2 Months 'Til Mrs. (2 'Til Series)

by Heather Muzik

Catherine snapped her fingers. That was it—the smell of new; she hadn’t smelled that in her car since the last millennium. But there were more important things to consider right now. “You bought a car?”

  “Pfft, no. This is Nick’s car,” Tara said, like she was being ridiculous.

  “Nick?”

  “From last night.”

  “One ‘date’ and the guy lets you take his car?” Catherine asked, clearly impressed and unnerved all at once.

  “It was a date, Cat, so you can holster your air quotes. And in case you’re implying that I stole the car, I didn’t. I left him a note,” she said simply, as if telling and asking were entirely interchangeable in this situation.

  “What if he calls the cops?” The question a mere notch below screech.

  “He wouldn’t do that…. He is a cop, so if he really had a problem with it—”

  “You took a cop’s car?” Catherine asked incredulously, wondering if Tara’s realm of stupidity knew no bounds.

  “I borrowed his wheels. No big deal. You don’t have to blow everything out of proportion. After we’re done I’ll take it back.”

  “Done doing what?” she asked warily, fearing this car might end up being the least of their worries.

  “I got wind of a sale,” Tara said out the side of her face, eyes on the road, French toast filling the other cheek to bursting.

  “What kind of sale?”

  “A wedding dress sale—brand name designers up to eighty percent off!”

  “Sounds hinky.”

  “Vinnie swears by it. He sends all of his brides there.”

  “He never mentioned anything to me.”

  “Pops up a few times a year. Never the same place twice.”

  “Sounds more like a rave,” Catherine groused.

  “Listen, he called me last night. Told me to get your ass to the river.”

  “Wait a second. Is it at a warehouse on the river?” Catherine asked, startled, remembering the strange text she’d gotten: have what you want—old altap warehouse—sun. 7:30—cash in hand. “That was Vinnie? God, I thought it was a ransom drop that someone sent me by accident.... I almost called the police!”

  “Boy would you have looked like a total idiot when they busted up a wedding dress sample sale.”

  “And are these samples stolen?” she prodded.

  “How should I know!” Tara exclaimed. “And beggars can’t really be choosers, now can they?”

  *****

  “That’s it!” Tara hollered triumphantly, diving through the throbbing crowd of brides-to-be who were all sharp elbows and cutthroat attitudes, reaching for the gown that another woman had just swung out from between a crushing number of dresses along the rod.

  “Excuse me,” the woman said brusquely, clutching the fabric tightly in her manicured grip. Obviously she wasn’t new to this no-holds-barred shopping game, standing there in her perfect jeans and knee-high boots, and her perfect wool coat belted at her perfect waist, with a jaunty plaid hat on her perfect blonde head—all of it probably acquired in hand-to-hand-combat sales. “This is my dress.”

  “It’s still on the rod,” Tara pointed out, obviously not new to this either.

  Catherine, on the other hand, was new to this. She didn’t like to fight for her clothes, would rather pay full retail just to avoid such jousts.

  “I had my hands on it first,” the woman leveled.

  “I had my eyes on it from across the room.”

  “That doesn’t account for anything,” the woman smirked.

  Tara wasn’t one to back down even when she was unquestionably in the wrong—like right now—so Catherine was pretty sure this was about to come to fisticuffs. Not that she wanted to stop her friend—it was an absolutely gorgeous dress (no bad juju at all). But seeing as how she was a complete chickenshit, she was thinking more along the lines of diving under the racks of dresses to hide rather than chance the possibility of ending up tag-teamed into something. Maybe she could just slip out and wait in the alley and hope that Tara won before the cops were called, or maybe she should pull up to the door with the “borrowed” getaway car just in case they needed to make a run for it.

  “Listen, my friend is getting married in a month and she wants nothing more than to be wearing—” Tara flicked the tag hanging from the dress. “—Olaf Cassidy on that day.”

  A wicked smile spread across the woman’s face, one that said Tara had just made a serious misstep.

  “Oh, Olaf Cassidy? … Well, since this is Oleg Cassini, I’m guessing this isn’t what your friend is looking for.”

  Catherine winced, waiting for the first punch, sure the woman was about to take one right in the kisser. But Tara kept her cool. “You don’t understand, my friend has amnesia—no short-term memory at all. She doesn’t even remember the man she’s marrying. The only thing she does remember is the dress she’s dreamed of since she was a little girl. It looks just like this. See? She sent me this picture to find it for her.”

  “You just took that picture from across the room,” the woman said darkly. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  “But my friend feels like she was born yesterday,” Tara said sadly.

  The woman looked past her to Catherine, giving her the once-over.

  “Oh, that’s not her,” Tara said quickly, smelling weakness in Catherine’s improv abilities. “We’re the bridesmaids. She still knows us because we’ve been friends since childhood. But she doesn’t even know her fiancé who she is marrying in a month. She has to relearn everything about the last few years of her life every single morning. Her fiancé made her a tape and everything. She watches it every day to remind herself what happened to her and what is going on in her life. That’s why she can’t be here shopping for her dress, because at this very moment she is watching that tape and learning about the tragic accident that took her memory.”

  “That’s sad,” the woman said, looking from Tara to Catherine. “This friend doesn’t just so happen to be Drew Barrymore, does it?”

  Catherine cringed. Using the plot of a romantic comedy on a woman was dangerous lying territory.

  “Actually, it’s not Drew. You see, Drew’s an actress,” Tara said, enunciating slowly like the woman was an idiot. “I’m friends with the real woman. That movie, Fifty First Dates, was based on my friend’s life. I met Drew during the filming, though. She was really great. Totally down-to-earth. The type who would give up her wedding dress for my friend in a heartbeat,” Tara said with shameless certainty.

  -44-

  Dr. Ficks’ office looked exactly the same as it always had, but the nostalgia didn’t serve her well, transporting her back to memories of being poked and prodded or feeling like absolute crap whenever she was in this place. This time she was no longer the patient though—so then why do I still feel like absolute crap?

  Because in two days flat she’d broken Cara.

  She’d only had permission to take her to New York. To her apartment. To watch her for the weekend. Now here she was in Pennsylvania, at the doctor no less. Could I be accused of kidnapping? What’s the rule about crossing state lines with kids? She should never have taken Cara gallivanting all around New York City and back and forth to her parents’ house…. She should never have taken her out of Nekoyah at all. Drew had capable mothering hands; I’ve got hands with a bad manicure and a tendency to sweat—like they are right now. If Cara had just stayed in Nekoyah, where Fynn and Renée had intended her to be, she probably wouldn’t have gotten an earache at all.

  Catherine had been prone to bad luck all her life—maybe it’s catching. Or this was karma, considering the dishonestly won wedding dress hanging in her childhood closet at this very moment. Or maybe, just maybe, it had nothing to do with her at all. A simple illness Cara had picked up back when someone else was in charge—kids are carriers of all kinds of things; Fynn had said as much.

  Who am I kidding?

  Whoever was to blame for this current state of affairs, Catherine had totall
y panicked when she got back from shopping to find the vibrant Cara she’d left behind had turned into the listless little girl lying on the couch with her head in Elizabeth Hemmings’ lap. Is it a tumor? Will they have to operate? Will there be permanent damage? I can’t send her home deaf! Not that she said any of this out loud. No, on the outside she was struck dumb, entirely unsure what to do, who to call, what degree of responsibility she should admit to if interrogated. But Elizabeth Hemmings knew exactly what to do, her magic fingers calmly stroking through Cara’s little-girl hair, a method that soothed sore throats and earaches and tummy aches into submission and made you feel… loved. Plus, she’d already called Dr. Ficks’ office, and Catherine saw “sick soda” on the coffee table—a glass of flat ginger ale.

  A scrabbling sound on the other side of the door incited a second of terror, a conditioned response Catherine had to being told to strip down and put her feet in the stirrups. But then the door opened and a familiar voice brought her back down to reality—confused reality.

  “Well hello there, what seems to be the trouble?”

  This was definitely not old Dr. Ficks.

  Catherine had seen the man standing before her in various stages of dress and undress—completely naked in fact (no one forgets the sight of her first live penis!)—but to see him robed in a white lab coat? He looked good. Better now even. Mature. Confident. Hardly the boy she’d dumped in front of God and everybody. Certainly not broken down from her slight all those years ago—he was a pediatrician for Christ’s sake! And married, too, judging from the platinum ring on his hand. Actually, she’d heard that news several years ago (must have blocked it out what with her ongoing singlehood). It was all coming back to her now—the busty blonde wife and the kids, too. Sons. Twins in fact. The spitting image of their father.

  “Cat? Catherine Hemmings?” He looked at the patient file in his hands, perplexed.

  “Daniel freakin’ Bell? Dr. Bell?” Surprise was liberally sprinkled in her words to mask the jealousy that was threatening to simmer over the edges as she thought of the nameless, faceless wife who had gotten him and two of the four kids that she’d been certain she would have with him by now. But I didn’t even want him. I dumped him! And why the hell is he here now? In kind old Dr. Ficks’ office—

  “It’s Dr. Daniel, actually.” He pointed toward his nametag. He must have read the confusion on her face because he added, “I’m taking over the practice when Dr. Ficks retires. For now I just fill in on holidays and weekends while he gets used to the idea.”

  Catherine suddenly felt the supreme nakedness of her left hand. Blindsided by her past and she didn’t even have the ring that proved she was happy and engaged! She’d taken it off to moisturize and then forgotten to put it back on. But soft hands were important. They made a statement. Though not as big of a statement as a brilliantly sparkling engagement ring did. Right about now she would give anything to be wearing the proof that she wasn’t a still-unmarried loser but in fact a bona fide, marriageable fiancée—

  But this isn’t about me, she reminded herself.

  “This is Cara,” Catherine said, guiding her out from behind the exam table where she was hiding with her Caramellie dollhouse set that she’d brought with her because her mommy said not to play with the toys in the doctor’s office—the ones the sick kids played with. Renée was obviously a woman after Elizabeth Hemmings’ heart.

  “There’s my patient!” he exclaimed, as if her little invisible routine had really tricked him. His voice was so friendly and caring. The perfect bedside manner. If he were my doctor I would be putty in his hands. He had great hands… and that crooked smile, and the way his—

  “Now, what seems to be the trouble that brings you ladies in to see me today?” He pulled a pen out of his pocket and sat down with the file, all business.

  Catherine hoped he wouldn’t delve too deeply into said file or the sketchy patient information she’d filled out. This process had definitely taught her just how much she didn’t know about Cara, and there was only so much a five-year-old knew about herself. Cara knew what shots were, but what vaccinations she’d had or how many was beyond her—the only thing she knew definitively was she didn’t want them to shoot her today. And further down the form things hadn’t gotten any easier. Catherine didn’t know if Cara had broken any bones before or if she was a normal vaginal birth or what her birth weight or length was… or if she had any allergies. She didn’t know anything it seemed. But the last thing she wanted to do was call Fynn and ask. At the very least she wanted to get the diagnosis before she worried anybody—make sure it wasn’t something she had caused by feeding Cara ancient Pop-Tarts or using a phone book as a booster seat.

  “Her ear is bothering her,” Catherine offered.

  “Why don’t I take a look at that,” Dr. Daniel said. “If I could just have your—” He flipped through the pages of the file uncertainly, then stopped and looked from Cara to Catherine. Under mother it said Renée. And the father field was blank. And there was no place on the patient forms to explain that she was the fiancée of the guardian-to-be of the patient in question. “Could you help Cara up on the table?” he asked, looking conflicted. Any other doctor would probably be inclined to report the situation at this point rather than treating a minor with shady patient information. But of course he knew she wasn’t a kidnapper or anything. Not Catherine Marie Hemmings! They’d dated for a year, which was like forever in teenage years. He probably thinks I’m her nanny—a bad nanny at that.

  Cara pressed up against her side, showing her complete trust, and Catherine would have liked nothing better than to pull her into her lap and hug her, but instead she dutifully picked her up and put her on the exam table, keeping close.

  “You hold her hand and keep her safe while I look in your ear,” he said to Cara, giving her a wink.

  But of course he can wink too. He’s just perfect with his platinum ring and perfect family and all that winking…. Catherine had never been able to wink at all with one of her eyes and could hardly do so with the other. It was like her mind had no synapses that routed to her eyelids. Of course Daniel Bell didn’t know this little tidbit. It wasn’t something she’d shared with him as an awkward teen. Fynn, on the other hand, had known her much less time and knew all about it. Taunted her about it whenever possible—winking one eye and then the other in quick succession, claiming it was a sign that he was gifted. Yeah, he was special all right.

  “How long has she been complaining about it?”

  Catherine shook herself back into the moment. “Just the last few hours….” While I was busy grifting a wedding dress… for my wedding… because I’m getting married. Too bad I had to take the ring off; it’s just so exhausting lugging that rock around.

  “I see….” He pulled out his ear examining tool and flicked on the light—very self-importantly it seemed. He peered in Cara’s ear. “Wow! It’s dark in there,” he cajoled. “And messy. Looks like someone had a party inside.”

  Cara giggled and squirmed slightly.

  “She had no fever, but I gave her some ibuprofen for the pain,” Catherine pointed out; self-importance right back at him. Of course it was actually her mother who had nursed Cara, but she didn’t want to admit that her mommy was taking care of things. Besides, she’d like to think she could have done as much for Cara; give her a few pills. Not that she knew how much to give… or if Cara could swallow them… or if her mom crushed them up and served them in applesauce like she used to do when Catherine was little. I know nothing about being a mom.

  “I see,” he said again. “Well, it looks like she has a mild case of swimmer’s ear.” He turned off the ear-thingy tool and dropped it back in his pocket, walking toward the counter where he’d left her file. “Has she been swimming recently?”

  “In the winter? Of course not,” she said stridently, like just asking her that was implying she was a poor caregiver.

  He looked at her, a bemused expression. “No swimming lessons at the
Y?”

  Catherine felt her face flush with embarrassment and looked to Cara for the answer. Maybe she was taking swimming lessons—indoor lessons. And that would mean this wasn’t something that happened on her watch.

  “I haven’t gone swimming since the summer,” Cara offered, blowing the whole theory right out of the water.

  “No swimming except for in the tub then?” Dr. Daniel asked kindly.

  “I love to swim in the tub,” Cara said. “I can hold my breath for hours.”

  Dr. Daniel chuckled and looked to Catherine. “That sounds about right.”

  “Can you really get swimmer’s ear from the tub?”

  “Any water that gets trapped in the ear can irritate and eventually infect it. I would say she needs to keep her head above water.”

  “Easier said than done,” Catherine said with chagrin.

  He looked at the file again and scratched his head. “So you are Cara’s—”

  “I’m her… um… friend—I’m babysitting.” She stumbled on her words, reaching for the locket at her neck and worrying it along the chain, reminding herself that the man she loved gave her that gift and it didn’t matter what Daniel Bell thought about her situation. “She’s my fiancé’s daughter….” But of course that wasn’t right either. “He’s with her mother right now and I was just looking after her while—” She stopped. There was no way to define this relationship. Not while Cara’s mom was still alive. And she didn’t want the woman to—die already and make it quick so my place can be more cut and dry. What Fynn was doing was noble and good and decent, but when she tried to explain it clinically or on a form or to Daniel Bell it just sounded—

  “She’s going to be my mommy someday,” Cara piped up. “My mommy is really sick and when she dies Cat will be my mommy.” The words sounded so haunting out of such sweet little lips. Not resignation but acceptance.

  Daniel Bell, her high school sweetheart, looked at her, wounded surprise in his eyes. He wasn’t looking at her like she was some kind of freak. He seemed… touched. “Ooh, don’t move… what is that?” He reached toward her.