A Fatal Twist

by Tracy Weber

  Sam, her gorgeous blond husband, wandered out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a dish towel. He stopped at the door and reached for my purse.

  “Give it to me, Kate.”

  I cocked my head to the side in feigned ignorance. “Give you what?”

  He reached out his hand and repeatedly curled his fingers toward himself in the universal fork it over sign. “Whatever junk food you’ve smuggled in for Rene this time.”

  Sam and Rene had always been fitness obsessed, but since Rene’s pregnancy, Sam had also become a junk food Nazi. I understood his point. Sort of. Rene’s typical diet was more of the Willy Wonka than the Jenny Craig variety. But his obsession with prenatal nutrition had gotten ridiculous. At this point, Rene was more likely to die of carbohydrate withdrawal than her twins were to suffer from malnutrition.

  I reached into my purse and pulled out a package of dark chocolate M&Ms. Sam stared at me, not breaking eye contact.

  “Give me the rest of it, too.”

  I sighed, dug to the bottom, and handed him the second package.

  Sam scanned the ingredients. “Seriously, Kate? There are ten added food colors in this garbage. And corn syrup? That’s nothing but empty calories. You’re a yoga teacher. I expected better from you.”

  “Why should I waste my money on organic chocolate when I know you’ll just throw it away?” I pointed to the label. “Besides, it’s not all junk. Look right here. Two grams of protein.”

  Sam shook his head in disgust, tore open both packets, and poured their contents into a garbage can next to the door. I winked at Rene before following Sam into the living room. I’d slip her the dark chocolate peanut butter cups I’d held in reserve later.

  I froze at the entryway. “Wow, Rene. You’ve been busy.”

  Rene’s Architectural Digest worthy living room had been torn apart by a baby-focused tornado. The floor-to-ceiling windows that normally showcased the room’s Olympic Mountain views were now blocked by boxes. Stacks and stacks of boxes. Every available surface—including two large folding tables that hadn’t been there three weeks ago—was covered with patterns, fabrics, and brightly colored baby bibs. The couches had been pushed to the side to make room on the wool rug for a disorganized collage of 8 x 10 infant portraits. A Jenga-like stack of full-color brochures teetered next to Rene’s laptop, which was positioned haphazardly on the edge of the end table.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be resting?” I asked.

  Sam grumbled something unintelligible under his breath.

  “Knock it off, Mr. Grumpy Pants,” Rene replied. “The doctor said I needed to stay home for the final two months of my pregnancy, and I have. I stopped doing Hot Yoga. I gave up jogging, for goodness sake. Sorting through pictures and glancing at a few fabric samples never hurt anyone.”

  Sam opened his mouth to argue, but she turned her back to him and spoke to me. “Besides, Sam has been doing all of the heavy lifting. I have to occupy my time with something, otherwise I’ll go insane. Not being able to exercise all these weeks has been driving me batty. No offense, Kate, but those breathing exercises you gave me don’t cut it.” She tapped an index finger against her temple. “These mental muscles need to burn off some serious calories. The girls certainly won’t benefit from having a looney tunes mother.”

  Rene had come up with the idea for her infant accessory line during her two-week hospitalization for preterm labor. At the time, I thought her obsession would end as soon as the morphine wore off, but if anything, she’d grown more committed to the business since she’d been home on modified bed rest.

  She kept talking. “Besides, the designs are all mine, but I’ve hired out most of the leg work. I hired a seamstress to make the samples, and an advertising firm is creating the catalogues.” She pointed at two mirror-image photos taped next to the window. “What do you think of those two toddlers as my first cover girls? My twins will be prettier, of course, but they won’t be able to smile until they’re a couple of months old, and the catalogues need to go out in five weeks.”

  “They’re adorable,” I said honestly. I picked up the world’s tiniest pink and yellow handbag. “What’s this?”

  Rene grinned. “Why, a pacifier purse, of course. All of the cool babies will be carrying them this season.” She picked up the purse’s twin and tied the ribbon attached to it into a tiny bow. “They can be tied to the baby’s wrist or onto a stroller. I wanted to make shoulder bags, but I was afraid the straps would strangle the babies. Besides, this is cuter, don’t you think?”

  I ignored her question and asked one of my own. “Isn’t all of this expensive?”

  “Yes, but as they say, you have to spend money to make money. Besides, Sam doesn’t mind.” She smiled teasingly at him. “A divorce settlement would cost a lot more, right, honey?”

  Sam’s caterpillar-like blond mustache twitched.

  He might not have approved of Rene’s newest venture, but she was right. They could certainly afford it. Sam’s uber-successful software company had made enough money to start a dozen baby boutiques. Add his financial success to the couple’s Ken and Barbie looks, and I would have hated them if I didn’t love them so much.

  Rene grabbed a handful of brochures off of the end table and thumbed through them. “Would it be tacky to hand these out at the reception?”

  Sam swiped them out of her hands and thunked them solidly back on the end table. “Yes. The hospital is advertising their services today, not yours.” He leaned across Rene’s three-person belly and gave her a kiss. “I love you. And believe me, I know that once you get your gorgeous, stubborn mind set on something, no one can stop you. But today is about preparing for the birth of our family. We’ll have plenty of time to promote Infant Gratification after the twins are born.”

  “‘Infant Gratification’?” I asked.

  Rene grinned. “Sam came up with it. Isn’t it a great business name? And since Sam named the business, I get to name the twins. Laverne and Shirley.”

  “Absolutely not,” Sam replied. “We’re naming them after our mothers. Wanda and Darlene.”

  Sam and Rene had been good-naturedly bickering about baby names—and almost everything else—ever since she’d told him about her pregnancy. After months of playing “Name that Baby,” I halfway expected them to stick with their placeholder names, Twin A and Twin B. I changed the subject.

  “Infant Gratification is a great business name, but Sam’s right. Everyone at the party is going to be interested in seeing the new birthing suites, not checking out pacifier purses.”

  Rene rubbed her palms together. “I can’t wait to finally get out of this house. I hear the party’s going to be huge.”

  “I’m surprised your doctor is letting you go,” I said. “I thought you were on house arrest except for medical appointments.”

  She shrugged. “Well, we are going to a hospital. Besides, my doctor’s getting mellower now that the twins are past thirty-four weeks. We’d like them to percolate another couple of weeks, but they’ll be safe if they’re born now.”

  Sam put his hand on her forearm. “Remember, you’re still not supposed to wear yourself out.”

  “Wear myself out? Don’t be silly. If I get tired, Kate will push me around in a wheelchair.”

  I nudged her ribs with my elbow. “Maybe I should drive you around in a dump truck.”

  “Not funny, Kate.” Rene’s lips wrinkled in pretend insult, but her eyes sparkled with excitement. “Come on, you guys! Let’s go!”

  While Sam went into the kitchen to grab his car keys, I slid the stowaway candy out of my purse. Rene did a little bounce and slipped it inside her jacket pocket. I had a feeling that her first stop at the hospital would be the ladies’ room, where she could devour her new treasure in private.

  I was wrong.

  The moment we arrived at Lake Washington’s new birthing center, Re
ne beelined it straight to the buffet table, claiming it was time for her second lunch. Sam followed hot on her heels. I left them to argue about the nutritional value of catered hospital food and wandered around to check out the facility. I knew the hospital’s old building almost as well as I knew my own home; I’d visited Rene in the perinatal unit daily while she was hospitalized, and since then I’d been hired to teach in-room yoga to the unit’s patients. So I’d been curious about this new addition—specifically, what it offered that was worth the expense of constructing an entirely new building.

  A lot, as it turned out.

  The smaller, adjacent building was only a sky bridge away from Lake Washington’s main campus, but it felt miles away from the older, more austere hospital. Photographs of stern-looking administrators had been replaced by pastel stencils of baby animals—lambs, puppies, kittens, and ponies included. Pink and blue ribbon arrows pointed the way to admitting, the nursery, a family area, and the neonatal ICU. The door to each patient suite was decorated by a stork whose beak held a removable sign: a baby swaddled in blue, pink, or green—depending, I assumed, on the gender of the child about to be born inside.

  A voice spoke from behind me. “Aren’t those signs cute?”

  I turned to see Justine, dressed in blue hospital scrubs.

  “Volunteers will hang them on the door when the mom checks in,” she explained. “Once the baby is born, they’ll paint its name on the sign and give it to the parents. It’s my favorite perk of the new facility.”

  “They’re adorable,” I replied. “My friend Rene will go gaga. I hope everything’s open by the time she delivers.”

  “Unless she goes into labor this weekend, it will be. The Labor and Delivery Unit starts moving over first, on Monday. The Perinatal Unit will transition in stages a few days later. Our new Neonatal ICU will open last, hopefully by early the following week.”

  “Rene will be happy to hear that. Are you working today, or are you here for the open house?”

  Justine tugged on the fabric of her scrubs. “Do you think I’d wear these if I wasn’t working? I’m on break.” She pointed to the huge slice of chocolate cake she was carrying. “There’s a staff cake in the old break room, but it’s white. I prefer chocolate. I’d steal a piece to take home for my mom, but she doesn’t eat much these days.” Her eyes grew wet. “Alzheimer’s destroys more than memories.”

  I reached out to hug her, but she took a step back.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be a Debbie Downer.” She smiled, but it didn’t look sincere. “I need to get back. My patient will be pushing soon.” Turning, she headed toward the old building. When she reached the sky bridge, she called over her shoulder, “Enjoy the festivities.”

  I watched her disappear, wishing I could wave a magic wand and make her life easier. No amount of yoga—or chocolate cake, for that matter—could erase all of life’s heartaches, and Justine had endured way more than her share. Hopefully the yoga practices I’d taught her would make at least a small difference. I vowed to check in with her in a week or two and headed back to join Rene.

  If I could find her.

  The new facility’s lobby was teeming with people. Hundreds of them, many of them expecting. Sam waved to me from the buffet table. I steeled my shoulders, took a deep breath, and edged my way through the crowd. The hospital had spared no expense. Lavish trays of crackers, cheeses, fruits, and vegetables vied for dominance with fancy hors d’oeuvres and Martha Stewart worthy desserts. Wait staff circulated with champagne for the non-expecting guests and sparkling ciders for the moms-to-be. From the mountain of food on Rene’s plate, she’d taken three of everything.

  I pointed to her plate and gaped at Sam. “I can’t give her a candy bar, but you don’t stop that?”

  “I’ve force-fed her two green smoothies today already. How am I supposed to argue with food served at a hospital?”

  He had a point.

  I left Rene to her unimpeded gluttony and wandered around the crowded area, waiting for the program to begin. Based on the number of baby bumps present, I estimated that at least half of the assembled crowd was made up of expecting parents and their families. The rest were probably off-duty staff and OB/GYNs that the hospital hoped to woo away from competing birthing centers, like ABBA.

  Summer, my doula trainer, waved at me from across the room. I gave her a big hug.

  “I’m surprised to see you here,” I said. “I thought you didn’t support hospital births.”

  “I don’t, as a general rule. I wasn’t planning to come today, but I figured I owed it to my future clients to at least have a look. I just finished the tour.”

  “Ours is in forty-five minutes. What did you think?”

  Summer frowned. “Honestly? I’m not sure. They’re certainly trying. The rooms are fabulous, but the place still reeks of hospital.” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like it. Birthing at home is far safer. Hospitals have an astronomical number of C-sections. It’s barbaric.”

  Rachel appeared behind me. “You’re not making a fair comparison. Of course hospitals have more complications. We take on all of the high-risk births.” Her outfit—a wispy, bright-colored sundress, red sandals, and a large red shoulder bag—contrasted dramatically with the harsh tone of her voice.

  I smiled, hoping to ease the tension. “Summer, this is my friend Rachel. She’s a nurse in the perinatal unit here.”

  Summer wrinkled her lips. “I’m afraid we’ll have to agree to disagree. High-risk births explain some of the increased complications, but not all of them. Not by a long shot.”

  Rachel’s facial expression remained tense, but she changed the subject. “Have you seen Nicole? She was here a few minutes ago, but now I can’t find her.”

  I glanced around the room. “Sorry, I—”

  A microphone’s high-pitched squeal interrupted us.

  A balding man wearing a beige suit and wire-framed glasses stared uncomfortably across the crowd. “Sorry about that, folks. Never can figure out how to work these things.”

  “I’m not interested in the sales pitch,” Summer grumbled. “I’m going to take off. I’ll talk to you later.” She nodded toward Rachel and disappeared into the crowd.

  The man at the microphone continued. “If you’ll gather around, I’d like to say a few words.”

  The room grew quiet.

  “Please give a warm welcome—”

  A loud crash interrupted him. The entire room turned toward the sound. A thirtyish man with dark eyes, a deep black goatee, and a purple-red face stood amid a jumble of spilled food and broken glass. Droplets of liquid dotted his T-shirt and jeans.

  The man at the microphone smiled. “You know what they say. It’s not a party until something gets broken. We’ll get maintenance to clean the mess up. Please help yourself to more food. Now, if I can have everyone’s attention again … ” He resumed his speech.

  If the man with the goatee heard him, he gave no indication. He stood motionless, hands clenched in white-knuckled fists, staring hostilely at the back of the room.

  Rachel followed his glare. She sucked in a quick breath, then spat in a low, whispered growl, “That cheating son of a bitch.”

  I glanced the same direction, but all I saw were pregnant women and their bored-looking partners. Unease prickled my shoulders. “Rachel? What’s going on?”

  She didn’t answer.

  I leaned toward her and craned my neck to see through the crowd from her vantage point.

  Oh, crap.

  Dr. Dick.

  And Mariella.

  They stood with an attractive silver-haired man I didn’t recognize.

  Mariella glanced our direction. The corners of her mouth lifted into a calculated grin. She ran her hand down Dr. Dick’s arm, not stopping until her fingers lingered on a body part normally reserved for a married man’s spouse. Dr. Dick seem
ed surprised by her touch but not affronted. He eased away from Mariella and smiled. I’m no lip reader, but I could have sworn that his lips formed the words, “Not here.”

  Rachel’s lips, on the other hand, barely moved. Her voice hissed with venom. “I swear, someday I’ll take a knife to that horse’s—”

  She stopped mid-sentence. She and her husband made eye contact. Dr. Dick’s overly friendly smile disappeared, replaced by an expression of horror. The star quarterback, caught being fondled by the coach’s daughter. I reached over and touched Rachel’s trembling hand.

  “Are you okay?”

  She replied in short, choked sobs. “I’m sorry. I … I have to get out of here.”

  Two things happened at once. Rachel bolted toward the exit, and the man at the microphone spoke. “Please give everyone responsible for organizing today’s event a huge round of applause.” The room burst into whistles, claps, and happy pandemonium.

  I wanted to run after Rachel. I wanted to offer support. More than that, I wanted to march up to Dr. Dick and knee him in … well, in his namesake. But I couldn’t make it through the crowd in time. Rachel and Dr. Dick collided near the entrance, and he grabbed her to stop her from leaving. I couldn’t hear their words over the room’s thunderous applause, but the exchange didn’t look friendly.

  Rachel yanked her arm away and ran from the lobby. Dr. Dick hesitated for several seconds, looking stunned. Then he chased after her.

  Mariella didn’t move. She waited for a chance to make eye contact with me, then tipped her champagne glass in the air, lifted her lips in a slow and satisfied smile, and winked.

  By the time I turned back around, the man with the goatee was gone.

  Six

  The next fifteen minutes passed without incident. The man at the microphone finished his speech while Sam commandeered two folding chairs—one for Rene’s rear and one for her feet. Rene entertained herself by groaning in mock ecstasy over each bite of “real food,” meaning nothing resembling a fruit or a vegetable. I made small talk with my friends, but my mind refused to focus on the conversation. It wandered the hallway, wanting to hunt down Dr. Dick so I could knock some sense into him. How could he let Mariella publicly humiliate Rachel that way?