There wasn’t anything I could do. He kept calling for someone named Johnny. How am I supposed to know who that is?"
Bobbie’s face flooded with shock, and Luke was quick to notice. "Barbara Jean," he said with a warning tone. "What do you know?"
Bobbie’s mouth opened and closed. "Well," she began.
"Out with it," Luke gritted as he scowled at his sister.
"He’s Frankie’s uncle, or at least that’s who they said he was," she explained. "I invited the two of them to dinner a few weeks ago. He’s a really nice guy, Luke," she said sheepishly.
"Barbara…" Luke threatened.
"Okay, so I was seeing him," Bobbie said defensively. "It’s not my fault. How was I supposed to know?"
"Who do you think he is?" questioned Luke.
"Frankie’s bodyguard?" Bobbie guessed as she raised her hands upward. Her eyebrows raised when she heard the phone ringing in the background.
~*~*~*~
Laura reached down into the pretty crib to pick up her daughter, Lesley Alexandra. She laughed softly and cooed at the pretty girl with the bright blue eyes and generous black hair atop her tiny head. She kissed both of her cheeks and smiled when her daughter squirmed with delight.
"Ohhh, I love my pretty baby," she said contentedly; smoothing the baby’s hair with a careful hand and rocking her softly in her arms. A sense of déjà vu washed over Laura, and the breath caught in her throat. She remembered holding a happy, blond baby in her arms so many years ago. The child had squirmed happily just as his baby sister just did. Laura could still feel the silky texture of his blond hair underneath her loving hand. Laura felt her arms shake a little and hurriedly place her daughter back into her crib. She walked over to the rocking chair in the nursery, sat down and rocked back and forth with a fast rhythm as she held a fist to her lips.
"Lucky," she whispered into the room. "Lucky." A sense of despair washed over her when she recalled the young man with dark dyed hair lying in the hospital bed. "What’s going to happen?" she whispered again. How can we regain all of the years that we’ve lost?