by Lori Avocato
The doctor’s left eyebrow rose.
I smiled at the doctor as if that would erase whatever judgmental thoughts he had right now. And I know he had some.
I would if I were him!
Jagger took my hand. Literally because I wasn’t very accommodating. I still couldn’t get over that he was here interrupting my case—yet again. I’d solved cases alone before!
Well, he was usually lurking in the background, but certainly not at a fertility clinic.
This was personal. Way too personal.
If I’d thought just sitting in the doc’s office with Jagger pretending to be my husband was bad, it was nothing compared to what happened next.
The consultation began.
Dr. Dupre asked me several questions that had me blush redder than Adele’s nails and suffer hot flashes at the same time. I was sure getting a lot of mileage out of Adele’s nail color. He played with an expensive looking ink pen, which I think was a Montblanc. Not that I’d know one if I wrote with one, but once I saw a magazine article for those expensive pens and Johnny Depp was holding one.
Ah, Johnny Depp.
“Darlin, did you hear the doctor’s question?”
I gave Jagger an odd look. I know he was talking to me because he faced me, his lips moved and I heard words, but didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.
“Huh?”
“Dr. Dupre asked you a question.”
“What?” I should have aimed that one at the doctor, but instead I had asked Jagger.
Jagger looked at me with a straight face. “Do you have a regular cycle?”
I slunk down in my seat and shut my eyes.
The doctor stood. “Are you all right, Mrs. St. Cyr? Can I have my secretary get you something? Coffee?”
“Arsenic,” I mumbled.
Jagger leaned near and pretended to rub my forehead. Well, he really did rub it but I’m sure only in character. At the same time, he whispered, “You’re undercover, Sherlock. Acting is sometimes necessary in the line of duty.”
I wanted to hug him. Well, just about every time I saw him I wanted to hug him and to...never mind. This time, though, was different. He spoke so gently as if he knew it were a sensitive subject, which made us look all the more real.
A real couple wanting a child.
I cleared my throat, sat up straighter and took Jagger’s hand away from my forehead and in my very professional undercover persona, held his hand in mine. “Um. No, actually. Not a regular cycle. Unfortunately.” I reached back into OB/GYN training 101 from my school days and gave him a typical mixed up pattern that could be a cause for infertility.
Very proud of myself, I patted Jagger’s hand and let it go, then looked at the doctor. The gorgeous doc stared at me. Maybe because I had sounded as if I’d just read from a textbook. Maybe because I’d held Jagger’s hand as if it were made of glass when truthfully the contact had me nearly wet. Or maybe the doctor suspected we weren’t a real couple!
Jagger and I sometimes thought the same. Scary but true. He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek—in a very tender, husband-like way.
I’d have preferred a bit of tongue, but Jagger always knew what he was doing on a case. And, without a doubt, he knew what he was doing with his lips and tongue.
“Well, Mr. and Mrs. St. Cyr, I’m sure I can help you,” the doctor said, while thumbing through the chart. “Ah. I see you have Global Carriers insurance. I believe they don’t cover infertility workups or treatments.” He looked at both of us.
Amazing how he seemed to pull us into his stare at the same time.
“That’s correct,” Jagger said. “They don’t.”
“Hm. Then may I assume that you have the means to pay the bills outright?”
I wanted to shout at him that he should be more concerned about helping the poor couple that we were with having a baby no matter the cost or if he got paid. But, I shut my mouth tightly since I had no idea how we would pay any bills. I sure couldn’t afford it and Fabio hadn’t made it clear in the file about payment.
Jagger took my hand, leaned forward and kissed it. “Money is no object, Dr. Dupre. My darling wants a child as much as I want one and we have the means.”
I think the doctor’s eyes lit up.
“Very well, we will proceed. Every physician has their own way of doing things so let me explain mine. Because the procedures are non-invasive for the male, I like to start there. Rule out low sperm count.”
My hand inside of Jagger’s started to sweat.
The doctor spoke about sperm as if they were as common as everyday houseflies. I wondered if you could even say sperm on national TV. Did censors allow that nowadays?
“So, there is no time like the present. You will give your credit card information to the receptionist or a check if you prefer, and we’ll get started.”
“When will our next appointment be?” I asked. “We are very eager, you see.”
“As am I,” Dr. Dupre said, oddly looking at my chest. “No time like the present.” He looked at Jagger. “As soon as the finances are straight, we shall rule out any problems with you first. Males. Much easier, as I’d said. The nurse will give you a specimen cup and you can give your sample to us today.”
Beneath my hand, I felt a teeny, tiny tensing of Jagger’s fingers. Or, in all honesty it could have been me tensing. A sperm specimen!
Oh...my...gosh.
I leaned near his ear and whispered, “All in the line of duty...”
3
Oh...my...oh...my.
I couldn’t help think ‘oh...my’ as the doctor excused himself, a nurse hurried in with a specimen cup for Jagger, and I stood to scurry out—before I made a fool of myself. Something I should be used to doing in front of Jagger.
Yet, I never really got used to it.
“Here you go, Mr. St. Cyr,” the nurse said. “If you need any help...”
Oh, geez. I know she was talking to Jagger, giving him instructions on how to ‘get a specimen,’ but I had to shut my ears. Temporary hearing loss. That was the only way I could get myself out of this room before I exploded.
“And plenty of magazines, adult videos and porno movies,” I heard her say, which had me wincing.
Hearing recovery way too soon.
“I’ll be in the waiting room, getting a coffee,” I said.
Finally I looked at Jagger, who remained as cool as the proverbial cucumber. Why was I not surprised? Nothing, and obviously nothing ever bothered Jagger. At least not openly.
“There isn’t coffee in our waiting room,” the nurse said and I half expected her to add “you moron.”
“Oh. Well. I’ll...I don’t drink much coffee anyway. Tea. Tea with lots of skim milk—”
Jagger was next to me. His hand around my shoulders. His look telling me to shut the hell up.
So I did.
As soon as we got to the doorway, I’d make a beeline for the waiting room and hide behind Parents until Jagger was...done.
The nurse opened the door, stepped aside and said, “You’re to the right, Mrs. Cyr. I’ll walk you to the room, Mr. Cyr.”
And probably strip naked to help him.
Suddenly Jagger’s grip tightened.
“Uh, hon. I’ll be going now.”
“No, darling. I want you to come with me.”
Oh...my...gosh!
~ * ~
Jagger was guiding me toward the ‘room.’ The nurse had acted a bit miffed but did say it was common for a man to want his wife to...oh...geez...help.
And my life was flashing before me, as it’s known to do when I’m dying.
I tried to wiggle away, but what would I say? What excuse would I use to not want to help my husband so we could have a precious baby?
I swallowed hard and shut my eyes. Jagger could have guided me off a cliff, and I’d have remained silent—other than the ripe cursing at him in my head.
The nurse opened the door to Exam Room 212. Inside was furnished in beiges, browns and mahogany.
Very manly. Very masculine. Very...how should I say...conducive.
There were pictures of scantily clad women all over the walls. Amazingly in snooty rich taste. Not like a calendar you’d see in a garage. On one wall was a gigantic television. I could only imagine how the porn people would look as if they were right in front of you...performing.
Geez.
There were stacks of magazines in tasteful mahogany file cases along with a DVD collection in alphabetical order. From here I could see “Anita, Antoine and Anna May in Alabama.” I shook my head mentally.
“When you are done,” Nurse Ratchet (as I now referred to her in my head) said as she opened a tiny door on the wall. “Place the specimen cup inside here and just press that button on the side of the door. I’ll come get you. Oh, wait.” She looked at her watch. “It’s lunchtime so take as long as you need. There will only be a receptionist at the desk for a few minutes. Just let yourselves out the door through the waiting room. I’ll leave you two alone now.”
I swear she said that last part begrudgingly—against me.
Dead silence.
Once I took a trip to a cavern and the guide turned off the lights to show us complete, utter darkness since we were underground.
Well, I’d never heard dead silence before, but this was it.
I turned to look at Jagger...speechless. What the hell could I say?
~ * ~
“Are you freaking nuts having me come in here with you?”
“Quiet, Sherlock.” He set the specimen cup down on the end table.
I’d be in confession all next month for my thoughts.
From his pocket, he took out another specimen cup...half full.
I gasped.
“Keep it down. You want that nurse to rush in to see if we’re all right?”
“Um...no.” I still stared.
Jagger stuck the empty cup into his jacket pocket. Then he walked around the room, snooping in his usual fashion. He looked at me. “You’re on duty, Sherlock. You just gonna stand there and hope to solve this case?”
My legs were numb. Couldn’t move them if the place was on fire. I looked at the cup and wanted to say, “Ick.” But I was a damn nurse so I said, “How the hell—”
With a straight Jagger face, that always seemed to mock me, he said, “You can buy anything on the Internet, Sherlock. Anything.”
With that he motioned for me to come to the door that the nurse used.
“Oh...my...gosh. This works out great. They’re all at lunch now except the one receptionist. Thank goodness Adele gave us this late morning appointment.”
“Yeah,” Jagger said and I knew in an instant that he’d planned all of this out himself and had given Adele the instructions of what to do.
Gotta love Jagger.
~ * ~
Once outside the doorway, Jagger paused.
I bumped into his back—and had to mentally chastise myself before I started to have a hot flash. A Jagger-induced hot flash.
Very common at my age.
Very common when around him.
Very common, as a matter of fact, if you have a Y chromosome anywhere in your body.
He looked around, and I realized he was making sure no one was in the hallway. In the silence, we cautiously walked toward a door. Through the glass partition, we could see the receptionist. Glasses shoved up on top of her head. Head leaning against the wall, and eyes shut.
Eyes shut!
Thank goodness for my silent prayers to my favorite saint, St. Theresa.
“Lucky break,” I whispered.
“She only works on Wednesdays and is a lazy woman.”
Why was I not surprised that Jagger had Adele make our appointment on a Wednesday?
I’d still never learned that Jagger was, well, Jagger.
He opened a door at the end of the hallway. It was the records room. We stepped inside; he closed the door, and looked at me. “Try to figure out the system for infertility patients. Fast.”
Gulp. I looked around, went to a computer on the desk and thank goodness it was left on so the staff wouldn’t have to take too long when they returned. Dr. Dupre seemed the impatient sort.
I clicked on the keyboard and read a few things. One of the open windows was our chart! Ours. Jagger’s and mine. Awe. But I couldn’t let hormones get in the way as I figured out the infertility codes.
The color-coding was pink and blue.
“This guy’s a piece of work,” I mumbled.
“What’d you find?”
I explained what I thought and Jagger shook his head. This time, thankfully, not at me. Together we took pink and blue coded charts down and read through them.
“Wait,” I said as I looked at a Mrs. Jencks’s chart. “Jagger, look. She came in for infertility. Married eight years and no kids. Husband’s sperm checked out fine.”
“And?” He leaned a bit too near.
Those damn Jagger hormones had me suffer a mild case of the vapors. I yanked my professional senses back to the present. “He billed the insurance company for a few routine exams—that are covered and never had any infertility exams listed.”
“There’re not covered by insurance?”
“No. Most aren’t. Individual problems like an ovarian cyst would be, but not the routine stuff.” I read further. “There’s some kind of code system in his notes that lets the billing people know what to bill for—instead of the real thing.”
I looked at Jagger. “It appears Dr. Robin Hood is stealing from the insurance companies, to give to the rich.”
“Perfect.” Jagger took the chart and from his pocket pulled out an ink pen. He started to click at the file and I realized it was another Jagger gadget. A camera. “We need more to go on than this, but it’s a start.” He looked at his watch. “Come on.”
We headed out the door, Jagger shut it carefully and without the receptionist moving, we made it past the glass wall and back into “the room.”
We paused.
I think even Jagger felt a little...odd.
He turned toward the door on the wall, took his specimen cup, opened the door and stuck it in. Then he looked at me.
I nodded as if he’d said, “Let’s get the hell out of here,” and followed him out the door. All I could think of was; I made it out without having to face the stirrups!
The receptionist gave a snort of a snore, eyes flew open and she garbled something at us. Thank goodness for the lazy people of this world.
~ * ~
“Just get in with me,” Jagger said as we stood by his black Suburban, which probably cost more to fill with gas nowadays than a mortgage on a mansion.
“I’m going to my mother’s for dinner.”
“Get in.”
Oh, great. Mom had this annoying habit of inviting “Mr. Jagger” for dinner and me, too.
No sense in arguing. I curled my lip, opened the door by myself and got inside. “I’ll come get my car later,” I said, which, in fact, was a waste of words. Jagger knew the plan before I could ever figure it out.
On the way to my parents house, which was a throwback to the fifties, Jagger pulled into Dunkin Donuts, went through the drive-thru window and ordered me my hazelnut decaf, very, very light and three Splendas without even asking.
Exactly the way I would have ordered.
“It doesn’t make sense,” he said, pulling into a spot and taking a sip of his black coffee.
“What doesn’t?” I sipped at my perfect sweet drink.
“Why would he bill the insurance companies and not charge the patients for the real procedures? He caters to the rich. They could afford to pay him without insurance in order to get a kid.”
Hm. Good question. One which I didn’t have the answer to right now.
We needed to go back...back to the stirrups.
Damn.
~ * ~
“Pauline, is that you?” my mother called out as she rounded the doorway wearing her pansy covered apron. “Oh, and, Mr. Jagger. How nice.”<
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I wanted to growl at her, but I was starving and the house smelled like fish. Today was Wednesday. Scrod. My mother cooked the same meal on the same day of the week her entire life. Thursday was roast pork. Friday potato pancakes and so on. You could set mean Greenwich time but Stella Sokol’s menu.
I peeked in the living room to see my father reading his newspaper, which, since he retired, took all day. “Hi, Daddy.” I hurried over and gave him a kiss while Mother fawned over Mr. Freaking Jagger.
Uncle Walt, my favorite uncle who’d lived with us my entire life, slept soundly in his La-Z-boy. I kissed my finger and touched his forehead. He stirred. “Oh, Pauline. New Car and Driver magazine came in,” he mumbled.
“I’ll take a look.” He’d dozed back off and I smiled. Uncle Walt and I had this thing for cars and the Steelers. In his eighties, he was a babe magnet too.
“Pauline, get Mr. Jagger a drink,” my mother said as the doorbell rang.
Goldie and Miles.
Mom always invited them, too.
I looked at Jagger, turned and walked into the kitchen where I took a Coors out of the fridge and handed it to him. Then I walked down the hallway to the bathroom, went inside and shut the door. In the deep, dark recesses of the laundry closet sat the can of Renuzit.
Pine scented.
The smell of my youth.
The scent of nostalgia and comfort.
I sprayed it, and walked out.
“What’s bothering you, Suga?” Goldie asked as he waited outside to use the restroom.
I chuckled. “This time? Ha. Actually, it’s the fish smell.” I stepped aside and he looked at me.
“Really!”
How could I tell him about Jagger and our appointment today? I chose not to relive it, thank you very much.
When I entered the dining room, of course, mother had seated me next to Jagger. I about gave up on being upset about that and took my seat.
Everyone was there, we waited until Goldie came back, Daddy said Grace and we started to pass the scrod, homemade mashed potatoes with fresh butter and mixed vegetables. I couldn’t wait for mom’s chocolate cake for dessert.
~ * ~
“Delicious as usual, Mrs. Sokol,” Jagger said.
My mother preened. My mother was way too old and too ethnic to preen.