by Jess Bentley
“What is his name?” I finally ask when I can’t wait anymore.
“Ronnie,” she answers softly.
Slowly, the story begins to come out. They’ve been living together. He’s overbearing. He’s rude. It seems that she’s been reaching out to me like a life raft, trying to find a way out. She wanted a way to leave without having to ask me.
Somehow he convinced her to let him come to my house this weekend while I was gone. He started a fight. It spilled onto the front steps. He had her, out there, in public while the joggers ran past. Nobody did anything.
A single tear wriggles through a meandering path down one cheek as she talks. Just one.
A million things swirl through my head. I want to ask her how this happened. After everything we have been through. After the way our father treated our mother, how could she let a man like that into her life? But I can’t blame her. It’s not her fault, and asking her to explain the inexplicable is just callous. I can’t do that to her.
And yet I wouldn’t mind having someone to yell at right now.
A polite knock comes from the door behind me and I turn around to see a small Middle Eastern lady smiling at us. She introduces herself as the doctor on duty and asks if she can examine Landry. I begin to back away, but Landry grabs my hand.
“No... stay,” she asks me.
I glance at the doctor, and she nods agreeably.
“Won’t take too long,” she smiles rationally. “We just want to make sure that mother and baby are all right.”
Baby?
My breath stalls in my chest. Landry squeezes my hand and when our eyes meet, her expression is unmistakable. She knows she’s pregnant. She’s been trying to tell me. She’s been waiting for the right time. I guess that time is now.
A technician arrives, pushing a large machine to the foot of the bed. She plugs it in and sets it up, shaking a plastic bottle in her free hand. The doctor helps Landry raise her gown over her belly, and I see it now. There is a subtle swelling, just a thickening between her bony hips. I wouldn’t have even noticed it if I hadn’t been looking for it.
A grainy image jolts back and forth on the small screen as the technician drags the plastic wand back and forth over Landry’s belly. All four of us stare intently at the tiny screen, trying to make sense of the alien images there. Whooshing white noise comes through the speaker. It sort of sounds like windshield wipers underwater.
After a little while, the whooshing white noise becomes more regular, quick and steady. Landry’s eyes widen.
“Okay, yes, there is the heartbeat,” the doctor announces with a smile.
Concentrating, the technician blindly moves the wind, centimeter by centimeter, searching for some magical combination of position and pressure that will change the image on the screen. She gets to one spot and stops, then sweeps the device all the way back to Landry’s other hip. It seems to take forever, but finally there is something. A trapezoidal shape in the middle, filled with a jerking blob that’s bigger on one side than the other. Inside the blob is a perforated line on one side, and jumping forms on the other.
The doctor reaches out and taps the screen. “Right there. That’s the heart,” she announces.
With a keyboard stroke, the technician freezes the image, then uses a mouse to circle various parts, apparently measuring them against each other. If I squint, it does sort of look like a misshapen head on one side, and a much smaller, even more misshapen body on the other.
Actually, it looks like she’s going to be giving birth to a gummy bear.
“Okay! This looks good!” the doctor finally affirms.
“Is it… all right? Is my baby all right?” Landry asks in a trembling voice.
The sound startles me. My baby. Is that really what she said? Is it already so settled in her mind?
“Well, you’re still quite early along. But everything looks very normal to me,” the doctor smiles, squeezing Landry’s hand sympathetically. “You’re right at thirteen weeks. You have a regular doctor? Midwife?”
Landry nods. Another surprise. She’s been going to an obstetrician? What else has she been keeping from me?
The technician switches off the machine and Landry pulls her gown back down. The doctor marks on the clipboard and hangs it on the back of the bed.
“The nurse will be in to talk to you shortly,” she explains. “I don’t see any reason we need to keep you here. If you’re feeling all right, you can go home tonight, if you like?”
Landry nods enthusiastically. “Yes, my sister’s here. She’ll take care of me.”
“All right then. I’ll get your paperwork finished right away.”
When the door closes, Landry finally looks up at me.
“I’m so sorry,” she begins to whisper.
“Well, no way!” I cut her off. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. Nothing at all. Please don’t do that. Everything is going to be okay, Landry, okay? Everything. It will be all right.”
Landry’s eyes flicker down and I see that the ultrasound technician left her a small piece of paper with a printout of the grainy image from the machine. I don’t entirely understand what she’s looking at, but Landry is looking at it with such intensity it is startling. She looks completely in love. She looks like she is really committed to this.
“I don’t have any reception in here,” I explain softly, glancing at my cell phone. “I’m going to go out to the lobby and see about getting us a Lyft or a taxi, okay?”
She nods, not taking her eyes off the ultrasound picture. I just take a deep breath and head out, following the blue line back to where we came from. Nurses and visitors all offer me the same cautious, sympathetic smile. You never know why you are seeing someone in a hospital. Could be tragic. Could be a near miss. Could be anything.
To my surprise, Maxwell stands when I enter a small room, apparently some kind of waiting room. He brushes his palms against his trousers as he stands.
“You’re still here?” I marvel.
He shrugs shyly. “Well, yes. Do you need anything? Is she all right?”
I don’t know what to say. I’m happy to see him, and yet I don’t feel like I can tell him anything. He is still a stranger, I remind myself.
But he is a stranger who waited for me. What kind of stranger does that?
“I just want to take her home now,” I explain meekly.
“I’ll go get the car.”
When I return to Landry’s room, to my surprise, she is already seated in a wheelchair with her discharge papers on her lap. She lets me push her down the hallway, and we roll past rooms where families are gathered around their loved ones.
Maxwell greets us at the door, automatically reaching for the brakes on the wheelchair and helping Landry into the back seat. Again I feel that sense of relief that someone is here with me, carrying some part of the load that needs to be carried.
Because of the pregnancy, Landry is only allowed a bit of Tylenol before bed. Maxwell offers to make us some tea and I tuck Landry in, trying not to overly smother this woman who is about to be a mother herself. I can barely stand to look at the bruises on her face. And I can barely stand to think about the way that she got them.
“Is everything really all right?” Maxwell asks me as he hands me a mug of tea in the kitchen.
“She’s already asleep,” I shrug. “That has to be good, right?”
“Yes,” he agrees. “I am sure that is good. Did she tell you what happened?”
Automatically, I want to dodge the question. But when I look in his eyes, his interest seems sincere.
You have to trust somebody sometime, I tell myself.
As soon as I begin to start talking, the whole story spools out. Landry was living with her boyfriend. She didn’t want anyone to know. He has been abusive, but she’s pregnant now. Her choices have narrowed.
Maxwell sets his tea down and scowls. “She has so many options,” he objects. “How far along is she?”
This seems like an
invasive question. “She’s about thirteen weeks,” I explain.
“Well, she doesn’t have to have the baby if you act quickly,” he answers.
My mouth drops open a little bit. “She doesn’t want an abortion,” I reply, hearing that strange word hang in the air between us. “It’s up to her. She doesn’t want one.”
“I see,” he answers.
“Perhaps I can ask her to consider adoption?” I muse. “She’s so young. It will be like it never happened.”
He nods thoughtfully. Clearly this isn’t a conversation he is comfortable having.
“She may even want to keep it,” he says softly.
I take a step away and straighten up. Suddenly I feel very defensive about all this. Who does he think he is?
“I’m sure we can figure it out,” I say coldly.
He finally senses my emotion and looks startled. “I’m sorry, it’s really not my business,” he adds quickly. “She’s just so young. You’re right. This is none of my business. I’m only trying to help.”
“We will be all right,” I mutter, grinding my molars together. “She’s in very good hands.”
“Oh, certainly!” he objects apologetically. “Really, I spoke out of turn. I’m sorry, Clarissa.”
“You probably need to be going now. I need to take care of her.”
He draws a breath to say something else, then lets it go. Instead he nods his understanding and rinses his teacup before setting it in the bottom of the sink.
I don’t feel like I let my breath out until I hear the front door close behind him. Part of me wants to apologize for being so rude, but then I remember I don’t have a relationship with him. He’s just my boss. I don’t owe him anything. When I reached out to him on the hill, letting down my guard suddenly… he rejected me.
I don’t owe him anything at all.
Chapter 11
Maxwell
On Monday morning, I am not surprised at all to see Landry in the reception area at work. Clarissa seems to be keeping her a secret, though, so I just watch them hustle into Clarissa’s office and close the door.
The past few weeks have been impressively productive. Late summer is typically a low point in the commercial real estate market, but Clarissa and I have amassed an impressive amount of work.
Still, it is hard to concentrate. Everything is sort of jumbles together, and I find myself staring at the same spreadsheet, not making heads nor tails of the numbers I am looking at. I need to clear my head.
In the breakroom, I feel Clarissa in the room before I see her. She walks up next to me, stiff but not cold. Briefly, I wonder when our awkwardness will dissipate.
“Good morning,” I murmur, though it is barely still morning.
She glances at me, then immediately looks away as she shakes a sugar packet between her fingers. There are two cups on the counter in front of her and when she sees me look at them, she shrugs.
“I had to bring her,” she explains sheepishly. “She didn’t feel comfortable at my place alone. You understand.”
“Of course I understand,” I answer, happy to have something to offer in the conversation, even if it is only my approval. “You know, I’ve got this strip mall on the West Side…”
“Oh, the Jaguar Plaza?” she asks immediately.
“That’s the one,” I smile, glad that she so easily reads my mind.
“Yeah, that is a bit of a puzzle,” she scowls. “The anchor business won’t move, and the neighborhood has changed so much. I think we need to start by improving the parking lot if we want new tenants.”
“Oh, that’s interesting,” I agree. “That’s a good idea.”
She picks up both mugs and smiles again, and I’m glad to see her relax a little bit.
“Let me drop this off for Landry, and I’ll swing by your office and show you what I put together, okay?”
“That would be great.”
Back in my office, I drag out the file for the Jaguar Plaza and flip through the pictures. She’s right; the exterior still looks dated and hasn’t kept up with the neighborhood at all. When she comes back, she lays out a series of color mockups on the conference table and points to them one at a time, demonstrating that the whole strip mall could be rebranded in just a couple of months.
“This is great work,” I observe.
She pivots toward me, smiling, but we are closer than she estimated, and her elbow brushes mine, tumbling her coffee forward. The dark liquid splashes over the rim of the cup and narrowly misses the front of my trousers. I take a step back, trying to suppress a smirk.
“You know, if you are going to keep ruining my suits, I’m going to have to take it out of your pay.”
She scowls, her eyes flashing, then eases when she realize it’s a joke.
“I should get one of those sippy cups,” she chuckles self-consciously. “I seem to have developed a drinking problem.”
That was a close call. It feels like we are constantly on the edge of bickering. Maybe if she didn’t take things so seriously all the time?
I can tell that she has Landry on her mind and she begins to get anxious, shifting her weight from foot to foot and nodding brusquely as we chat.
“Is it getting late? Do you want to get some lunch?” I ask finally.
Her expression brightens. “Oh! Great idea. I will just run around the corner and get some sandwiches?”
I realize she is doing this because she wants to feed her sister as well. But there is no need for me to belabor that point. “Sounds great. I’ll grab some sodas from the breakroom.”
Clarissa practically sprints from the room and I look over the mockups again. I wonder if she did these illustrations, or if we have a CAD artist on staff? If these are her work, it’s just another facet of her abilities I didn’t know about.
The breakroom has a decent selection of beverages on hand all the time. Everything from energy drinks to bottled water (three brands) to sodas (seven brands) and even a few craft beers hidden way at the back. Leaning down, I select a couple of bottles that seem appropriate. Diet? Sparkling water? I’m not really sure what she likes, but sugar-free ginger ale will work for me.
When I close the refrigerator door, I’m surprised to see Landry hovering at the entrance, looking somewhat tentative. I hold one of the bottles out to her.
“Lime?” I offer awkwardly.
She sucks her breath in between her teeth. “Oh, yes, please!” she answers enthusiastically, taking the bottle from my fingers. “These things are amazing! I don’t know why they are so good. Have you tried them?”
“Um, yes, they are all right,” I murmur in response as she twists open the top and gulps half the bottle down immediately.
“A few weeks ago,” she begins to chatter in a low voice so the other employees cannot hear, “I was so thirsty, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I’m not supposed to have caffeine, you know?”
“I’ve heard that, yes,” I agree.
“Yeah, well, I still have to drink something in the morning, right? So I was trying tea… Lemonade… But that has too much sugar. And then I found these! No sugar, and it still has that flavor, and there’s just something so delicious about them!”
“Delicious, yes,” I hear myself saying.
It’s weird trying to have a conversation that is so full of nothing. We are really talking about water with bubbles in it right now?
“So, anyway, thank you!” she breathes through a sheepish smile.
It is hard to look at her right now. The bruise on her forehead is a startling shade of purple, and I don’t want to think about how she got it. But she is still a young woman, still technically a teenager I believe. She bursts with energy.
“Are you working? Do you have a lot to do? I keep wanting to talk to Clarissa, but she seems to be avoiding me right now.”
I shift my weight my other side. Actually, talking about nothing is fine with me.
“You know what I mean?” Landry continues. “I have a lot on my mind
right now. Sometimes Clarissa is kind of distant. It’s just her thing. You’ve probably seen that. Right? Have you?”
Suddenly this breakroom seems awfully small. This is personal business, and anybody could walk in right now.
Landry looks down, scowling, flicking the lip of the open bottle with her fingernail.
“What I need to do is convince her that I should have this baby,” she mutters aloud. “Like right away. So we don’t have to go back and forth the whole time.”
“Landry, I think that you should—”
“So, do you have any ideas? Like about how to convince her? You know how she is.”
I stare at her helplessly, my mouth dry. Her presumptions are wrong on so many levels. Do I really know anything about Clarissa? No. Do I know anything at all about whether or not an obviously young woman should have a baby? Definitely no. How am I supposed to make casual conversation as she’s staring at me through one eye while the other is bruised and swollen almost shut?
“Landry, if this is what you want, I’m sure you’ll find a way. I’m sure that Clarissa—”
My voice breaks off when I see her, seething in the breakroom doorway. Landry sees my expression and turns around.
“Oh, Clarissa,” she mumbles, “I didn’t see you there.”
Clarissa’s arm shoots out and she shoves a paper bag in Landry’s direction. Silently, Landry takes the bag and hustles out of the room back toward Clarissa’s office.
Clarissa’s hazel eyes are alight with fury. She trembles where she stands, and I suddenly remember that Clarissa is set on adoption. What did she just hear me say?
“Okay, Clarissa, I know what you must be thinking,” I begin, holding my hands up defensively.
“Here’s your lunch,” she growls, tossing the bag on the counter. Then she whirls around and stomps off.
I sense that people in the office are vaguely aware that something is going on. As I pass the cubicles, there is a definite vibration in the air. People casting their eyes sideways. A few whispers. A few deliberate pivots as I walk past.
But in my office, mostly what I’m thinking about is Clarissa. Work is spread out over the conference table, her pregnant younger sister is hiding in an office across from me, and the lunch she picked up for me is in my hand. That woman definitely has a lot going on. And I still keep managing to stumble into her way. It would be funny if it weren’t so unfunny.