Double Vision

by Ellie Hart

  He settles on the side of the desk, hands clasped on one thigh. “When did things start getting crazy, as you describe it?”

  “That would be last week, when I had a phone call from a dead lady.”

  And I’m off, talking about Chrissy Burton and the identification mix-up, Bev Strait and her part in the transplant donations scheme, as well as about Jinx and Rex. I’m the one telling it, but it’s as if I’m also listening, almost not believing my own words. It does, indeed, sound just this side of crazy.

  “I’m wondering if this is more about something illegal going on with the whole donation for cash thing. I mean, I realize it’s not illegal to sell things like plasma and bone marrow, but lobes from livers and lungs? I can’t believe this is a good thing at all. I think you need to speak with Rex, since he’s actually donated.” I shrug, holding up my hands. “And I guess that’s it.”

  Officer King reaches over and clicks the recorder off just as his partner sticks his head around the door.

  “Hey, when you get a sec, come out back. I want to show you something.” With a nod at me, he disappears back outside.

  King lifts his backside off the desk and slips the recorder back into his pocket. “I’ll get this report written up, and you’ll be able to request a copy, if you’d like.”

  I thank him, assuring him I’m all right not having my own copy. “It’s nothing I want to think about, believe you me.” I think about Marta and what her reaction to this latest escapade will be, and I shudder inwardly. She is going to go bananas.

  “Gij! Oh, my God! Are you all right?”

  It’s as if my very thoughts have caused her to materialize. Marta is here, flinging her arms around me and hugging me as tightly as she can.

  Right behind her is Lou, a smug expression on her face. “I thought she ought to know as soon as possible, so I called her.” Without another word, she heads back down the hall, whistling tunelessly under her breath.

  “Which is more than you did,” Marta says, staring at me with eyes as hard as obsidian chips. “When were you going to tell me? Over dinner? Before bed?”

  Officer King slips out of the office with a half wave at me, a grin on his face. There’s nothing like feeling abandoned by all and sundry. With a deep sigh, I draw Marta closer and begin to explain.

  Once Marta is sufficiently calm, we head home, our vehicles making an impromptu parade. Both Lou and I have agreed to shutter the clinic for the remainder of the day, giving the staff a paid day off. Lou is taking the box of cats home for the night, more for distraction than anything else, I presume. It’s been a trying day for all.

  Marta goes to town in the kitchen, her remedy of choice when the world tips on its axis. It’s definitely atilt at the moment. Being shot at has given me an unwanted glimpse of my own fragile mortality. I settle in at the kitchen table, watching her as she chops, stirs, and sautés her way to sanity. At least we’ll both get a good meal out of this little episode.

  I scrape up the last bit of stir-fried veggies and shrimp and smile across the table. Marta has outdone herself, and I tell her so.

  “I ought to come home early more often,” I tease. Marta’s eyes suddenly fill with tears. I shouldn’t make light of things, but I can’t help it. Gallows humor has always been my go-to reaction whenever faced with tragedy. “Sorry, love,” I say with a grimace. “You know what I mean.”

  “It’s not funny, Gij. All I kept thinking about was raising this little one without you around.” She cradles her belly tenderly, and I swallow hard against the sudden lump in my throat. “I don’t even want to imagine what that might be like, not even for a second.”

  A thought flashes into my mind, unwanted, unbidden. Maybe those who need a transplant feel the same? It makes the selling of organs seem much more sensible now for those financially able to skip to the front of the line. If it was me, I’d do anything to stay alive. Maybe even shoot at someone if I thought they were going to ruin my chance at a normal life.

  “Do you think it was someone who’ll lose out on a transplant if the whole scheme gets shut down?” I stare down at my plate, seeing Bev and Rex and Chrissy instead of dinner. “I mean, being killed outright is one thing, but it’s got to be hard on a family to know death is waiting just a few years or even months down the road.”

  “I’ve seen you be altruistic before, Gij, but this is over the top, in my opinion. If I’d had a potshot taken at me, I’d be livid and wanting the one who did it caught.” She takes another bite of food, effectively stopping the rest of her comments. I can see them in her eyes, though, and I know she’s right. I should be hopping mad right now.

  But I’m not. I truly want to know if this entire incident has anything to do with the donation plan, which will surely be shut down now. Instead of feeling triumphant, I feel like a heel. I wonder how many lives will be lost because of this, how many families will lose a loved one.

  We get ready for bed silently, each wrapped in our own feelings. This is unusual for us. We typically use this time to talk about the day, rehash any issue that might have arisen or funny incident we might have witnessed.

  My dreams are troubling, filled with someone bent on lassoing me with a rope made from dollar bills and intravenous tubing, tugging me toward the gaping mouth of an endless abyss.

  Chapter Ten

  Morning sickness has returned with a vengeance for Marta, laying her out flat on the bathroom floor. She doesn’t even dare try to make it back to bed, and I bring her a pillow and several blankets, trying to make her comfortable, to erase the memory of last night. It’s as if the baby has absorbed all of the angst from yesterday and is protesting.

  “You need to get something in your stomach.” I squat down next to Marta and push the hair back from her face. “Want some hot tea?”

  “It’ll just come straight back up,” she says weakly, eyes still closed.

  “Well, it’s better than the alternative. I’ll be right back.” I know I sound pushy, but I’m not going to leave her lying here like this, dry-heaving her way to oblivion.

  I have a feeling this will be an only child. No one in her right mind would be willing to go through this again. Of course, there’s always Kate Middleton, I think wryly as I head downstairs. If a princess—or duchess or whatever she is—can soldier through this crap three times, and do it in heels…well, there’s no telling what a mere mortal can do. And Marta Perry is no mere mortal.

  I deliver the hot tea, and I’m pleasantly surprised to see she’s made it to the bed. A childhood memory pops into my head and I create a pathway of towels from the bed to the bathroom. My sister and I used to joke that we always knew when someone had the stomach flu at our house because of the towel path. Our mom was a firm believer in forearming herself against childhood sickness, and she had a stockpile of home remedies and strategies we called “Mom 101.” Who knew it would come in handy before the baby arrives?

  I get ready to leave, assuring Marta I’ll only be a text away. With the clinic closed for half a day yesterday, I predict we’ll have a glut of appointments today. It’s Murphy’s Law, the one that says something about things going wrong if they can. Or is it awry? Whichever, it still means a busy day ahead of me.

  “If you need anything, babe, anything at all, just text.” I sit on the side of the bed, holding one of her thin hands in mine. This baby has become a little vampire, eating away at the essence that is Marta. “I’ll keep my phone in my lab coat pocket. Promise.”

  “Thank you, my beautiful girlfriend, the most wonderful woman in the world,” she replies. It actually comes out as “umm,” but I’m adept at reading between the lines and the grunts. Smiling at my own silliness, I press a kiss on her forehead and head out to begin my day wrangling furry beasts.

  The box full of cat and kittens is back in the reception area, placed under a hand-printed sign reading “Free to a good home.” Of course, we’ll offer to spay all the little ladies and neuter the gentleman free of charge as well. Mama Cat is already s
cheduled for her own snipping.

  “How’s Marta this morning?” Lou is sitting at her desk, flipping through a stack of invoices. That’s her way of asking me if I’m still on Marta’s bad list without making it obvious. I smile inwardly.

  “Sick as a—Lou, why in the world do we always use dog terminology for something bad?” I shake my head, feigning disgust at the verbal abuse canines take. “Sick as a dog. In the doghouse. Surly as an old dog. Why not cat? Or ferret?”

  Lou lifts her massive shoulders, watching me from behind her reading glasses. She’s already immersed in the paperwork lying in front of her. I sigh. I’m afraid it’s a harbinger for things to come. Today is going to be a busy one.

  I text Marta at different intervals, knowing she’ll sleep through the soft trill of her phone’s alert. If she answers, she’s already awake. When I don’t hear from her by three, however, I’m beginning to feel antsy.

  After writing a script for an antibiotic and instructing the cat’s owner on how to give it to him, I slip down the hall to the office. Following yesterday’s bullet-ridden fiasco, I’ll make my calls indoors, thank you very much.

  “Come on, come on,” I mutter into the cell phone, one hand jammed into my lab coat pocket. She’s not answering, and when I get her perky voice mail message (“I’m either out having fun or busy planning some, so leave me a message!”) I hang up in frustration. And fear. This is not like Marta. At all.

  I leave the office, walking briskly from exam room to exam room until I find Lou. One look at my face, and she knows something is amiss.

  “Is she all right?”

  We’ve stepped into the hallway, just outside room two where a beagle pup is waiting to have its newly clipped tail looked at. Why owners persist on mutilating their animals is beyond me. Lou, I know, will be kinder than I would be.

  “I have no idea,” I say, forcing the words through tight lips. “She’s not answering any texts, and it went to voice mail when I called.”

  “She could very well be sleeping, Giselle. When a woman is this sick, she needs all the rest she can get.”

  “Not for this long. Look at the time! It’s already after three.” I sound stubborn, but it’s my way of worrying. Lou sighs. She can tell I won’t be worth a plug nickel as long as I’m focused on Marta.

  “Well, we’ve got it under control here. Why don’t you take off, go check on her. And be sure to text me,” she calls to my back. I’m already halfway out the door, anxious to get home.

  Either I am completely lucky or the boys in blue are busy elsewhere, because I know I’m speeding to get home. I have convinced myself I’ll find a disaster when I arrive, Marta completely incapacitated or worse. With a scrape of the tires against the curb, I pull up in front of our house and throw the Honda into gear.

  I’m already calling her name when I hit the front steps, fumbling for my key. The door is unlocked, though, something we rarely do even when we’re home, and my heart takes a flying leap against my ribs.

  “Marta? Are you all right?” I stand in the hallway, listening intently to the silence, trying to hear movement of any kind. There is nothing. And now my heart is clambering to get out of my chest, beating like a timpani drum and threatening to burst. Something is definitely wrong.

  “Gij? What are you doing home so early? Is everything okay?”

  I’m not the fainting type, but I nearly fall over with relief when I hear her voice. Marta is peeking around the open front door, a curious Mr. Flores standing just behind her. Ignoring our neighbor, I grab her and hold her as tightly as I dare. The tears surprise both of us.

  Later, sitting on the couch with Marta tucked securely in my arms, I am calm enough to listen.

  “You know how technology hates me,” says Marta, smiling up at me. “Well, after I woke up, I wanted to text you to let you know I was feeling much better. Somehow, and I swear I have no idea how this happened, my charger got tangled up and wasn’t working. And my phone was completely dead. I know how you worry, so I took a quick shower and went across the street to see if Mr. Flores had a charger I could use.”

  I can see fine lines around her eyes as she smiles. Mr. Flores is smiling as well, his small mouth pursed as he observes us. I want to tell him to go home, but Marta really likes him.

  “So, did you ever get your phone charged?” I want these two to know how panicked I was, especially when she didn’t answer my phone call. Maybe it’s time to put in a landline. With a baby coming, it might be a good idea.

  “That’s the funny part,” Marta says. She looks at Mr. Flores, and they both laugh.

  There’s a funny part to this?

  “Yes,” Mr. Flores says. “I didn’t have a charger, and she couldn’t remember your number. I offered her my house phone.”

  “I swear, being pregnant has sapped all my brain cells.” Marta leans into me and plants a kiss on my cheek. “But everything is fine, and I’m glad you’re home. Now, who’s up for some coffee?”

  Later, after I’ve extracted Mr. Flores from the chair and closed the front door firmly behind him, I discover I am beyond exhausted. Throwing myself down on the couch, I close my eyes and breathe in the lingering scent of Marta’s perfume, Chloé by Lagerfeld, something I will always associate with her. If I were to walk in a room with my eyes closed and catch a whiff of that perfume, I would know she’s there.

  “Sorry I had you so worried.” I open my eyes and see Marta kneeling beside me. “I honestly didn’t think you’d be this upset.”

  I lift myself onto one elbow so I can look directly into her face. I’m tempted to play this out for all it’s worth, but I can’t. She looks too vulnerable, her eyes wide and hands resting on her belly, and I suddenly feel nothing but deep, protective love.

  And I want to laugh.

  “Marta, the two of us are such a pair of goofballs.” I lean over and kiss her lips, swinging my legs around to sit up. “Here I am, worried about you, and here you are, worried about me. Who’s left to worry about the kid here?” I lay one hand gently on hers, both of us hugging our baby.

  “Mr. Flores?”

  I just roll my eyes. But the emotional balance has been restored, and I pat the cushion beside me. We spend the rest of the evening cuddled together, talking about the future and making exaggerated plans we’ll never fulfill. It’s enough just to be here with Marta, here and alive and together.

  Bless Lou’s heart, I think when I arrive at the clinic the next morning. She not only took care of all the patients after I left, she also completed all the paperwork. When I find her leaning next to the coffeemaker in the break room, reading through today’s appointments, I can’t resist planting a huge kiss on her cheek.

  “Hey, don’t forget that you’re already taken, woman.” She makes as if to wipe off my kiss, but I can tell she’s pleased.

  “I can’t resist a gal who gets it all done and still shows up the next day.”

  I reach around her and grab the coffee mug I keep at work. Marta bought it for me the last time we made the trek to the southern part of the state, visiting the happiest place on earth and acting like a pair of kids. I love it for a lot of reasons, but especially because it features Lady and the Tramp sharing their iconic spaghetti dinner.

  We stand in companionable silence for a few minutes, waiting for the day to get started. Finally I sigh and push away from the counter. I can hear the chime ringing from the front door, announcing our first appointment.

  “I guess I’ll take the odds again,” I say, giving Lou a smile over my shoulder. “Save you from dealing with the little guys today.”

  Our system is to put the smaller animals in the odd-numbered exam rooms, while the larger animals go into the evens. Lou prefers the bigger animals because she says they’re much easier to handle. Of course, this doesn’t always pan out, especially on days when every ferret, rabbit, and guinea pig in San Leandro finds their way to our clinic.

  Today is one of those days. By noon, I’ve examined two kittens, an Angora
rabbit, a ferret, and a pair of hamsters. Lou has had her hands full as well, including a visit with a puppy whose stomach was hard and distended. She’s ingested a pacifier. The owner is upset, but Lou assures him she’s seen worse. Surgery is scheduled for the next morning, and the puppy goes to our holding area where someone can keep an eye on her.

  This reminds me of Rex and Tramp, and I wonder if the officers have spoken with him yet. I’m still thinking about this on my way home. As we eat dinner, I wonder aloud if there’s a way I can find out if the San Leandro Police Department took me seriously.

  “You could just call him,” Marta says over a steaming bowl of jambalaya. I love it when she makes this, the pot brimming with shrimp, chicken, and sausage. It’s a taste of New Orleans, one of our favorite cities in the whole world, the place we spent our first big weekend as a couple.

  “I could,” I admit, picking out a succulent shrimp and popping it into my mouth. I’ve used my fingers, a habit that drives Marta wild, and I blow a kiss at her. “Maybe we should call Chrissy first.”

  “Why? What’s she got to do with Rex?”

  “Not a lot, but I still have a gut feeling she’s the place to start.” I fish another piece of shrimp out, staring thoughtfully down at my bowl. Something has jogged my memory, maybe a passing comment about being mixed up in the whole donation scene, or maybe it was it was just a suspicion I’d tucked away for later perusal. Whatever it is that’s caused the thought, I still think Chrissy is the person to begin with.

  “Speaking of fishing for info, have you heard anything from Don Butler? I’m dying to hear how his evening with Jinx went, aren’t you?”

  I’d completely forgotten about the fiasco that is Don Butler and Jinx. That’s what getting shot at does for your memory, I guess. Between Marta’s preggo brain fog and my memory loss, I don’t hold out much hope for this baby of ours. Maybe she’ll be adept enough to take care of herself. Her parents won’t be much help.

  “Maybe I should call Don first.” I hesitate, thinking aloud, one hand hovering above my cell phone. I keep it beside me, but I leave it turned facedown so I’m not tempted to check for messages every few minutes. “He might have all the information we need.”