One Secret Too Many

by Vanessa Grant

  Reliable, said the box. Results in one hour. Beta test—whatever that was. The words ‘Home pregnancy test’ were the ones that shouted out at her. What if she picked up the box and went up to the counter and found herself staring at someone from the choir, or a girl from the young people’s group? She would pass the box over, and before ringing the numbers into the cash register the assistant would look at the box. Then look at Mary.

  And there wasn’t any other reason for having the box, was there? She couldn’t say, ‘I’m just doing research for a book. You see, I have this character in my new book who thinks she might be pregnant, but she can’t go and tell her doctor or have a test at the hospital, so she goes into the store and buys—’

  No one would ever believe that. No one would even believe that she was writing a book. Damn! Could the whole thing be her imagination? Sam, it really was-it was wonderful, but we shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have done it. Look what’s happened now!

  Or had it happened?

  Empty handed, she walked along the aisle until she could see the cash register near the door. The woman at the checkout was someone she had never seen before, and when she asked, ‘Yes?’ Mary could tell that she wasn’t recognised.

  ‘Just looking,’ she said, turning back. It was the best chance she would ever have. The store was empty, and the woman had no idea who she was. So there wouldn’t be any gossip, and—What if she paused before bagging the box, reading the label, and looking at Mary—

  Someone had come into the store, a woman in a shapeless dark coat. Mary had seen a glimpse of the coat, then the top of a dark head of hair moving rigidly along the next aisle. The head had stopped, probably looking at the magazines. The book rack was somewhere close to the dark head.

  It was impossible to see the checkout counter from the magazine section. Mary picked up one of the boxes quickly, then grabbed desperately as the whole pile threatened to topple. She had a horrifying certainty that all two hundred or so pregnancy test kits would come tumbling noisily to the floor, bringing everyone running.

  They would stand there, the dark woman and the assistant, staring at the minister’s daughter caught with the evidence in her hand. Her heart slowed slightly as the boxes stabilised under her desperate fingers. If there had been noise, it couldn’t have been much. She waited, breathless, but the dark head was still bent over something in the next aisle.

  Get it over with. Hurry!

  She picked up the box and walked quickly, thankful for her silent, rubber-soled running shoes. The woman at the cash register didn’t even seem to see the writing on the box. She frowned at the numbers on the price sticker, punched in the price, her long, bright red fingernails clicking on the keys of the cash register. Eleven dollars. It seemed wrong somehow that something this crucial, this frightening, could be purchased for only eleven dollars.

  She fumbled for change, had a terrifying moment when she couldn’t find anything but a five-dollar note. She would have to write a cheque, and that meant identification, recording her name for this woman to remember.

  Footsteps behind her. Why didn’t the assistant put the damned box in the bag? Mary yanked at a piece of paper in her wallet. A ten-dollar note went floating down to the floor and she bent after it, coming back up in a hurry and pushing the two notes across the counter. The box was sitting there, screaming its purpose for anyone who cared to read it. And behind her—

  ‘Mary, there you are! I wanted to tell you—’

  She swung around, and attempted to stand between Emily Derringer and that horrible box on the counter. Emily’s hazel eyes were trying to look around Mary. The assistant had paused, money in her hand, and it might be forever before the box got safely into an anonymous paper bag.

  ‘Emily,’ she gasped, trying to think of something distracting to say. The older woman was looking at her now. her eyes sharp with accusation. Mary tried to tell herself that she always looked like that. Of all people to run into right now! Emily had a magazine in her hand, and she was waiting for the checkout herself. She moved slightly to one side. Mary moved with her, blocking her view. ‘You were going to tell me something?’

  ‘Yes, a message for your mother, it was—’ Emily put a cautious hand to her rigidly sprayed hair just as Mary heard the wonderful sound of a stapler on the bag.

  ‘Mother’s expecting me home with this parcel.’ Mary’s words rushed out. ‘And I— Look, why don’t you telephone your message to Mother? She’ll be home this evening.’

  The package was too large to fit into her bag. She put it into the carrier of her scooter and got away from the chemist as fast as she could. Emily was probably still standing there, telling the assistant all about Mary and the Houseman family. Damn! It was her own fault. How could she have been so insane as to think she could behave like one of her own characters when she met Sam?

  There was no car in the driveway at the parsonage, nobody in the big old house. She ran up to her room and tore open the bag. The instructions said to do the test first thing in the morning, but she couldn’t wait that long. It was bad enough waiting an hour for the results. She followed the directions carefully, set up the vials in her cupboard. That way, if anyone came into her room she could close the door, and they wouldn’t know that there was anything at all going on. It was almost as safe as putting her fantasies on to computer disk, because her mother had an active dislike of computers.

  She would never put a heroine in a situation like this!

  CHAPTER THREE

  MARY pedalled hard, trying to make the crest of the hill without having to get off the bicycle and walk. On the other side, the road stretched down gently in a long slope. She coasted, squeezing the brake controls gently with her hands to control her speed as she rolled silently, quickly down the hill, then leaning into the curve as the crescent bent around the contours of Hospital Hill, her hair streaming out behind her.

  She had left the church an hour ago, slipping away early for her appointment, needing this time alone, trying still to take in the incredible reality. She was going to have a baby. Right now it was her secret, but this secret was a time bomb. Sooner or later, like that book that would one day go to press, the baby would become a public reality.

  Even the idea of Mary Houseman being pregnant was impossible. She shuddered at what her mother would say, but even worse was the thought of her father. It would be in his eyes. Sometimes he looked at her as if he was worried, as if he did not understand her, and she knew what he was thinking. Would she disappoint him, as Toby had? He was a clergyman, leading his flock, but his own family must be above reproach.

  There was another possibility, but it seemed as inconceivable as having a baby. She couldn’t help thinking about it, but she didn’t think she could do it. Abortion. The only way to keep her secret, but. . . The whole thing was impossible. . . unless Sam was at her side. What if she went back to Vancouver, back to the beach where she had met him. Would he ever go back? Looking for Alex? Would he...want her? Want the child? She closed her eyes in a brief, painful spasm. The child. A baby. She had not let herself think of it as a baby, a live thing. She could not afford to let herself think that way, unless—

  She would have liked to go down to the bus station and catch a Greyhound going anywhere, or to the ferry terminal and ride to the Queen Charlotte Islands, walk among the trees out there and forget everyone. Instead, she rode her bicycle to her appointment.

  Outside the clinic she saw a white Corvette, and wondered if her heart would stop every time she saw a car like his. She bit her lip, went in and announced herself to the receptionist. ‘Five minutes,’ promised Mrs Bramley, running her hand.through the hair that escaped her nurse’s cap. ‘You’ll not have to wait more than five minutes.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Mary sat down beside an old man, picked up a magazine and opened it randomly. She stared at the print as it swam out of focus. The man beside her shifted a little, as if to read over her shoulder. When the words came clear in front of her eyes, she
found herself reading an article on nutrition for expectant mothers.

  A nurse she didn’t recognise came to the waiting-room, and gestured to the man leaning over her shoulder. ‘Dr Dempsey will see you now, Mr Parker.’ Soon Dr Box’s nurse came and Mary swallowed a lump of tears as she followed the white uniform down the corridor. Then she was safe, inside the office, and the door was shut behind her. Dr Box was there, and he handed her a tissue without asking any questions, then busied himself with writing something until she was in control of herself again.

  ‘Did you come in for a talk?’ he asked mildly as he looked up.

  A talk? She nodded, gulped, and got the words out. He took it calmly, wanted to know the brand of the test that she had bought in the chemist. He examined her and it seemed that there was no doubt at all. They talked and she tried to sound calm and very practical, but inside she was frantic, then numb. She tried to focus on his words as they seemed to spin into nonsense, sounds without meaning. She couldn’t have been in his office for more than fifteen minutes, and she left with a slip of paper, and she still didn’t know what she was going to do, what she could do. All the possibilities seemed— impossible!

  They had talked about her options. Options! None of them were possible! Have a baby, here, with everyone she knew watching, her parents pained and hurt and ashamed of her. Or... She didn’t know who had brought up the other option, herself or Dr Box. He had placed a telephone call, then given her that slip of paper with the address and an appointment time. She stared at it now, already crumpled in her hand, and it seemed like something in someone else’s book. A fantasy. A story. Fiction. Impossible that it had been her voice inside that office, saying yes, she had enough money in her savings account, and yes, she could get to Vancouver for that day.

  Across the corridor an office door was open, the inside of the office a little disorganised as it would be if a new man was settling in. The new doctor, she remembered absently. The other doors were closed. Behind her, Dr Box’s door was closed, too. She felt odd, light-headed, and wondered if she was going to faint. A nurse walked past, stared at her curiously. Mary started to move. She had to get out of here. If she stood around, looking shocked, someone was going to wonder. If Emily Derringer heard about it, Mary wouldn’t be surprised if she guessed at the truth.

  She had to go somewhere she could be alone. So many secrets. Her writing. Sam. Being... pregnant. How on earth had she got into such a horrible situation?

  A door opened beside her and she stumbled, changing course to dodge a pair of long, muscular legs clad in grey. The legs paused. A man’s voice said, ‘Be sure to give me a call if there’s no improvement within forty-eight hours.’

  Her eyes flew from the grey slacks to the dark face. Sam? Sam in a suit? Her eyes, wide and startled, met his. Both pairs of brown eyes reflected shock and alarm.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded. Unwillingly, but irresistibly, his hand moved to her arm. She looked down at the paper in her hand, her fingers closing, crushing it into the cup of her palm.

  ‘Alex?’

  She shook her head. All her life she had hidden her thoughts, told little untruths to keep things smooth, but at this moment she could not think of one word, neither lie nor truth.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ he said grimly.

  She seemed unable to pull away when he gripped her arm harder. He pulled her across the hall and into the office, the messy one, dragging her along with him like a rag doll. He shoved the door shut and the noise echoed, emphasising their isolation from the fest of the clinic. ‘What are you doing here?’ she whispered. In the office, the telephone on the desk was ringing. He picked it up, said abruptly. ‘Hold my calls. I don’t want to be disturbed.’

  His calls? She looked around, and realised that the office was even more of a mess than she had thought at first. On the floor behind the desk were stacks of books.The desk was piled with files. Behind the desk, the window looked out on the harbour. On the wall there was a pale spot where there had been a painting once. There were diplomas hanging there. Her eyes read words attesting to the qualifications of Samuel Dempsey, doctor of medicine.

  Sam. Samuel Dempsey. Her eyes were drawn to him unwillingly. He was standing behind the desk, his fingers still resting on the telephone, darkly bleak eyes watching her assessment of the room.

  ‘You’re a doctor?’ She knew the answer. ‘The new doctor?’

  He didn’t smile. He said, ‘A shock, isn’t it? I never dreamed this was your northern town.’

  So he hadn’t wanted to find her here. She swallowed. ‘Why did you come?’ The breath went short in her lungs. ‘Why here?’

  ‘Fate, I guess.’ He didn’t sound very happy about it. ‘I was ready to leave the hospital, and Roy Box was down south looking for someone.’ He shrugged. ‘You’d better tell me your name, hadn’t you? And why you were looking like that out in the hallway?’

  ‘Mary,’ she said slowly. She swallowed, added, ‘Houseman.’ To gain time, she asked, ‘Looking like what?’

  ‘Desperate,’ he said harshly.

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Yes. I saw your eyes. You’d better tell me, Alex. You’ll have to tell me. I thought—I thought you came here to see me, but you didn’t know, did you?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head vigorously. ‘I didn’t know who you were.’ She was going to have to tell him. He could find out anyway. He could ask Dr Box, or go and look in her flIe— No, it wasn’t in her file, was it? Dr Box had said—Perhaps Sam needn’t know. If he were her lover, loving her, she could tell him and it would be a joy, a gift to them both. But he didn’t want her here, in his new town, and she didn’t think she could bear to watch his eyes if he learned the truth.

  ‘Alex?’

  ‘It’s Mary.’ She shivered. Her legs were trembling. Weakness, perhaps, because she had not eaten lunch.

  He grinned, and for a second she saw the man on the beach, the man who had been her lover. ‘I can’t possibly call you Mary.’ In his eyes was the memory of how his caresses had driven her to wild abandon. ‘It will have to be Alex.’

  ‘Well, for heaven’s sake, don’t call me Alex in front of Emily Derringer.’ She was amazed to hear her own laughter. ‘She’ll never stop asking about it!’

  ‘Sit down, Alex. You’re trembling like a leaf.’ He moved towards her, as if he would push her into the straight-backed chair that was sitting there. She sat quickly and he retreated, leaning his hips back against the desk, his arms crossed and his legs stretching out a little towards her.

  ‘You look different,’ she said nervously, her eyes following the crisp crease of his slacks, down to the polished black of his shoes.

  ‘So do you.’ In Vancouver she had been wearing a very elegant suit. He had been dressed in blue jeans. Now she was in jeans and a cotton blouse, while he sported an expensive grey suit.

  ‘You’d look better in brown,’ she said abruptly. ‘The grey makes you look pale.’ She looked down at her own hands twisting the slip of paper into a mangled ball.

  ‘Tell me what’s worrying you, Alex? Why are you here? To see Roy?’ She was silent. He frowned. ‘You’re not sick, are you?’

  ‘No,’ she admitted, although she had told Mrs Bramley that it was probably the flu. She spoke in a rush, ‘I’m really all right and—and you don’t need to worry about it. Don’t you have patients waiting?’

  ‘I want the truth, Alex.’ She couldn’t hold his gaze, those dark eyes penetrating as if he had a right to know whatever was inside her. It was unsettling, scary.

  ‘The truth?’ she whispered. He nodded. ‘Lie to anyone else you want, but not me.’

  She heard a voice outside, but no one knocked on this door. If they did, he would send them away. She stared at her hands, at the scrap of paper crumpled under her fingers, the faint black smear from her bicycle chain. She was terrified. More than anything else she wanted to get out of here, away from him. She realised that she really was a terrible cow
ard. She hadn’t the guts to tell anyone the truth about anything.

  His hand covered hers, turned and clasped her fingers with his, the roughness soothing against her cool skin. The paper dropped into her lap. She picked it up with her free hand and held it out to him. He let her hand go, and she saw that his fingers were trembling as he smoothed the slip of paper to read it, as if he was afraid of what he would see.

  She watched his face grow very still, her hands clasped together tightly. Would he know what the address meant? Did he know the name of the clinic, know—? What would he feel? What if—? What if he thought that it was some other man’s child? No, surely he must know. He was the only person in the world that she might be able to talk to about it, but she was terrified of what he would say, would feel.

  He turned away before she could see his eyes. She watched him walk towards the window, staring out, his jaw rigid.

  ‘Sam?’ she whispered.

  ‘You— You’re—expecting a child?’ His voice was choked.

  She nodded but he could not see, looking out, so she said, ‘Yes.’ There was a long moment without words. Finally she said, ‘Sam, I know you’re not—I don’t expect anything from you or— I—’

  ‘Stop it, Alex!’ For the first time she was actually physically frightened of him, unsure of what he might do. He looked as if he wanted to strike her. There was a sharp knock on the door behind her.

  ‘Dr Dempsey?’ Sam didn’t seem to hear it. Mary knew that she couldn’t possibly stay here, could not face his anger and whatever he had to say to her. She stumbled to her feet and reached the door.

  ‘Alex?’

  She froze, her fingers on the knob, then she opened the door and escaped, slipping past the startled nurse. Sam made no attempt to follow her. He stared at the nurse, not seeing her.

  ‘Doctor, the next patient is waiting.’ She had the chart in her hand and he took it, nodding curtly, but when the nurse was gone his eyes went back to the crumpled slip of paper he had taken from Alex.