by Beth Aldrich
Pink flushes her cheeks as Misty changes the subject. “Okay, what do your parents think?”
“They’re really banking on the police to sort this out. But I know I need a backup plan… and I trust you can help me with that.”
She frowns. “Do you think there was anything to the fact that the janitor from your doctor’s office was near your sons’ school? Do the boys know about this?”
I shake my head. “No, I think it was a coincidence about Henry being near the school. I know he’s a janitor, so maybe he works at a variety of different places. And I’m not planning on telling the boys anything about this. It would only scare them. Look, Misty, I’m worried. How would some stranger know how to reach me at my sons’ school, or my doctor’s office, for crying out loud?”
She glances out the window. “Have you considered your old landscaper, Freddie? Remember he used to flirt with you? Maybe he has a sick crush or something.”
“Freddie?” Her mention of him surprises me, given that he had just shown up the day before. “Actually, he came over here yesterday asking me for more work. I didn’t have any answers for him, but he really seemed upset. He still had a copy of my key, though he gave it back to me yesterday.”
Misty frowns. “I know he works on the neighbor’s yard, across the street. Maybe he’s been snooping around and has been placing the notes?” Raising her eyebrows, she continues, “Didn’t you say something about Kyle seeing a man over there the other night?”
The thought hits me like a swift punch on the arm, just like it did when he was here. “I never thought a person who worked for me and has spent time around my family for years would actually turn around and threaten me. We’ve always had a good relationship.”
“But you fired him.”
“When I fired him, I was crying. I had no choice. His work wasn’t that good and we ended up switching to a more established, larger, and more reliable landscape architect team.”
“Well, maybe he thinks otherwise. Good that you got that key back.”
“How tall do you think he is?”
“I don’t know, maybe six feet?”
“I’m going to add his name to my list of suspects. Whoever it is tall with dark hair. He must watch me—and has for a long time—and his knowledge about my schedule after working for us, that might explain the man Kyle saw late that night.”
“If I ever see that stalker S.O.B, I’m going to blow his head off!” Misty declares. We nervously snicker. “If he shows up, you have to call me right away—I don’t care if it’s three in the morning. Speaking of which, was that why you were up last night texting me?”
“Misty, come on now, you know darn well you threw that wood around like nobody’s business. You must’ve known you’d wake someone up.”
She shook her head. “Wasn’t on my mind. I just had to get that badly managed project out of my house. I’m starting over with a new contractor next week. But that’s not important right now.” She pushes away from the counter. “Either way, just call me if you have any issues. Sorry, but I gotta run. Let’s talk later, okay?”
“Okay, that sounds good,” I reply, getting up to give her a hug. “I have to make my way over to Dr. Deller’s office for another baby checkup. Yesterday he didn’t have time to do the ultrasound. I shouldn’t be there too long.”
The boys will love the uneaten bagels for an after-school snack; I wrap up the uneaten fruit for dessert later and place it in the refrigerator. It’ll be perfect with a dollop of fresh whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon on top. I’m a tiny bit disappointed Misty didn’t notice my memorable display of food or flowers. She’s always too busy to notice details, or to eat, explaining why she’s so fit and trim. But for listening, protecting, and coming up with ideas, my neighbor is my number one go-to gal.
As I do every week, I thumb through a cookbook and make a shopping list for our weekly meals. I’m sure I can run to the grocery store right after my appointment. Always a chef, the meals must go on. Regardless of a madman stalking my family, we do have to eat. I hope the police pick up the pace on investigating the stalker so I can get my life back to normal.
Cooking energizes me and removes all negative thoughts from my mind. I get razor-focused on the food and everything else is a blur. It’s what I need right now. Tonight’s dinner with my boys will give me a quiet, little slice of alone time with them since Mom and Dad will be at a fundraising event for the Cancer Foundation. They love getting dressed up and going into the city for galas and plays, and tonight they’re going to the Cranstons’ annual casino party. Since I’m not officially working for them right now, I get invites to all their celebrations and fundraisers for free. Kind of nice perk; it helps to be associated with powerful people. “You never know who has money. Always keep your eyes open for donors,” Candy Cranston always says.
Steven has never liked going to their events. He calls them “phony” reasons to hang with the rich. When the invite arrived, I reached out to Candy to find out if my parents could attend instead, telling her Steven would be out of town. It was a fib, but now he really is gone for work. And I am glad that someone from my family will represent me tonight.
Candy and Carter were understanding when I took my leave of absence right before Kyle’s birth, and have been continually accepting each year I extend it. At some point, I will decide between work and family.
Going back to work two days a week might be okay with Mom babysitting. I could take the train into the city after dropping the boys off at school, and she could stay with the baby and pick up the boys later in the day. She could start dinner, which I would line up ahead of time—or as the French would say, prepare des aliments—and I’d be home in time to eat with the family. I know there are culinary interns who are eager to work extra hours in the Cranstons’ kitchen, so I could have everything prepped for them and ready for the evening events, and catch the Metra train home to Westin Heights. Mom helps me at home, and the staff picks up the slack at work. Something to think about after this dog walk; the doctor’s office awaits my arrival.
Barney’s walk is a shortened version of our ordinary routine, but I know he senses my urgency to get out the door to the doctor’s office. “Come on, furball, Mama has to pee again, can you believe it?” He seems to understand my request, and following a light tug on his leash, he moves along. I capture his work in a blue plastic bag, tie it shut, and toss it in our covered trashcan by the side door, next to the bush. I remind myself to grab my to-do list when I get inside and add, purchase some odor-free trash bags.
I click the latch on Barney’s leash and set it on the small entryway table. He follows me down the narrow hallway to the pantry, stuffed with canned goods, boxes of cereal, nuts, baking supplies, and his favorite—dog treats. Over the years, Barney has figured out, success with the doo-doo bags equals a trip to the snack-filled pantry. The aroma of gooey, chocolate chip cookies baking in my double oven often lures him to the kitchen, too—but no people food for him.
As I sit in the small powder room, I happen to notice the paint cracking between the trim and the light-blue painted wall: another item for my to-do list. As Barney slinks, in between my legs and the maple cabinet, to steal some petting, I glance down and discover that I’m spotting. This can’t be happening!
“No! No!” I cry, as I shoo him out of the bathroom to nudge the door closed. I struggle with the tangle of my undies around my ankles while I wobble back to the seat and try to catch my tears with a fresh piece of tissue. Sitting, I examine the situation and see what appear to be large clots. “No! It’s too soon!” Tear droplets are hitting my thighs like a leaky faucet.
I clean myself up and rush to grab my cell phone and a towel, then settle on the couch to prop up my feet, hoping to stop the spotting.
“This isn’t my first rodeo,” I whisper bitterly to Barney while dabbing my runny nose and moist eyes with the edge of my sleeve. I need more tissues. With three losses under my belt, one after the city attack, and anot
her being a painful D&C procedure where they had to remove the partial miscarriage, I know what could be in store as I dial the doctor’s office. I realize I’m further along this go-around, but it’s better safe than sorry.
“Yes, this is Betsy Ryan. R-Y-A-N.”
I’m tapping my heel on the edge of the couch as I wait for the receptionist to slowly spell out my name. Are there that many people coming to this office that she can’t remember me?
“Donna, it’s an emergency! I’m spotting, bad. I need to talk to Dr. Deller, now. Please!”
“Okay, Betsy. I’ll check. If he’s in with a patient would you like to speak to Dr. Hildebrandt instead?” she cheerily replies, almost as if this wasn’t her first rodeo and this is normal.
“No, thanks, I’d prefer my own doctor. Can you just go get him?”
“Sure.” Donna puts me on hold and the background music plays in my ear. Maybe she doesn’t remember my other miscarriages? Although she’s known me for years, how could she know about those life-scarring moments when I crawled under my bed in misery, wanting to stay there for days? Good God, hurry up, Donna!
“Hello, Betsy?” My doctor’s familiar, soothing voice echoes through the phone. “How are you feeling today? I hear we’re having some issues.” His calmness washes over me and regulates my heartbeat.
Catching my breath and slowing the heel tapping, I say, “Yes… I’m alarmed right now. The clots were large and substantial, and I know it’s too early to go into labor. I don’t want to get off the couch and trigger an early labor!” I hope he can keep up with my rambling. “I don’t want to drive knowing that I’m spotting, just in case it’s an indication that I could be in labor. I know we talked about bed rest last month, but since everything seemed to be going okay, I really thought I was out of the woods.” I take a second to breathe in and exhale, then I continue, “I have no way to get there because Steven is out of town and my neighbor isn’t home. Should we just cancel for today?” As if sitting upside down will hold the baby in its place, I run my feet up the side of the wall, reminding me of a yoga pose I’ve never liked doing.
Again, my doctor replies taking his time to explain, “Okay, Betsy, let’s cancel your appointment today, but I’ll swing by to check in on you after my next patient. Should be less than an hour. Will that be all right?”
Smiling to him, even though he can’t see me offer my thanks, I nod my head. “That’d be great! I think I’ll feel better just having you come by.”
“Sounds good. Do you want to leave the key under the rock by the side gate so you can stay on the couch?”
“Oh, thank you. I would’ve called my parents to come and check on me but they’re on the other side of the city right now. I agree it’s best that I cancel my appointment, and thank you for agreeing to swing by.” My voice slows down—and the pumping blood follows suit. “Thank you. It means a lot to me.”
My doctor clears his throat and says, “It’s no problem, Betsy. I want to pop in and see you just to make sure you’re okay. You know I don’t do house calls often, but I have no problem swinging by on my way home. I’ll see you soon.”
Knowing my doctor will be here soon gives me a strong sense of security about the baby—but not so much about leaving the secret key hidden under the rock again. I should be fine in the middle of the day. I almost believe myself.
Trying to get my mind off the spotting and fear of triggering early labor, I shift my thoughts to hoping this towel catches anything slipping past the panty liner—avoiding any stains on the couch. I’d hate to have it cleaned with all those stinky chemicals.
I rest my head back on the couch and wiggle my butt into a more comfortable position, then call Misty. I fill her in and ask if she can pick up the kids later and walk Barney when she drops them off. Without hesitation, she says yes; the tension in my chest releases a little more. I wrap myself in a soft, tan blanket and doze off.
A snore reverberates in my nostrils, causing my eyes to open. Shaking my head, I regain composure and blink off the blur as my eyes adjust to the daylight. I reach for the side of the couch to prevent myself from falling and notice Dr. Deller’s eyes on me. He’s seated in my tan leather chair with my favorite blue silk pillow next to him. In the background, I can make out the pastel flower arrangement on the counter. He’s about the same age as my Uncle Herman, mid-sixties, around six feet tall, a little extra weight around the middle, but overall, in pretty good shape.
I push against the couch and rise in my seat as I say, “Uh, hi. Sorry, I guess I fell asleep. How long have you been here?”
He crinkles his eyebrows and turns up his lips. “Only a few minutes. The dog let me in.” He follows my response to his joke. I squeeze out a small grin as he continues. “I’ve been trying to wake you.” Barney is sitting straight up on the floor next to the couch as if to protect me. He looks past his short, black nose, sniffing for danger.
Ever since he was a puppy, Barney, like Steven’s first dog, Benny, has followed our simple commands, like retrieving a stick or signaling when he needs go out. I credit the hard work we put in at the official new-dog-owner training classes. We would practice our drills in the park and go over commands every day. He always follows instructions and then comes back wagging his tail and circling us, waiting for a good butt scratch or tasty treat.
Since Steven agreed to give Barney to me, I took it upon myself to do all the training. My dog soon learned who was the Alpha Mom. I wore the crown, Queen of the Kitchen, after I would bring home large paper bags filled with stock bones from work. I loved taking him on long walks throughout the tree-lined parks and to the desolate beach at sunrise. We’d sit waiting for the big orange ball to pop up from the east side of Lake Michigan, to make its way up into the sky—causing us to squint. Then he’d run up and down the beach, kicking up sand and grabbing stray sticks. Steven installed a flexible doggy hose by our side door for when we’d get full of mud or sand on our walks so we’d never have to worry about making the house dirty again. It makes getting muddy a lot more fun.
“If it’s okay, I’d like to run to the bathroom and check to see if the spotting has stopped.”
My doctor replies, as I tippy toe past him and slip into the powder room, “I agree, I was just going to suggest that.”
After a thorough check, I’m pleased to share with Dr. Deller, “No additional spotting, doc.”
“Perfect. Since I’m here, I can take a quick listen to the baby. Off the record, of course.”
Just as Dr. Deller approaches me, Barney stands up on all fours and glares at him. No growl, but a stern look. What is it that’s bothering my best friend? I thought he’d remember my doctor from the last time he came to the house, but Barney doesn’t take his eyes off him.
“It’s all right, Bud,” I assure him. “He’s making sure we’re okay.”
Dr. Deller pulls his shiny stethoscope out of his bag and positions it on my belly to listen to the baby. It’s cold. He places two fingers on my wrist to check my pulse and then smiles at me and says, “The baby sounds fine.”
Barney follows his every move with only his eyes then glances up at me for reassurance. Barely above a whisper I tell him, “Everything is fine.” I wonder how many human phrases dogs understand? I’m guessing this pooch is above average.
“Betsy, since the baby’s heart beat is normal, and the spotting has stopped, I don’t believe you’re in early labor. I think it was a false alarm.”
The rigidity in my shoulders loosens, giving my cheeks a chance to pull to a smile. Something I haven’t done much of lately.
“I suggest you stay horizontal for the rest of today and see how things are going by morning. Remember, Betsy, if you can’t reach me for some reason, you can always contact Dr. Hildebrandt through our office.”
“Thanks, doc. I know, but in an emergency like this, I’d prefer to see you.” Trying to be polite, I extend my hand, inviting him to sit on the couch. “Would you like something to drink?” I’m hoping not. I coul
d use another nap before the kids come home.
“Sure,” he replies. “I’ll go grab some water. Don’t get up.”
“Yeah, that’s fine. The fridge is over there.” As I finish my sentence he’s already up and walking toward my kitchen.
For a fleeting moment, my arm muscles tighten again because he’s acting very comfortable here, as if he knows his way around my house. Still, he’s my doctor and I trust him, so I shake off the hunch.
“It’s been such a crazy couple of days, I appreciate you coming by and checking on me. It reminded me of my last miscarriage—I felt so panicked.”
“It’s never a problem, Betsy. You are one of my preferred patients.”
“You’ve been taking care of me for a long time, so you know the drill with me by now—always worrying…” I trail off with a little giggle. I know I’m paranoid. But doesn’t everyone else obsessively lock their doors, check the back seat of the car when they get in, or look over their shoulder when walking in a bad neighborhood?
“I’ve seen you go through so much. I wish I could do more, but sometimes things are beyond our control and left up to fate.” He pauses and catches my glance. “Do you ever feel like we can change our destiny?”
Blinking and turning to look out the window, I avoid looking at him for a minute. I’m at a loss for words. That’s a deep question, and out of character for Dr. Deller. “Well… thank you for helping me throughout this roller coaster ride the past few years. And yeah, sometimes I think we have some control over what happens. But I believe it’s God letting us think we have control while in reality he pulls the strings from up above.”
“I didn’t realize you were a religious person.” He looks up to meet my glance again.
“We all have to hold on to something.” I want to fill the lack of words with some sort of small talk, but I keep my mouth shut—it seems we’ve crossed the same red line Misty and I recently hopped over. I’ve never really had a deep discussion with him before, or even said more than three sentences, so I’m feeling uncomfortable. It’s ironic how a doctor can help you through labor, miscarriages, and other personal medical experiences, yet not share much about his personal life. I want to jump back over the line to where we started—less awkward and more traditional doctor-patient style.