Nearlyweds

by Beth Kendrick

  As we approached the drugstore, I remembered I’d used up the last of Casey’s conditioner in the shower that morning. “Hey, can you wait here for a second? I have to run in and grab a few things.”

  “Sure.” She bent down to pry open the dog’s mouth and extract out a candy wrapper he’d managed to snarf up. “Meet you at the park around the corner.”

  “Be there in five minutes.” I hurried into the store and cruised past the displays of seasonal candy and holiday cards to the hair-care aisle. While I scanned the shampoo labels and tried to ignore the falsetto, boy-band rendition of “Little Drummer Boy” blaring through the sound system, I told myself that I didn’t care about spending Christmas alone. So my marriage was spiraling down in flames. So my family was on the other side of the continent. December 25 was just another day on the calendar, just another block of twenty-four hours on the long, slow, inevitable march toward death.

  I was fine with it, really. No seasonal depression here.

  “Dr. Maye!”

  I came face-to-face with the only thing that could make this afternoon worse: Kelly Fendt.

  “Hi!” I tried to sound as friendly as possible, given the fact that she’d threatened a lawsuit last time I’d seen her. “How are you?”

  “Fine. Just picking up a few little stocking stuffers.” She was pushing Carter along in a top-of-the-line stroller with tires that looked rugged enough to scale Everest. “I heard about you and your husband; how are you holding up?”

  News of the breakup had swept through town like an arctic cold front, aided by Renée and her bridge buddies, who had concocted a grossly distorted version of events. “I’m okay,” I said. “Thanks for your concern.”

  “I can’t imagine how hard it must be, bumping into your ex everywhere you go.” She leaned forward, hungry for scandal.

  “Actually, I might move back to Boston, so that won’t be an issue.”

  “You are?” She reached down to wrestle a can of mousse out of Carter’s chubby little fist. “But you can’t! Who’s going to take care of my baby?”

  “Dr. Lowell’s a top-notch pediatrician.”

  “But he’s not you!” What happened to all the hand-wringing and the accusations of criminal negligence? “He doesn’t know Carter the way you do. He doesn’t listen the way you do.”

  He doesn’t cave in and take your hysterical, middle-of-the-night pages the way I do.

  “You’ll be in very good hands,” I promised her. “And if you’re that worried, I can give you the name of—”

  “Well, since you’re here right now, would you mind taking a quick peek at Carter? He’s developed a rash over the past day or so, and I just know it’s something awful.”

  I glanced at my watch. “Mrs. Fendt, I’m sure he’s fine.”

  She angled the stroller, blocking my escape route. “Oh, can’t you just look? Pretty please? Just to give me peace of mind?”

  “I really can’t do an exam in the drugstore—”

  “I promise I’ll make an appointment next time.” She held up her hand, as if swearing on the Bible. “I know you think I’m ridiculous, but I’m begging you. Just look at his hands.”

  Ridiculous was right. But apparently, she planned to hold me captive in the shampoo aisle until I obeyed, so I knelt down and took Carter’s hand in mine, carefully turning it palm side up. Given the previous allegations of whooping cough and appendicitis, I was expecting the rash to turn out to be nothing more than chapped skin, but to my surprise, little bright red spots dotted the toddler’s palm and wrist.

  “See?” Kelly sounded triumphant. “A rash! Looks like someone pricked him all over with a pin, poor baby.”

  I frowned down at the red dots, then rested the back of my hand against Carter’s forehead. He giggled, spewing graham cracker crumbs on my pants. “Has he been running a fever?”

  “No.”

  “Has he lost any weight? Has he been acting listless?” I asked, as Carter amused himself by trying to bite my fingers.

  “No, he’s been bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. It’s all I can do to keep up with him.” She peered down over my shoulder. “There was one weird thing, though. He got a bruise on his shoulder yesterday when his grandma picked him up. He bumped up against her glasses—barely touched them—and look.” She picked Carter out of the stroller, peeled off his fleecy orange anorak, and tugged down the neckline of his sweatshirt to reveal a large, purple bruise. “I’ve never seen him bruise like that.”

  I turned my attention back to the rash, pressing my finger down against the child’s wrist to see if the skin would blanch under pressure. The dots remained bright red. “Hmm. Carter was in my office a few weeks ago, right? With the flu?”

  “Yes.” Kelly looked chagrined. “And I know I might have overreacted, Dr. Maye, but I swear this time is different.”

  “Well, I’m not—”

  “I swear!” She pulled Carter up against her chest and rocked him. “I’m not freaking out over nothing this time!”

  I got to my feet and touched her coat sleeve. “You’re right.”

  “I am?” Her expression oscillated between victorious and horrified. “Oh my God, what’s wrong with him? Is it measles? Is it smallpox?”

  “I can’t be sure, obviously, without doing some bloodwork, but those red spots look like petechiae. Between those and the bruising, I’d suspect a blood problem called ITP—basically, an abnormally low platelet count.”

  Kelly sagged against the shelf. “He’s got a blood disorder?”

  “Maybe,” I emphasized. “And don’t worry, almost all kids with this bounce back to normal in a few months. ITP sometimes shows up in children who have recently gotten over a cold or stomach bug, and when their bodies make antibodies to fight off the infection, the antibodies cross-react with the antigens in the blood platelets.”

  “But…what does that mean?” Kelly grabbed my hand and squeezed until my fingers went numb. “Why him? What do I do now?”

  “Go to the ER and ask to speak with a hematologist. They should run a CBC with a differential.” I pulled my cell phone out of my tote bag. “Here, I’ll call ahead and talk to the ER attending.”

  “My baby.” Kelly handed Carter over to me as if I were going to personally walk him down to the hospital. “My baby.”

  “He’ll be fine, Mrs. Fendt.” I strapped Carter back into the stroller and smiled confidently. “Everything will be fine. Go get him checked out, and call me tomorrow if you have questions.” I surprised myself by leaning over to give her a hug. “Don’t worry. I know you’re scared, but he’ll be fine.”

  “But…” She spread her arms out. “He’s my whole world.”

  “I know,” I said. “You’re doing a good job. He’s happy, he’s healthy, he’s got a great mom who loves him.”

  Kelly blinked back tears even as she smiled. “That’s true. No one else could possibly love him as much as I do. No one.”

  I felt a pang of empathy for Carter’s future wife, whoever she might be. And then I had a flash of sympathy for Kelly herself. She was right—no one else would be able to love her son the way she did. Maternal love might get a little crazy sometimes, but it was the purest, strongest human bond. Kelly would have to stand on the sidelines and try to hold her tongue while her son made mistakes and got hurt and fell in love with women who might not always treat him well. I wondered if that was how Renée had felt when David had married me—as if her whole world had been walking down the aisle in a tuxedo, leaving her behind. The thought was almost enough to make me feel sorry for my mother-in-law.

  Almost.

  22

  STELLA

  Want to order Chinese?” I asked Erin on Thursday night as we sacked out on the new sofa Mark had bought to replace the one Cash had mangled.

  “Eh.” She didn’t look away from the gritty detective drama on the television. “Not hungry.”

  “But you have to eat.” I used my sternest nanny tone. “You’ve lost like five pounds this wee
k.”

  “Good.” She stuck out her bottom lip stubbornly. “The divorce diet. I’ll be nice and slim when I start dating again.”

  “You’re going to get sick,” I warned. “You’re eating dinner whether you like it or not, so you better decide what you want.”

  “I told you, I’m not hungry.”

  “Okay, imagine I put a gun to your head and told you I’d kill you if you didn’t eat something. What would you eat?”

  She smirked. “I’d grab the gun out of your hand and tell you I’d kill you if you didn’t stop harassing me.”

  “Erin.”

  “Okay, fine, I’ll have some cereal if it’ll get you off my back.”

  “Cereal is not a meal,” I said primly.

  “You’re pushing your luck,” she said, reaching down to scratch Cash’s exposed belly.

  “Fine.” I headed to the pantry, found an unopened box of Special K, and poured some into a bowl. “But I’m getting Chinese.”

  “Bully for you.” Erin stretched her arms over her head and yawned. “Where’s Mark, anyway?”

  “Still at the hospital.”

  “And the big doctor’s appointment is Monday?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Dr. Saris in Eastover. Mark says he’s the best urologist around here, and if he doesn’t work out, we’ll go to New York.”

  “Full speed ahead, huh?”

  I nodded. “We’re making it legal, too. I’m meeting him at the courthouse tomorrow after I get off work.” Despite Mark’s assurances that he could provide for me and any children that we might have, I had decided to go ahead and accept a part-time job at a highly rated preschool run out of a local church. I missed working with kids and besides, I thought this would be a good way to get involved in the community. Now that Erin was threatening to relocate to Boston, Casey would be my only friend in Alden, and between her store and her seesawing relationship with Nick, she didn’t have a lot of time to socialize right now.

  “You’re starting a new job on a Friday?” Erin asked.

  “Yeah. I was supposed to start Monday, but the girl who’s leaving came down with strep throat, so they asked me to start tomorrow instead.”

  “Well, take some vitamin C before you go in—those kids are riddled with germs,” she advised.

  “Hey, look who’s handing out nutrition advice. The woman who won’t eat.”

  She spooned up some cereal and crunched furiously to prove me wrong.

  “So what do you think I should wear to the courthouse tomorrow?” I asked. “I have a cream wool suit, but I’m worried that would be cheesy.”

  “It’s only cheesy if you wear it with white fishnets and a blusher veil.”

  “Okay, but do you think I could get away with carrying a bouquet?” I asked. “Nothing over the top, just a few stems of lily of the valley. For good luck.”

  “I think you should wear and carry whatever you want,” Erin said firmly. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to celebrate remarrying—or marrying, whatever, you know what I mean—your husband.”

  I got carried away in the moment and asked, “Do you want to come and be a witness? You can sign our marriage certificate and…” I trailed off when I saw her expression. “Sorry. That was totally insensitive.”

  She set aside the cereal she’d just started to eat. “I appreciate the thought, I do, but I don’t think I can handle any more weddings for a while.”

  The doorbell rang, and Cash leapt to his feet and barked.

  “Who’s that?” Erin yelled.

  I shrugged. “I have no clue. Unless the delivery guy at the Chinese place is psychic.”

  Erin grabbed the dog’s collar while I peeked through the glass pane on the side of the front door.

  The man on my doorstep looked like a Tommy Hilfiger model: tall and blonde, with a very cute butt evident under his jeans. I didn’t recognize him until he turned his face toward me.

  “It’s Nick!” I turned to Erin for guidance.

  She stopped short. “Nick as in Casey’s husband Nick?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Well, what is he doing here?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “What does he want?”

  I glanced back toward the doorstep, where Nick was starting to look a little impatient. “Beats me.”

  “We can’t talk to him,” Erin decided. “It violates the girlfriend code of ethics.”

  “Well, he knows we’re in here. We can’t just leave him out there.”

  “Sure we can. Casey would want it that way.”

  Nick rapped on the window and pantomimed turning the doorknob.

  “Can’t we just see what he wants?” I asked.

  “If you insist.” Erin planted a hand on her hip. “But this better be good.”

  I put on a stony expression before opening the door. “Can I help you?”

  “Hey.” Nick scuffed his feet on the ridged black mat on the stoop, shaking the snow off his hiking boots. “Is Casey here?”

  “Nope,” I said. “Sorry.”

  He turned to Erin. “I went to your house first, but David wasn’t home and his mom said you had probably run off to Vegas with a snake oil salesman, whatever the hell that is.”

  “Nice.” You could practically see the smoke coming out of Erin’s ears. “Did she also tell you that she eviscerated my marriage and left it to bleed to death?”

  “Uh, no.” Nick quickly diverted his attention to me. “But I know Casey’s been hanging out with you a lot lately, and she said you and Mark had gotten back together—congratulations, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” I murmured.

  “So I hoped she’d be here.”

  “She’s at a movie with her sister and nephews.” Erin stepped up next to me, still hanging on to Cash, who wriggled frantically in an attempt to greet the visitor. “We’ll tell her you stopped by.”

  “Wait.” Nick wedged his boot into the foyer before Erin could close the door all the way. “Please.”

  “You’re a pushy one, aren’t you?” Erin gave him her snottiest Ivy League stare. “Cash, sic ’im.”

  But Cash failed miserably as an attack dog. He leapt into Nick’s arms as if they were long-lost war buddies.

  “Oof. Friendly dog.” Nick gently set Cash down, then mopped off his face with his coat sleeve.

  Erin barged back into the conversation, her tone icy. “Speaking of dogs…why are you here?”

  Nick flinched. “I guess I deserve that.”

  “Yes, you do.” Erin was just getting warmed up. “You might think you’re too good for her, but let me tell you something, pal—”

  “Erin.” I cleared my throat. “Calm down. Let’s just hear what he has to say.”

  “I will not calm down!” Her voice broke. “I am sick of these men who think they can do whatever they want and don’t care who they hurt.” She burst into tears and ran for the guest bathroom. Cash followed her and scratched at the door until she let him in with her.

  The click of the lock echoed through the foyer, followed by muffled sobs and sympathetic canine whining.

  “Sorry,” I whispered, leading Nick toward the kitchen. “She’s had a rough week. We all have. Try not to take it personally.”

  “Oh, I’d say it’s pretty personal.” He nodded as I offered him a cup of the French Roast brewing in the coffeemaker. “And she’s right. I haven’t exactly been Husband of the Year.”

  “Well, I wish I could help you, but Casey’s not here.”

  “Out with her sister, huh?” He rubbed his chin. “That’s new. Since when does she hang out with Tanya?”

  “You’d really need to ask her. I don’t know all the details, and I don’t want to get in the middle of her marriage—”

  “That’s the problem!” He put the mug down on the counter and appealed to me with outstretched hands. “There’s nothing to get in the middle of. She won’t take my calls, she won’t let me in the apartment—it’s like I don’t even exist. I ran into her a
t the grocery store last night, and she looked right through me.” He seemed on the verge of tearing his hair out. “I want this to work; I’ll do anything!”

  “Well, if I see her, I’ll tell her you stopped by.”

  He hung his head. “So you won’t help me?”

  “Help you what?”

  “Win her back.”

  “No, I don’t think it’s a good idea to get involved.”

  “But I can’t live like this.” He hitched up his jeans to prove his point. “I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I’m falling apart.” He froze when he noticed my face. “What?”

  “Nothing.” I coughed.

  “No, go ahead. I can take it. What?”

  I rested the back of my head against the cabinet. “Maybe you need to stop thinking about how you feel about this and start thinking about how she feels.”

  “But how am I supposed to know how she feels when she won’t even look at me?”

  Boys. Honestly. “That whole not looking at you thing? That’s a clue.”

  “Well, she’s pissed, I get that, but—”

  “Why do you think she locked you out of the apartment?”

  He wrinkled up his forehead. “Besides being pissed?”

  “Yes. What do you think put her over the edge from being annoyed to changing the locks and pretending you were never born?”

  “Is this a trick question?”

  “No, Nick.” I couldn’t keep the exasperation out of my voice. “She gave up hope. She accepted the fact that you’re never going to love her the way she needs to be loved.”

  “Because I went to Detroit for Thanksgiving?”

  “No. Although that was a pretty dickhead move. It’s what you did after Thanksgiving.”

  “But all I said was—”

  “She wants you to notice her.”