Doc raised his hand, after listening patiently to her diatribe. He’d regained his composure since his tumble in the exam room. His colour had returned to normal and the gel on his suit had mostly dried and was barely visible.
“Listen, Bexy,” he said with an air of irritating calm. “No need to get your girdle in a knot here. The bottom line is this. Mary’s nurse is on the mainland for God knows how long. I know you’re good with kids and good with young women—you did those sexual disease sessions with the high school, and those kids, they really took to you. I knew Mary here would feel better with a woman in the room. I’m just a big man and I can be scary to someone who’s already confused. Her body’s changing, and the girl, she plum don’t know why.”
He let out an exhale of fatigue. “So I asked you by to help with this. Usually Annie’s with me for the girl’s weeklies. It’s only right that I have a woman in the room here with us. I intend to do right by the girl, but having someone we both trust here is not a bad idea, in the least. She’s not under age, but, well, you see my point. Honest-to-Betsy, I assure you, I did not see a stillbirth on that monitor—”
Bexy interrupted him. “Then what did you see—?”
“I saw—now listen. Here’s the thing, Bexy. It was one of two people who did this to the girl. She apparently took a ride from some tourists on King’s North Road up by Neckline Beach sometime in late August. And we thought it might’a been this kid from the mainland, but it turns out that’s not the case. There was an uproar over this one so…we sent blood vials to the mainland for an HLA of the white cells—the baby and a whole bunch of teens Chief Birkhead brought in. Eighty per cent sure it wasn’t any one that we pegged down and no one Mary knew. Long story short, it wasn’t this boy from the mainland either. So it most likely was some random tourist, and if it was, he would have fled like a bird heading south for winter. You can attest, that in the right light, Mary Smithson is a, well, she’s an attractive gal. And the sort of man who’d want to leave a young lady to fend for herself with a nine-month gift, well, he’s not the sort who would care where her intelligence quotient falls on the scale, am I right?
“The long and the short is, we don’t know who took advantage of her. And it doesn’t rightly matter. The trouble I’m having now is that I tested her in late August. Here we are in early January.”
Bexy had regained her composure. “So—?”
“So,” Doc said, glancing over the counter at Mary who was transfixed by whatever the Hardy Boys were doing on the television set. “That was four and a half months ago. The fetus is showing measurements for a two and a half-month stretch of development. The books are very clear on this—”
Bexy narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m no medical doctor but that doesn’t seem outrageous to me. She’s, well, she’s touched in the head. It makes sense that her child might be...delayed.”
“It does, I mean, it could,” Doc said. “But even kids with Down’s, even kids with all manner of developmental delays, they usually match the targets—or at least the averages—at each stage of fetal growth. Mary’s isn’t. Now, the child isn’t suffering. I see no indication of abnormal placental development. The growth is normal, it’s just months behind where it should be. You can see from here. She has almost no belly. My equipment all says the same thing: she’s behind.”
Bexy cocked an eyebrow and a half-smile at that. “Your equipment,” she said.
“Okay, okay, bad way to put that,” Doc said. “Don’t gimme that look. I can be a dirty old man but I haven’t been able to do what was done to her in...decades. If ever, according to some.”
Bexy swallowed a teaspoon of guilt. She’d just meant to poke him playfully, not drag up what might be painful baggage: that he and Agnes had tried, once upon a time. Tried and failed. Maybe repeatedly.
And, certainly, she’d never meant to imply the doc had gifted Mary with this.
“I’m sorry,” Bexy said.
Doc patted her hand. “Don’t be. Was a long, long time gone by now.”
“So, I guess, I have to ask again,” Bexy said, layering her hands on his. “What did you see on that screen that made you reach out and pull a knife on the devil?”
Doc looked down at his own lap. He took his hand from Bexy’s and rubbed his dry palms, preparing to say it.
“I thought I saw...I thought it was, teeth. And long...fingernails.”
Bexy swallowed hard on that. She didn’t really remember what the doctors told her years ago when Tina was still in her uterus. Did unborn babies have those yet?
Doc looked back up at her. His face was heavy with weight and lacked colour, the complete opposite of how he’d looked when he’d fallen to the floor in the exam room. “Lord a’mighty, God above,” he said. “I must be too tired, but it looked like that little baby in there turned and opened its eyes. Bexy, oh, Bexy. It looked right at me.”
6.
Bexy grudgingly agreed to stay with Mary at her home for a few days. “Just until this Annie comes back from her trip to the mainland,” she said to the Doc. “That’s it, that’s all. I can help you with the girl until then, but I need my own bed. My house is set up for a wheelchair, mind you. And I’ll bet this place Mary Smithson is staying, most certainly is not.”
Doc breathed a visible sigh of relief from inside his Plymouth while Bexy wheeled up her front walk to the ramp that looked like it was in serious need of a fresh coat of paint. Since she’d taken her place in church beside him this morning, he’d not looked like his old self. He’d looked like the weight of the world sat squarely balanced on his shoulders—and his shoulders alone. At first, Bexy had attributed this to her knowledge of Agnes, the doc’s wife, and her declining health. But now she knew it was more than that.
Somehow, somewhere along the line, Doc Sawbones had taken on responsibility for Mary Smithson. And, with Bexy sharing the burden, some of that world-weight was being shed. The Plymouth tore off, back tires spinning on ice, the exhaust pouring out and clouding up before dissolving to the sky. They’d agreed that he’d take Mary home for some lunch and she’d be okay for the half-hour it would take for him to come back and get Bexy after she had herself an overnight bag packed.
She’d stay with Mary in that big house on the avenue, the one Doc said she’d somehow inherited from Karen Banatyne in the fall. She didn’t know how that was possible. As far as Bexy knew, Mr. Banatyne had flown the coop on his wife and there was still at least one daughter. No matter now. That’s where Mary hung her hat and Bexy was as good as her word. She’d be hanging her hat there too. At least for a few days.
7.
It was nine o’clock by the time Mary had finished her bath and got into her pyjamas. She wanted milk before bed but had to get it herself since all of the Banatyne’s cups were in the top cabinets over the sink. At Bexy’s house, everything was within reach. Over the years, she and the boys had adjusted the house so she was nearly self-sufficient. She thought of her boys’ faces in the dim of the kitchen, but quickly tried to think of something else and push them out. They were gone now, and she didn’t know if they’d ever want to come home.
The image that replaced their handsome, strong faces (both so much like their father) was one of Ol’ Doc Sawbones crashing to the floor of the light blue exam room. She’d glanced away from the Octoson machine in the seconds before his fall, but now tried to remember if she’d seen anything swimming in the grey kaleidoscope while the machine went wow-wow-wow. Had there been teeth and open eyes staring up at the inside of Mary’s belly? Even if she had, she probably couldn’t have identified it as that. The little TV screen just looked like morphing, bleeding grey on black to her.
But Doc had seen something. Something that had worried him. And, yes, it was ludicrous to entertain the idea that the baby could be developmentally behind and yet have fully-formed eyes, eyelids, and even teeth at this stage. It had been some abnormality, of that Bexy was sure. It made sense to her, but not on a medical level—the only experience Bexy McLe
od had of medicine was her own troubles in rehabbing her broken body mixed with episodes of Quincy, M.D. Deeper than that, it made sense on a subatomic level of common sense.
Mary’s brain was blighted. Something had either affected her when she was in her mama’s tummy or even in the chemistry that made her up before that. But she had a blight of some kind. So for her to then give such a blight to her own offspring? That made some sense to Bexy. Even if it presented itself in another way, it was a blight nonetheless. With her parents gone, there was no one to ask if Mary’s mama had seen smooth-sailing for her pregnancy with Mary. If the term and delivery had been similar to this, there might be no way of knowing.
If blighted, then this child—if it even made it to birth—it would have a hard life. And Mary’s already difficult life would be that much more of a challenge.
Mary put her empty milk glass in the sink. “Okay, Missa,” she said. “I have a story now!”
“No, no, no,” Bexy said. “No stories. I’m exhausted. It’s been a big, giant day for you girlie-girl, and you’re tired too. What’s your bedtime?”
“Um,” Mary said, thinking hard on it. “Eight o’clock.”
“Right then,” Bexy said, whirling around in her chair and heading out of the kitchen. One thing was sure about this big Banatyne house—if Bexy could afford it, it would be perfect for retro fitting wheelchair ramps and adaptations. The doorways were luxuriously wide and the rooms were high and spacious.
Mary was in the main floor guest room in a big double bed and, before he’d left for home and his wife, the doc had made up the pullout bed in the big family room just outside that guest room. It appeared to be brand new, never slept in, even smelled new when Doc had opened it up.
This was like their own little hotel suite in a big city like Seattle. Bexy had gone there once, years ago with her husband after he’d won a radio contest. Bexy had never felt so pampered in all her life. Here, in the Banatynes’ house, there was even a big guest bathroom, handy, right in this part of the house.
They likely wouldn’t need to go upstairs at all. And, quite frankly, without someone to carry her up the stairs, Bexy wouldn’t be able to get there even if she’d wanted.
“Pritty please,” Mary said. “I really can’t sleep without a story. Annie reads one every night.”
Bexy deflated. “I’ll make you a deal, sweetie,” she said. “I’ll read one story, but then off to bed with you. No whining and no getting out of bed. Got it?”
Elated, Mary flashed her uneven smile and turned, flinging her black hair in a twirl as she dashed off to bed. Bexy wheeled after her at a pace that was evident of her exhaustion.
She ended up reading seven nursery rhymes from a big illustrated book Mary had. She ended with Mary Had a Little Lamb, which was, Mary said, “My super-big favourite off all them rimes. Be-cause it’s me!”
The switches in the house were low enough so, on her way out, Bexy pulled the door drawn shut behind her after flicking off the light. “G’night, pumpkin,” she said, catching herself as she said it. It had been one of a multitude of nicknames for her own little girl. But that felt like a hundred years ago. And Teeny was at least a million miles from this place tonight. Bexy made a mental note. She’d write her daughter a letter in the morning, explaining all this craziness. She might even draft up a second to send to David. He might not get it for weeks, but at least it would be something for her to pass the time while Mary played or watched TV or did whatever it is that she did all day, waiting for her baby to come.
It struck Bexy as she strained to get from her chair onto the pullout bed. She had no idea if Mary truly understood what was happening to her. Did she know that a baby was growing from a tiny seed inside her? Did she know what had happened to create that little, bulging life in there? Did she know who had done it?
Bexy shivered at the thought that came next.
Had that seed been planted there against the girl’s will?
There was a solution here. And it wasn’t charity.
Doc was right. Rebekah McLeod was a charitable person. She couldn’t pass by someone who needed her help. But being charitable wouldn’t solve Mary Smithson’s problem. Throwing money at her unborn baby—or her—wouldn’t help in the long term, either. None of those things were a fix.
But the problem was, Bexy couldn’t seem to grasp what the bigger solution might be.
She felt like if she thought on it too hard, the fix would grow smaller and smaller on the horizon. She decided to let it go. What was that old saying? If you love something, set it free? Well, this was a bit different, but her tired mind wondered if letting the idea of a fix flutter in the breeze could offer the same outcome. It might come back to her all on its own.
Doc had left the remote for the Banatynes’ big TV on the pullout bed and Bexy flicked it on. She felt like she had a million things on her mind when this morning, her biggest challenge was getting to the church on time (which she hadn’t accomplished). Second biggest? Keeping her tears and her snot sucked back up into her head and not leaking out all over her lap as that big doofus, Parson, paraded her through the thick of things.
Now, by Sunday’s primetime viewing, Bexy’s life had become infinitely more complex.
What felt like only an instant after these rambling thoughts faded, she awoke from apparently nodding off. In front of her was the blinking screen of the big TV, with the volume way down. It was Joan Rivers, apparently pinch-hitting for Johnny Carson. She was momentarily confused because the Tonight Show didn’t play on Sundays but then she remembered the local affiliate had started rebroadcasts on the weekends. But they ran close to one. a.m, just before the station went off air for the night.
It was really late. In place of Joan Rivers’ scratchy voice, the thing that hit Bexy was the sound of distant moaning.
It was Mary. Had to be. Without thinking, Bexy pulled herself back to the edge of the pullout mattress. It wasn’t too difficult to get herself hauled back into the wheelchair. She’d remembered to put on the wheel brake and hadn’t gotten too far from the edge of the bed before falling asleep. She’d been even more tired than she knew.
She undid the brake and wheeled herself around the back of the pullout couch. She headed for the cracked door of Mary’s room, lit in alternating hits of colour and dark from the TV behind her. The moaning grew in volume as she approached. “Mary, honey?” she called gently. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”
She pushed open the door with her knees and it silently slid open, pulling in the flashing illumination of the Tonight Show to reveal the big bed. Mary was curled up at the foot of it, nearly hanging off the edge of the mattress. She’d taken off her pyjamas and lay nude in a fetal hump, her rounded white back showing the bumps of her spine and taking the even brighter white of the TV show.
Bexy wheeled to her and furtively touched the girls bare shoulder. She was burning hot. “Mary? Sweetie?” Then, with a start, Mary burst awake. It startled Bexy and she jerked back. Moist and shiny black hair flew, and that startled Mary, who realized where she was and who this woman was staring down at her. She crossed her arms over her breasts as she sat up. And then she began to cry.
“Shhh. Shhhhh, sweetie.” Bexy said, soothing her. “Just a bad dream, little one.” Little one, that was another thing she called her girl when Tina had been just a bean sprout.
Bexy put her arms out to the girl. Mary got off the bed and poured into her, sitting right up on Bexy’s useless legs. Mary’s sobbing eased to whimpering as the older woman held her. The girl was a baking sheet, hot and moist with sweat.
Mary said, “I don’t feel good. My tummy hurts.”
“Okay,” Bexy said, “Do you think you might throw up?”
“Uh-huh,” Mary said. “Maybe.”
“Alrightee. Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you to the potty.”
Potty. Bexy hadn’t used that word since Teeny had been tiny. Potty-training it had been and Bexy’s little girl had gotten it much quicker than her big
brothers. But at a cost. Salted peanuts had been the bribe. Three for every pee successfully landed in the toilet and ten for every Number Two that didn’t stain underpants or hit the floor.
The pair made their way slowly through the dark house, out of Mary’s room and into the bathroom. Like the other rooms, it was so generous in size, almost as if the Banatynes had it built in anticipation that they might live there in their old age when one or both relied on walkers, crutches, or wheelchairs of their own. Bexy was able to roll right up beside the toilet. She reached out and grabbed a beautiful floor mat that lay over the edge of the tub. She rolled it up like a tube and tossed it down in front of the toilet. “For your knees, sweetheart. Just in case.”
Still nude, Mary got down on the bundled mat. No sooner than she did that, she leaned forward in a violent, heaving wretch. Bexy reached down to hold the girl’s shiny black hair out of the way. The puke came in two big pours, splashing into the resting water in the toilet bowl. A third heave came, but no stomach contents accompanied it.
Mary put her head back, looked at the ceiling, and sat back on her haunches. She wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. She took a deep breath and made a sour face, no doubt at the taste left in her mouth and throat.
“Oh, honey,” Bexy said, full of sympathy. “First trimester is usually the hardest. It’ll get better in a few weeks. Do you think you’re finished?”
“Mm-hmm,” Mary said.
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” Mary said, looking across at Bexy with big, dark eyes. “Can I have a drink?”
“Sure, sweetie. Sure. Let’s maybe get you a bit of Seven-Up.”
Mary rolled her tongue around in her mouth, then a look of surprise lit her face. She reached up to her mouth and started poking around. “Oh no!” she said. Everything with Mary was a life or death statement, including this. She curled up her lips and Bexy saw another space where a tooth used to be. This one a little further to the back than the other space Bexy had seen while the girl lay on the exam table at the clinic this afternoon. “I lost another toof!” the girl said.
Unwed (Dovetail Cove, 1976) (Dovetail Cove Series) Page 3