Loving Mr. Cane: Cane Series #3

by Williams, Shanora

  I tried swallowing, but my throat was so dry, the lump was hard to get down. It wasn’t that I hadn’t heard from him. I had. He’d called several times, but I never answered. It killed me to do it, but I ignored his voicemails and deleted them as soon as the notification popped up that I had one from him. I couldn’t handle hearing his voice because I knew he would say something to make me fold.

  “Look, I have to go,” she said, rushed. “Mom has a meeting in thirty, and I just finished a workout and need to shower. Let me know if you want me to bring you a meal, some ice cream—anything. I’m here for the time being, okay?”

  “Yeah.” I sniffled. “I will. Bye, Lora.”

  “Later, Kandy.”

  I hung up and stared down at my phone for several minutes, then went to my call log, finding Cane’s name. The urge to call was so intense—I felt the anticipation in my heart and at my fingertips—but a knock on the door startled me, and I shut the screen off.

  “Yeah?” I called, and Mom twisted the knob and walked inside. She shut the door behind her and walked over to me.

  “Kandy,” she murmured, sitting next to me. “I’m worried about you, sweetie. You haven’t talked much about what happened. It’s like you’ve been bottling it all in. I see your wound is getting better, and it’s easier for you to walk around the house, but your eyes. God, your eyes.” Her expression was pained as she grabbed my hand and looked me all over. “You’ve lost weight. You have those horrible night terrors, which are understandable, but I can tell you aren’t getting good rest.” She brought her free hand up, running the pad of her thumb on the skin beneath my eye. “Your light is gone, and I don’t know what to do anymore.” Her voice thickened, and then she dropped her head and started sobbing, but I gently brushed her hand away, pressing my ear to her chest.

  “I just need time, Mom. That’s all.”

  “You’ve had quite some time, baby. It’s been three weeks. We should talk more about what happened.”

  I didn’t say anything, but my eyes did widen. I guess I didn’t realize it’d been so long since it happened. It still felt like yesterday.

  “What about…what about the baby?” she whispered, and I frowned then, picking my head back up and looking her straight in the eye.

  “What about it?”

  “You aren’t mourning it?”

  I scoffed. “Wh—I mean, what do you expect from me, Mom? I was stabbed, and I found out from my parents that I was pregnant. Of course I hate that it happened, but with Cane leaving, maybe losing the baby was for the best. I was only six weeks along anyway. It’s not like I had any sort of connection to it.”

  She glared hard at me, her eyes so wide I thought they’d pop right out of her head. “I understand you are hurting, but if you ever say anything like that again, I will slap you straight.”

  I leaned back, looking her over. “I—I didn’t mean it that way—not cruelly. I just meant that—I mean it’s not—”

  “Did you know that I miscarried twice before having you?”

  I swallowed thickly, frowning. “N—no.”

  “Well, I did and the first time was brutal. I didn’t realize what was happening to me because I didn’t even know I was pregnant. I was young and dumb and in college.” She continued staring. “But the second time, I’d graduated and moved to Atlanta with your father, who’d gotten a job at the station early on because he was good friends with the Sheriff.” She sucked in a sharp breath. “We were living in a one-bedroom apartment with a little money saved up, we were married, and wanted to start trying. I remember taking a test and finding out that I was pregnant, and your father and I were so, so happy. But then a few weeks passed and I woke up in a puddle of my own blood.”

  “Oh my God, Mom. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you—”

  She held a hand up, stopping me mid-sentence. “Your dad was home and he rushed me to the hospital, but it was too late. I didn’t want to try anymore after that, so I focused on my career instead. Little did I know that by asking several members of our family about it, miscarriages seem to run deep in the women in our family. Your Nana miscarried four times before having me. That’s why I am an only child. I miscarried twice. I prayed that it wouldn’t pass down to you—that your father’s genes would be a lot stronger—but with that stabbing, who knows what will happen. That’s why I think you need to go and get another check-up—see if they can run tests. I know having a baby is the last thing on your mind right now, but it’ll make me feel better if I know you can at least try in the future without suffering like I did.”

  I nodded, lowering my line of sight.

  She tipped my chin back up, making our eyes connect again. “When I was pregnant with you, I bled. I bled a lot, actually. But I was smarter. Instead of breaking down like before, I threw on some pads and rushed myself to the hospital. They checked me in, and thank God I did that because if I hadn’t driven there myself, I would have lost you. You, Kandy.” A tear escaped her but she forced a smile. “I love you so, so much, baby. I love you more than anything on this earth, and I only want what’s best for you. Okay?”

  My eyes prickled with heat. “Okay,” I whispered.

  “I know you want to see him,” she murmured.

  I looked into her eyes. “I do…but I know I shouldn’t.”

  Her lips pressed a moment. “I overheard you on the phone,” she confessed, looking apologetic. “Your father would hate that I’m saying this, but if he’s leaving or whatever he’s doing, that means he won’t be here as much. I think you should at least talk to him one last time, settle the tension. But you can only do so if you agree to let me have you checked thoroughly by a professional. I know this great doctor who works uptown. He’s very thorough and honest.”

  I nodded rapidly. “Yeah, Mom. Okay. I’ll do it.”

  “Good.” She leaned in to kiss my forehead. “Now get some rest.” Standing up, she turned and made her way to the door. Before she could leave, I called after her. “Yeah, sweetie?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me Kelly had been caught?”

  My question clearly took her off guard. She thought on it for a beat, and then answered, “Because it wasn’t the right time, and the last thing I want is to talk about the bitch haunting my daughter’s nightmares.”

  I blinked my tears away, nodding. When she was gone, I laid down and cried myself to sleep.

  Tomorrow would be a new day, and I refused to let the tears keep taking over me. I had to get over what had happened—I had to be stronger. Kelly was caught now, which meant she couldn’t come looking for me, trying to threaten me again. I needed to get better, not only for myself, but for my parents too.

  Chapter Seven

  KANDY

  The doctor Mom took me to see was Dr. Bhandari. He was short and quite thin, with a great head of black hair and pearly white teeth— I’m certain those teeth were veneers. With his sable skin, bright brown eyes, and strong accent, I safely assumed he was Indian.

  I’d peed in a cup, had blood drawn, and was even offered a complimentary lollipop all in the span of forty-five minutes. I rolled the stick of the lollipop between my fingers, the wrapper still intact, and couldn’t help thinking how the old Kandy would have been eager to eat it.

  “Okay, Kandy. Would you be so kind as to get on the table for me?” Dr. Bhandari stood from his chair, gesturing to the exam bed in front of him. “I’m going to perform an ultrasound, see how everything’s looking for you.”

  I placed the lollipop on the counter beside me and then glanced at Mom, who was sitting in the chair on the opposite side of me. I climbed onto the bed and laid flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling. There was a design on the ceiling, made of starfish and koi fish. It was soothing.

  Dr. Bhandari’s assistant came into the office, moving things around and starting up the ultrasound machine while he shrugged out of his jacket, washed his hands, and then put on a pair of latex gloves.

  “Okay. Are you comfortable?” he asked, hov
ering over me. I nodded. “Good. Okay, so just do me a favor and lift your shirt and lower your pants just a little so that I can apply the gel to your pelvis.”

  I did as told, and his assistant came up right away to tuck what looked like a napkin in my pants. “This is so your pants don’t get any gel on them,” she said.

  I smiled at her before she stepped away.

  “Okay, machine is up and running, and here we go with the gel.” Dr. Bhandari smiled warmly at me as he grabbed a clear container with blue gel inside it. He poured some onto my belly and then brought the ultrasound wand down, running it over my pelvis. He ran over my wound several times, but luckily my stitches had dissolved. It was mostly tender to the touch now, but he was careful.

  Dr. Bhandari’s eyes squinted, even behind his glasses, as he moved the wand with his right hand and used his left to capture pictures on the computer. His chitter-chatter had come to a stop at this point, and that alone made me nervous.

  “Everything looking okay?” Mom asked anxiously, sitting forward in her chair.

  “Uh…hmm…” Bhandari lowered the wand. “Kandy, I’m going to press on the wound just a little bit to get a better shot, okay?”

  I nodded. “Kay.”

  He pressed down and a sharp pain shot through the area, but I closed my eyes and breathed as evenly as possible. He took several pictures on the computer, and when he finally let up, I released a steady breath.

  “Okay. All done.” He placed the wand down, and the nurse stepped up, wiping the gel off my stomach with a warm rag. When it was all gone, she took the napkin-looking thing that was tucked in my pants and tossed it, then smiled warily at me before leaving the room.

  Dr. Bhandari sat down in front of the computer, going through the images. I looked at Mom, but her eyes were cloudy, full of worry. I was worried too, especially when he took off his glasses and swiped a hand over his forehead. “I, uh…Kandy. The doctors told you that the stabbing punctured your uterus, correct?”

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Well, I don’t think they realize how deep that knife actually went.” He used the mouse of the computer to draw a circle around something on the screen. “See that dark little area right there?”

  I nodded.

  “That is your uterus. The knife wound went so deep that it hit the lining of it, almost where the egg had originally implanted itself. From what I am seeing, you would have been fine to carry the baby, but with the stabbing, and how it punctured, there’s a chance that every pregnancy could lead to a miscarriage, or quite possibly that you may not get pregnant at all ever again.”

  “Wh—what do you mean? Won’t the wound heal?” I asked, panicked.

  “There is a possibility that with time, it will heal. We can always perform surgery, see if closing that wound from the inside will help, but that can lead to even higher risks and more unnecessary complications. I personally would not advise the surgery, but as your doctor I must tell you every option possible. The thing is, this isn’t like a C-section, where doctors cut in the correct place so the child can be delivered and so the mother can heal properly. This cut is jagged and in an awkward spot.”

  Okay,” Mom breathed. I looked over and saw tears brimming at the rims of her eyes. “B-but her eggs and everything else is fine?”

  “Yes, her eggs are okay. When we ran the tests, the count was standard. It’s just a matter of carrying a child that concerns me.” Dr. Bhandari looked at me. “What I am trying to say, Kandy, is that your uterus is not as strong as it once was. It could take years for that wound to heal, and even if it does, the lining has been damaged. It will be hard for a fertilized eggs to stay attached, which could result in either never getting pregnant, or getting pregnant, but the egg not being able to securely attach to the uterine wall, which in turn results in miscarrying.”

  The information was hitting me hard, but all of my words had been lost. Mom stood and came to my side to rub my shoulder, still listening to him go on.

  “I never like to say never. There are always possibilities, and there is always hope,” he went on.

  “So… what would you suggest she does?”

  “I would suggest resting the uterus. I don’t recommend birth control or even sexual activity at this point, as your uterus is still healing, but in two to three weeks, you should be okay to do those activities again. I’m just adding time here, just to make sure you heal properly because everything seems okay, and you’ve stopped bleeding. I can recommend some vitamins that are good for healing. Perhaps walking a bit more, stretching, staying active…” Dr. Bhandari was still talking, but his words became a buzz.

  I remembered the stages of grief—how once I was angry, but now I wanted to bargain. I so badly wanted to climb off that bed, drop to my knees, and pray that the doctor was wrong. I instantly regretted dismissing the child that had become attached to me. I’d lost that baby, and would probably never get the chance to have another. I was so young. So, so young. There was no way I couldn’t carry a child.

  Ever since I was playing with baby dolls, I knew I wanted to have two kids—a boy and a girl. I wanted to have a nice, quaint, elegant wedding, and grow as a family in a two-story home. I wanted to paint my daughter’s room a sherbet orange because pink was too cliché, and I’d paint my son’s room green, because blue was just as basic…but now he was telling me that none of that would be able to happen. Sure, there was always adoption, but I never, ever thought it would have to come down to that for me.

  Mom and Bhandari kept talking as my vision blurred, and even though the next stage had already hit me before, it hit me even harder in this moment. The next stage is depression. It’s lethal and ugly and can attack anyone.

  I don’t know when they’d wrapped up on their conversation. I went with the motions. Mom walked with her arm hooked through mine to get to the car. She helped me get inside, too, and when I got in, I could only stare through the windshield. She was talking, telling me everything would be okay, and that I still had a young body with plenty of time to heal…but she didn’t know that.

  There was hope, yes, but I heard the percentage. There was an 85 percent chance that if I tried to have a kid, I would lose it. Not that having babies was high on my to-do list at the moment, but knowing that I likely would never have one changed everything. It meant the life I’d dreamed of wouldn’t be mine. It would change my personality, my life. I was too young to want to try…but it was all I could think to do, just to see if I could. I now had to live my life in this paralyzing fear that if I ever got married one day and we wanted to start a family, that there was an 85 percent chance that I would not be able to. The other 15 percent felt meaningless.

  To my surprise, I didn’t cry when I got home. I took more pills to ease the minimal pain of my wound and they knocked me out cold. Mom said I’d slept a total of 14 hours that day, and that it was the calmest I’d slept since the incident. No screaming. No whimpering. I don’t even think I dreamed.

  The next two days, I tried remaining numb to the feeling, but all I kept wondering was—why? Why did all of this have to happen to me? Why was so much stacking up against me? I had reason to believe I was a good person. I was nice, had manners and respect, was raised by two loving parents, both of whom were also good people. Yes, I’d made mistakes, but what human hasn’t? I was still young, still learning, and life wasn’t being fair to me at all.

  Curled up in my recliner, I stared out of my window, watching the wind yank fresh leaves off the tree in front of my house. It was gray outside, the sky so hazy I couldn’t even figure out where the sun was. I heard Mom in the kitchen, pans and pots clattering and silverware scraping. She was most likely cleaning.

  I didn’t care.

  I didn’t care about a lot of things.

  I didn’t care that I hadn’t showered in days. I didn’t care that the world was still spinning, that I was lucky to be alive. I wasn’t living.

  I sat in that chair, slept in it—lived in it for three whole
days. Food was brought up, of course, but I didn’t budge and neither did Mom. She understood my grief, I suppose.

  “I know it’s hard,” she whispered one day, caressing my hair, “but you are strong, baby. God didn’t raise us to be weak.”

  Those words went in one ear and right back out the other, but the next set didn’t.

  “I called Frankie a few days ago,” she murmured. “Told her everything that’s happened. She’s in town. Wants to see you.”

  I perked up then, turning my head and peering up at her. “Tell her she can come by.”

  Mom smiled and relief shimmered in her eyes. “Okay.”

  She took off instantly, as if she were afraid I’d change my mind at the last minute, but I wouldn’t. I think what I needed was Frankie. Someone who I knew wouldn’t judge me for anything I’d done. A friend who would see both sides of the story and tell me what to really do.

  An hour later, there was a knock on my bedroom door.

  My best friend walked into the room, and of course her smile was sympathetic. She shut the door behind her with one hand and in the other she had a plastic bag. “Hey, K.J,” she said softly, like I was some lost, fragile child.

  “Hey, Frank.” I had finally made a move and got out of the recliner to sit on my bed with my back against the headboard. Frankie came toward me and dropped the bag on the bed. She looked me all over, but I pulled my eyes away before she could find them.

  “I brought some of your favorites.” Her voice was hopeful, cheerful. She opened the plastic bag and dug out a bottle of Mountain Dew, our favorite brand of gummy worms, and even had my favorite cheese puff chips. I couldn’t help smiling as she dangled the gummy worms in my face. “I’ll let you have all the green ones.”

  I huffed a laugh, grabbing the pack and tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “When’s the last time you washed that nest anyway?” she asked, and when I looked up, of course she was focused on my hair.