To the Ends of the Earth

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “Travis?”

  The raw whisper echoed as memories came like ice water.

  She turned on her side and curled around herself. Motionless, she lay without sleeping, her eyes fastened to the black rectangle of the window, straining to see the first hint of dawn.

  NINETEEN

  BY SEVEN-THIRTY Cat was sitting in her car outside Dr. Stone’s office. She knew the office didn’t open until nine, but she didn’t care. She had taken all the silence she could, silence and listening for sounds that didn’t come, footsteps and laughter and Travis’s voice calling her name.

  He’ll think about it and he’ll believe me, Cat told herself again and again. He’ll see that it isn’t his damned money I want. It’s him.

  Just him.

  All he needs is time to get past his surprise and anger. That’s all. A little time. He’ll miss me and he’ll come back to me, hold me, tell me that he—

  “Cathy?”

  Cat started. It took her a moment to focus on Dr. Stone’s dark, neatly tailored suit and her concerned face.

  “Are you all right?” asked the doctor.

  When she didn’t get an answer immediately, she opened the car door and leaned in. Skilled fingers pressed against Cat’s wrist over her pulse.

  “I’m okay, Dr. Stone. Just a little—”

  “—Exhausted,” the doctor finished crisply, taking in Cat’s rumpled shirt and jeans and her stark pallor. “I’ve buried patients who looked better than you do. Can you walk, or should I bring out a wheelchair?”

  Cat started to laugh, then realized Dr. Stone wasn’t joking. “Nausea isn’t my most becoming color,” she explained, trying to smile. “But I can walk just fine.”

  The other woman didn’t smile back. “Have you eaten?”

  “This morning?”

  The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “Let me rephrase that. When was the last time you ate?”

  “Tea and crackers. Yesterday.”

  “And before that?”

  Cat shrugged. “Travis—” Her voice broke over his name. She swallowed and tried again. “I went sailing for a few days. I was seasick, which hadn’t ever happened to me before, not like that. I had a little juice, some tea, toast, half of a milkshake.”

  “How many days?”

  “Sailing?”

  “No. Since you’ve eaten a decent meal.”

  Frowning, Cat tried to remember.

  “Never mind,” the other woman said curtly. “You’ve told me all I need to know.” She pulled keys out of a small leather purse. “Stand up.”

  Under the doctor’s critical eyes, Cat climbed out of the small Toyota. Nausea coiled in her stomach. She let her breath hiss out through her teeth.

  Dr. Stone’s expression softened with rueful sympathy. “Come on. I’ll make you some tea with lots of honey. And you’ll drink every bit of it.”

  When Cat was seated with a steaming mug in her hands, Dr. Stone settled into her comfortable desk chair. Over folded hands she watched her patient sip tentatively at the sweet tea and nibble on the soda crackers she had been given.

  The doctor pulled out a list of the day’s patients and began reviewing folders. When she was finished, she went to the bank of files and pulled out the folder with Cat’s name on the tab. She sat down and began reading, making notes on a pad on her desk.

  After ten minutes Dr. Stone looked up at Cat. The crackers were gone. The tea mug was empty. Cat was either dozing or in a daze.

  “How’s it going?” Dr. Stone asked. “Everything staying down?”

  Blinking, Cat turned and looked at the doctor. She was still queasy, but she thought she could hang on to the meager breakfast. “Yes. Thanks.”

  “How often are you nauseated?”

  “Most of the time, lately.”

  “How often do you vomit?”

  Cat grimaced. “I hate throwing up. But last night, this morning. Yes. Twice. Once while we were sailing.”

  “Are you still spotting?”

  “Yes.”

  “How often?” Dr. Stone asked, her voice calm.

  “All the time, I guess.”

  “How much?”

  “Not much, usually. Not like a real period. This morning, though . . .” Cat’s voice faded.

  “Cramps?” the doctor said neutrally.

  Cat nodded.

  Dr. Stone’s questions continued in a rapid fire that gave Cat no time to weigh her answers. Finally the doctor examined her short, unpolished fingernails, sighed, and looked at the notes she had made.

  “Do you want this pregnancy?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  The doctor’s head snapped up. Cat looked as intense as she sounded.

  “Then I hope you’re stronger than I think you are,” Dr. Stone said bluntly. “Obstetrically speaking, you’re among the worst risks I’ve taken on in my career.”

  Cat’s gray eyes widened in her white face. “What do you mean?”

  “Right now, this instant, your body is doing everything in its power to abort this pregnancy. And frankly, I think your body is wise. It’s a simple survival reflex. You can barely sustain your own physical demands right now. Where on earth will you find the resources to support the additional demands of pregnancy?”

  “But—but pregnancy is natural for a woman.”

  “So is illness. So is death. So is spontaneous abortion. So is birth, health, laughter.” The doctor’s smile was calm and accepting. “We just like some of those things better than others, so we call them natural.”

  Cat closed her eyes and wished she could close her ears as well. “I want this baby.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Dr. Stone said. “All anyone can. The first trimester of pregnancy is always high risk. Much higher risk than we ever suspected before we could determine pregnancy after only a few weeks.”

  Numbly Cat listened, but all she really heard was her own deep need to have this baby.

  “No matter what you do,” the doctor said, “no matter what I do, you must understand that your chance of a successful pregnancy is very, very low.”

  Cat made a stifled sound of pain.

  “Would you rather I lied to you?” Dr. Stone asked gently.

  “I—no.”

  Leaning forward, the doctor took Cat’s tightly clenched hands between her own.

  “Think very carefully about this, Cathy. You aren’t sterile. I suspect your vaginal chemistry was simply too acid for your husband’s sperm to survive. It’s not an uncommon problem, and one that is easily solved.” Dr. Stone smiled. “Obviously you’re quite chemically compatible with at least one man. If this pregnancy doesn’t work out, there will be other chances for you.”

  Cat stared through the doctor. Other chances meant nothing to her. She didn’t want them. She didn’t want just any man’s baby. She wanted a child with tourmaline eyes and tawny hair and a smile to break her heart.

  “I want this baby.”

  There was silence followed by a sigh. “All right. Let’s get you in the stirrups and see what we have to work with.”

  When the examination was over, Dr. Stone took Cat back to the private office. The nurse had arrived, followed shortly by the first of the doctor’s appointments.

  “If your spotting was just a bit heavier,” the doctor said, “our previous discussion would be academic and spontaneous abortion a fact.”

  Cat had to fight to force words past the fear closing her throat. “No! It can’t happen. I want this baby.”

  “I believe you. I’ll call the hospital and tell them to expect you.”

  “Hospital? Unless it comes with a money-back guarantee, I can’t afford it. I’m not insured.”

  When Cat heard her own words, she swallowed and closed her eyes. The hole that had expanded in her dreams was still there.

  Waiting for her.

  Her eyes snapped open. “Never mind. If going to the hospital is the only way to keep this baby, I’ll get the money somehow.”

  When you want the mo
ney, call. The papers will be waiting for you to sign.

  Cat stopped breathing and wanted to scream, but she had no breath.

  “Relax,” Dr. Stone murmured. Gently she rubbed Cat’s cold, clenched hands. “This kind of tension doesn’t do you or the baby any good.”

  “Relax?” She laughed wildly, then stopped, afraid she would scream after all. “How long will I have to stay in the hospital?”

  “As long as it takes. Weeks, surely. Months, possibly.”

  Cat turned white as salt.

  The papers will be waiting for you to sign.

  Signing away her baby to a man who didn’t know how to love.

  “But you won’t be going into the hospital,” the doctor said, watching Cat’s distress. “The more I think about it, the more certain I am that lying in a hospital ward worrying over money would only make things worse. Not to mention exposure to staph infections in your run-down state.”

  Cat’s breath trickled in and out, but not much. She was still reeling over the idea of weeks in a hospital, thousands and thousands of dollars, money that could only be paid by signing away her baby.

  Too bad you didn’t believe the final payment wasn’t marriage. Well, live and learn, kitty cat. I sure as hell have. This time.

  Frowning, Dr. Stone absently tapped her clean nails against a medical folder. “No hospital, but only if you can find someone to take care of you.”

  Deep inside the freezing of her soul, Cat glimpsed a picture of warmth and caring that burned: Travis smiling at her, kissing her, tucking tidbits of food past her lips.

  A shudder went over her, leaving her dizzy. She couldn’t allow herself to think about Travis. At all. She hadn’t the strength.

  “You need regular meals,” Dr. Stone continued. “You must have bed rest until the spotting stops. If it stops.”

  “Can I get up long enough to go to the bathroom or fix a quick meal?” Cat asked.

  The doctor’s nails tapped thoughtfully on the file, weighing alternatives. “The bathroom, yes. The meals, possibly. But who would shop for you? Who would wash your dishes? Who would do your laundry? Who would take care of the house? Who would—”

  “I’ll find someone,” Cat cut in, not wanting to hear more. “I’ll hire someone.”

  Frowning, thinking quickly, Dr. Stone opened Cat’s folder. “You live on the beach, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Stairs?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can’t climb them,” the doctor said bluntly. “You can’t lift anything heavier than a cup of tea. No photography for you, Catherine Cochran.”

  Cat wanted to protest, but didn’t. She wouldn’t risk the baby for a handful of photos, no matter how much she needed money that assignments would bring in.

  “Someone from Home Volunteers will be calling you,” Dr. Stone said, writing quickly. “They’ll bring you one hot meal a day. Drive home and then don’t drive again. Go straight to bed.”

  “All right.”

  The doctor set aside her pen and took Cat’s cold hand between her own. “Think carefully about what you’re doing. You can’t work for a living and you don’t have enough money not to work.”

  “I’ll pay you, no matter—”

  “Don’t irritate me,” the doctor interrupted. “I’m not talking about my fees. I’m talking about living expenses. If you go to bed and stay there for weeks or months, how will you cover your expenses?”

  “I’ll manage. I earn my keep.”

  Dr. Stone winced. “Then please understand this. No matter what you do or don’t do, the odds are overwhelming that you’ll miscarry before the second trimester begins.”

  “No.”

  “Yes,” the doctor said simply, holding Cat’s hand, trying to rub warmth into it. “This isn’t your only chance for a baby. Next time you get pregnant, we’ll talk about happier things, like cranky babies and diaper rash.”

  Cat knew that there wouldn’t be a next time. She wouldn’t trust herself with a man to that extent.

  Fool me once, damn you. Fool me twice, damn me.

  Somewhere, somehow, vulnerability had to stop and survival had to take over. For her that somewhere was here and now, however she could, whatever it took.

  “I’m giving you antinausea pills for a few weeks,” the doctor said, releasing Cat’s hand and writing briskly on a prescription pad.

  “Won’t that hurt the baby?”

  “No. What hurts the baby is not having a strong mother. You can’t build up your strength unless you eat. The nurse will give you some shots before you leave. I’ll visit you once a week unless you need me more often. Any questions?”

  Numb, Cat shook her head.

  Dr. Stone smiled. “There will be. Call me, Cathy. I’m here to help.”

  Cat drove home slowly, thinking only of what must be done. Grocery shopping, opening and closing the garage door, climbing down the stairs to her house, carrying bags of food, putting away the food. She wasn’t supposed to do any of it, yet she had to eat and eat well.

  When she felt like she was drowning in details and the impossibility of what must be done, she forced herself to think of only one thing at a time.

  She would find a way to shore. She always had. She was a very good swimmer.

  Cat turned in to her driveway, looked at the closed garage door, and mentally shrugged. The Toyota’s paint job would just have to suffer exposure to salt air until she could raise and lower the garage door again.

  She let herself out of the car and descended the steps slowly, taking excruciating care. Inside the house two more flights of stairs waited. She had weighed the effort carefully and decided that calling Sharon made more sense than taking on her neighbor’s stairs, which were steeper than her own.

  As soon as Cat reached the phone in her workroom, she called Jason’s mother.

  “Sharon? This is Cathy.”

  “Oh, God. Did Jason miss the school bus?”

  “No.” Cat hesitated. Asking for help was very hard for her, but she had no other choice. “I have a very big favor to ask of you.”

  “Name it,” Sharon said cheerfully.

  Cat spoke in a rush, trying to get it over with. “I have to take it easy for a while. Bed rest. I can’t lift anything, not even a camera.”

  “Cathy! What happened? Did you have a fall?”

  There was real concern in Sharon’s voice. In his own charming fashion, Jason had stitched together the two most important women in his life.

  “A fall?” Cat laughed oddly. “Not the way you mean. I’m pregnant. And I want to stay that way. So it’s bed for me until I stop spotting.”

  “Cathy . . . oh, Cathy, I don’t know whether to congratulate you or cry. Is Travis happy about it?”

  “This is a solo flight.” Her voice was flat, completely colorless. “But congratulate me anyway. I want this baby. I’m going to move heaven and earth to have it.”

  Silence. Then Sharon said, “I’ll do whatever I can. I miscarried twice before I had the twins, and they were born five weeks too soon in spite of all I did.”

  Cat couldn’t think of anything to say. Knowing that Sharon had miscarried both frightened her and made her feel less alone.

  “I’m sorry,” Cat whispered. “I didn’t know.”

  “Women don’t talk about miscarriages. It makes them feel inadequate. Stupid, but there it is. Don’t get caught in that trap, Cathy. Losing a pregnancy is bad enough. Beating yourself up over it can destroy a marriage.”

  “No problem there.”

  Sharon made a funny sound, half laugh, half cry. “Hang up the phone and go to bed. I’ll be over as soon as the baby-sitter arrives, unless there’s something you need right now.”

  “No. I’m fine. Just fine. Thank you, Sharon.”

  “Don’t thank me. If it weren’t for you, Jason and I wouldn’t even be speaking.”

  That evening Cat lay in her bed, watching sunset transform the western sky. Colors flamed up from the horizon, spi
lling molten beauty over the sinuous waves.

  And then she saw the Wind Warrior skimming over the burning sea, ebony strength and beauty following the dying sun into the darkness beyond the horizon.

  Going . . . gone . . .

  Travis sailing into night on the wings of a great black bird, leaving Cat with nothing but the shadow of the sun burning behind her eyes.

  She slept finally, badly, twisting and turning. She awoke in the heart of night, a stifled scream on her lips.

  There was no bed, no house, no earth. Falling. She was falling.

  And there was nothing to hold on to except the hope of dawn.

  Sweating, cold, tangled in covers, Cat lay frozen in place for a long time, afraid to move and risk vertigo again. Beyond the window, darkness stretched from horizon to horizon, unbroken.

  Jason and the dawn arrived at Cat’s house together. She sat up quickly, pulled on the robe Sharon had left over a chair next to the bed, and waited for the boy’s brilliant smile to chase away the last of the nightmare. When he appeared in her bedroom door, he was clutching several packets of instant cocoa and grinning with pride.

  “Mom taught me how to make this,” he said proudly. “You don’t have to do it anymore.”

  He vanished before Cat could answer. She heard sounds from the kitchen, including a crash that had her holding her breath.

  A few minutes later Jason rushed into the bedroom carrying empty mugs and a tray of toast. He put everything on the bedside table and ran back to the kitchen. This time he returned slowly, carrying a pot full of hot cocoa.

  He poured with more determination than grace, but most of the chocolate ended up in the cups. With a flourish, he handed Cat a dripping piece of honey toast and a mug of cocoa.

  She smiled at Jason, thankful that her antinausea pills were working. “Smells and looks delicious. Thank you. You can cook my breakfast anytime.”

  The boy grinned proudly. “I told Mom I could do it alone. Besides,” he said, reaching for a gooey piece of peanut butter toast, “she would have to bring the twins, and only a mother would eat with two screaming babies.”

  There was no tactful way for Cat to disagree with her benefactor. Instead, she took a tentative bite of the toast, half expecting her stomach to rebel. She was relieved when her body accepted the toast without comment.