I managed to thoroughly brush my teeth and gargle a great number of times, assuring myself it was safe to swallow my own spit again. The image staring back at me in the mirror was normally me after a good workout—kinky twists dampened slightly at the base by my sweat, light brown face glowing in the accomplishment of burning hundreds of calories. Today, however, my sagging eyelids told the story of a woman who’d ... vomited. I tried smiling, elevating my cheekbones even higher. No use. Maybe my mother was right when she’d told me, “You’re not that pretty, Tori, but you can keep yourself skinny and, when you turn fifteen, I’ll let you wear makeup. Fourteen if you’re really ugly by then.”
I closed my eyes and pressed fingers onto my temples, reminding myself that people told me all the time I was cute. One time, I went to this women’s empowerment event my client was hosting, and I won a T-shirt that read I’M BEAUTIFIL with some Bible verse on it about being beautifully and wonderfully made. I wore that shirt to Walmart and a total stranger walked up to me and said, “I agree.” So why did the only voice ringing now belong to my ever-beautiful mother, the timeless Margie Carolyn James, who bragged of still being carded at age forty?
My side still ached enough for me to call off the evening’s kickboxing class. Good thing Kevin was out of town working. He probably would have called me a wimp and dared me to run at least two miles with him. And I probably would have at least attempted to make Kevin eat his words, despite the pain now radiating through my stomach.
After downing a dose of Advil, I trudged to my bedroom, changed into a nightshirt and gently lay across the bed. I didn’t have the energy to answer my landline when it rang. I could only listen for the message.
“Hey, I’m gonna lay over tonight. My flight comes in at seven, I leave out again tomorrow morning at eight. See ya.”
I was hoping that by the time he got home, I would have awakened from a refreshing nap, totally healed and ready to finish up some of the work I’d had to bring home with me in light of the unproductive afternoon I’d endured. Yet when Kevin returned, he found me hunched over the toilet seat again.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? Uuuuck!” The wretching produced another plop of bile into the commode.
“Are you okay?”
“Perfect.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’m pregnant,” I quipped, though the hint of mockery escaped my tone thanks to the reverberating bowl.
“Oh my God, Tori. You’re kidding, right? You know how I feel about kids,” he yelled. “How could you—”
“Stop freaking out. I’m joking.”
He balled up his fist and exhaled into the hole. “Don’t give me a heart attack.”
“I ate some cake today at work and got sick.”
He backed out into the hallway. “Let me know if you need me.”
I rested an elbow on the toilet seat and looked up at Kevin. Six foot one looked even taller from my bathroom floor perspective. His deep sandy skin contrasted perfectly with his ivory teeth and hazel eyes that, according to him, had won over many women back in the day. I wasn’t one of those eye-color crazy girls, but I was definitely a sucker for track star legs, and Kevin had those for miles and miles. Watching him unveil those limbs when he undressed was definitely the greatest benefit of moving into his condo eighteen months earlier. Well, the legs and the free rent. And the sex, when my mind cooperated.
Kevin was the modern, metrosexual type when it came to clothes, but he had some pretty old-fashioned ideas about finances. Who was I to argue with him? He paid the major bills. I handled groceries, the housekeeper, dry cleaning, and all things communication related since I needed high-speed everything for my job. I often wondered if he was being chivalrous or if he never obligated me to a substantial bill because he still thought of the condo as his place.
At first glance, our living quarters still resembled a bachelor pad. Simple furniture, mix-and-match bath towels. Not one picture of us on display, though I had plenty on my computer and stored on my camera waiting to be downloaded someday.
Either way, I’m no fool. Thanks to our financial arrangement, I had a growing stash of rainy-day money I’d earmarked to start my own business after an early retirement.
My stash was chump change compared to Kevin’s anyway. I’d seen a few of his pay stubs lying around the condo from his work in telecommunications sales. Made my college degree seem like a huge scam to keep the masses from getting rich.
Thoughts of my master plan to retire well and get rich later compelled me to hoist myself from the floor to a semistanding position and shuffle back to bed. Sick or well, there was work to be done.
Kevin did check on me, but only by default as he changed into his running clothes.
There went those strong, milk chocolate legs again.
“I’m going for a jog at the track. Might head over to Cameron’s after to watch the game.”
I gave my best big-brown-doe-eyes routine. “But you’re leaving again first thing in the morning. Can’t we spend time together?”
He held up a cross with his fingers. “I don’t want to catch whatever this is you’ve got. You looked pretty distraught in that bathroom there a minute ago.”
“Thanks so much, Kevin.”
“Any time, any time,” he smirked. “I do feel bad for you, if that helps.”
“It doesn’t.”
“You need me to get you anything while I’m out?”
“A new stomach.”
“No can do, babe. How about Pepto-Bismol or Sprite? That’s what my mom gave me when I was sick.”
I scrunched my face. “Didn’t your mom also make you swallow Vicks VapoRub?”
“Yeah,” he supported the madness. “Makes you cough the cold up. Worked every time. If you’re getting a virus, you might want to give it a shot.”
My stomach lurched at the thought. “No. I don’t want anything else coming up out of me tonight. Just ... call and check on me.”
He detoured to my side before walking out of the room. A gentle kiss to my forehead was his first affectionate gesture, despite more than a week’s passing since we’d seen each other last. I suppose it would have been hard for him to kiss me since I was engulfed in the commode earlier. Still, I wanted him to rub my back or something. What I really wanted was for him to stay home and ... I don’t know, watch me suffer. Hover like they do when women are giving birth in those old movies. Put a damp towel on my forehead and encourage me, “You can do it! You can do it, Tori!”
Who was I kidding? Kevin would hire a birthing coach before he’d subject himself to my labor. Not that I’d ever find myself in a position to give birth so long as Kevin stubbornly refused to father a child. I held hope, however, that things would change after a few of his friends settled down. Sometimes guys are the only ones who can convince other guys to grow up. It’s a sick reality.
I decided to put the suffering out of my head for a moment. The Advil had taken the edge off the pain, so I carefully reached onto the floor and pulled my laptop bag onto the bed. The sweet challenge of work carried me into a trance that dulled the pain for a while.
I tapped on the mouse to wake my computer and then resumed toggling between the open programs on my computer desktop, making sure my client’s newsletter matched the updated blog content precisely. Next to update their social media networks with useful information about the company’s new products.
With reviewing several press releases still on my agenda, I really didn’t want to stop working. But the pain in my midsection returned with new vigor, biting into my concentration. I powered down my computer for the night and made my way back to the restroom for another bout with bile and a double dose of Advil. If the pain wasn’t any better by tomorrow, I’d have to miss work so I could visit the doctor.
Kevin rolled in a little after eleven to assess me again. He slipped a hand beneath the comforter and rubbed my backside. “You all right now?”
; “No,” I groaned.
He nibbled on my ear, a sure indication of his intentions. “Mind if I make you feel better?”
“That won’t help.”
“Marvin Gaye says sexual healing is the best thing for you.”
“Marvin Gaye never felt this bad. Besides, I might have germs.”
Kevin tried again, lapping my neck with his tongue. “I don’t care. I miss you.”
Now he doesn’t care about the germs.
His hand moved around to my stomach, warranting a stern rejection. “Kevin, I cannot do this tonight. Move your hand.”
He jumped up from the bed. “Fine. Fine. I understand. I’ll be on the couch.”
CHAPTER 2
“Maybe it’s because you haven’t eaten anything,” my secretary speculated when I told her I felt like I’d been kicked by a horse. “You tried crackers?”
“Yes, but they wouldn’t stay down,” I confessed. Jacquelyn had never seen me so miserable—in fact, no one had ever seen me so miserable because I’d never been so miserable in my whole life. I hurt so bad I was close to crying, which is the only reason I decided not to hang around the office another hour before my eleven o’clock semiappointment with Dr. Lightfoot.
His receptionist had assured me, “You may have to wait a bit when you get here, but we’ll try to work you in as soon as possible.”
I figured if they were going to work me in some way, I might be able to get the ball rolling sooner if I got there earlier. I grabbed my laptop bag and purse, and stopped by Preston’s office on my way out the door. By this point, I was nearly doubled over in pain.
“Tori, can I get someone to take you to the doctor?” he asked. “You really don’t look well.”
Truth be told, I would have preferred a ride. I’d even considered calling Kevin, but if he came home, he probably wouldn’t be able to reschedule his flight and make it to Chicago in time for his next presentation. Still, the logistics of having a coworker take me—leaving my car in the parking lot, getting someone else to pick me up when this was all over—was too much to ask. Plus there was always the possibility I might barf upside someone else’s door panel before they could pull over, like I’d contaminated my car only three hours earlier.
“No, I’ll make it. I’ve got my unfinished work here in my bag, in case I don’t get to come back this afternoon.” I raised the black leather satchel for him to see.
To my surprise, he didn’t seem impressed. Then again, who could really tell with those glasses?
“Well, let us know if you need a day off or something.”
I frowned and shook my head. “Oh, no. I’ll be back at my desk tomorrow for sure. There’s way too much work to be done.”
Now it was Preston’s turn to frown. “Take care, Tori.”
“Okay. See you tomorrow.”
I treaded lightly down the hallway, stabilizing my midsection. Movements were the enemy. Movements and food. Even liquids were suspect.
The beauty-queen wave would have to do as I floated down the hallway saying good-bye to the few coworkers who happened to be looking up from their screens as I passed by. Our gray cubicle partitions definitely prevented outside distractions.
Once down the elevator (which nearly did me in), through the parking lot, and sitting in my shiny red Cadillac SRX mini-SUV with the lovely lingering aroma of throw up, I carefully snapped my seat belt and took off for Dr. Lightfoot’s office. My only saving grace was the weather. February in Houston is still quite cold, thus the odor from this morning’s puke hadn’t been baked in yet. The detail shop would have to work me in, too.
Why are there so many lights? I was down to one hand driving now. The other was practically glued to my midsection, attempting to protect myself from this invading pain. The act itself was impractical because the pain came from inside me, but I couldn’t help myself.
I began to doubt whether I could step out of my car if I ever made it to Dr. Lightfoot’s office. Agony elicited little animal noises from deep within me. Now, I was thankful for the stoplights. They gave me a chance to catch my breath, refocus myself and gain my wits again. I promise you, the road to this office was turning into that long, ever-extending hallway in The Shining.
I think I had maybe two more intersections to go when I decided there was no way I could make it in. I should have taken Preston up on his offer because, at the moment, tears blurred my vision. “Oh my God!” I finally cried out, followed by a long string: “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” And I wasn’t just saying His name jokingly, either. I felt as though I was, maybe, ten minutes from meeting the Big Man Himself if this pain didn’t cease.
Then came this sudden, unquestionable realization that I needed to make a quick right into the hospital’s emergency room, which was directly across the street from the physicians’ offices. I knew I couldn’t sit in Dr. Lightfoot’s office and wait to be seen after someone with a mere stuffy nose. I needed someone to see me stat.
A gloriously close spot opened up just as I was pulling into the emergency room parking lot. Couldn’t have asked for better without being in an ambulance. I swerved between the white lines and parked, waiting for a moment of diminished pain. No such luck. No reprieve in sight.
I opened the car door and found footing on the nice, steady concrete. Now to push myself up and out of the car. I rolled down the window to get a good grip on the door’s frame with my right hand. I’d just grabbed hold of the headrest with my left and was attempting to tilt forward when this band of torture wrapped itself around to my right side and dictated in no uncertain terms: you ain’t goin’ nowhere, Tori!
Yes, Pain has a voice. He sounds like Freddy Krueger and he minces no words. The excruciating fire in my stomach had spread.
“Help!” I whimpered desperately. “Help me!”
The lot was completely void of all human life. Eyeing the building’s glass windows, I saw why no one inside the building had noticed me. The shades were pulled down to block out the high sun. Only the patrons’ legs were visible.
But wait! A little girl. On the floor. I waved my hand and finally managed to lock gazes with her. She gave me a snaggle-toothed smile that, at that moment, was the sweetest vision I’d ever beheld.
I motioned for her to touch the nearest grown-up and get me some help—or at least I thought that’s what I’d motioned. In restrospect, I’m sure I must have looked like I was doing the chicken dance.
The little girl turned away from me and continued playing with some toy on the ground. But a second or two later, she gave me her attention again. This time, I mouthed the word “help” and folded my hands in a pleading gesture.
She laughed, apparently amused. This little girl was not even trying to help me. I had to go mean-church-usher on her. I’d never been so glad that 90 percent of communication is body language. Through gritted teeth and flared nostrils, I ordered her with words I’m sure she couldn’t hear, “Get your momma! Get your momma!” I wagged my finger angrily toward her. “Get her now!”
The child’s face wrinkled with fear and she tapped her mother’s leg, then pointed back at me. Seconds later, the bottom of the blinds lifted and a woman’s face peeked out at me.
“Help me!”
Nurses came scrambling out with a wheelchair. Thankfully, they had the wherewithal to secure my car and grab my purse. I was transported straight to an examination room. They asked me a ton of questions that I couldn’t answer because I was in such agony I couldn’t even think straight anymore. Their faces blurred by tears, their words overshadowed by my wailing. I just wanted them to knock me out and do whatever they had to do.
“Who can we notify for you?”
I cried, “Nobody! I came by myself!”
“Have you taken any drugs, Miss Henderson?”
“No!”
“Is there a possibility that you could be pregnant?”
Home-training aside, I managed to say, “No, no, no to everything, all right? Just help me!”
After c
overing every possible topic—including my insurance—and prolonging my pain to the full extent legally allowable, a doctor finally entered the room. She asked me two questions about my symptoms, had me lie flat on my back, and pressed one area on my stomach that made me want to slap the judge.
I didn’t have to tell her she’d hit the spot.
“Looks like it’s your appendix. We’ll have to operate right away.” She glanced at my chart again and ordered the nurses to prepare me for surgery.
“Miss Henderson,” the pesky nurse drilled me again, “we have to notify someone before we can proceed. Don’t you have anyone we can call? Grandparents? Cousins?”
Surgery? I shook my head violently as, now, a fresh batch of tears spewed from my eyes. These, however, came from a different well. I don’t want to die.
“How about coworkers or a friend or a boyfriend?”
“He won’t answer—he’s on a flight.”
“It doesn’t matter. We can leave a message. We just have to let someone know you’re going under sedation. It’s the law.”
“Kevin Walker.” Then I gave her his number and someone whisked me off for surgery. “And call my job for me, okay?”
“We’ll do that later.”
The last thing I remember was a woman saying, “I’m gonna stick this needle in your arm and you’ll be on your way to la-la land.”
I remember thinking, “Lady, you can stick a needle in my eye if it’ll get me out of this misery.”
DAFINA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2012 by Michelle Stimpson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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