Rhythm

by Gem Sivad

  “I don’t know you from Ted’s dead grandma. Megan can come into the exam room with me.”

  “Megan and I have words to say,” the unknown giant behind me inserted himself in my plan.

  “And you would be…?”

  “I’m Teague Logan, Megan’s man. Been hearing about you, for a while. Guess she didn’t mention me.”

  I stared from him to her. “Sorry, Holly,” she apologized. “You go on inside. I’ll wait out here. If I don’t have this discussion with Teague, we’ll be here all night.”

  “Keys.”

  Her attempt to hand them to me was intercepted by Marty. “Will be waiting out here with me for your return.”

  I gave up and followed Dr. Wilson to the exam room.

  “Sorry about that. I really don’t have Marty kidnapping patients for me.” He explained apologetically that he’d perform a rudimentary examination and I could be on my way. Okay.

  “What precipitated the attack?”

  I shrugged. “I left work, stopped in at Church’s for some chili, got sick. I’m only here because I threw-up on Marty Jones’ shoes. Any other man would have cussed me out. Marty hustles me to an emergency room.”

  “Have you known Marty long?”

  “Barely know him at all.”

  “Marty’s a take charge kind of guy. As you’ve just found out.”

  “Well he can take charge of someone else. I just need to get this exam over, and by the way, how much will this cost?”

  I might as well start the torture, now. My deductible was sky high, I never used my insurance, and if I could persuade the doctor to take direct payment as in cash up front, it would be even better.

  “Don’t worry about that. Marty brought you here, so the company is covering it.”

  “Smoke, Inc.?”

  “Yes.”

  I looked around. Nice office. Nice building. “Are you really a doctor? No offense, but you look about eighteen.”

  He laughed. “I’m older than I look. There’s a nasty strain of flu going around. Did you have your shot this season?” When I’d turned the tables, and asked him questions, he hustled back to being a doctor.

  “No.” I never get the flu, and the shot seemed a waste.

  “Are you allergic to any…?”

  His questions were routine. I answered them as he took my blood pressure, temperature, listened to my lungs, my heart.

  “What about birth control?” he asked casually as he looked into my left ear. “Do you know your prescription?”

  My head was tilted to accommodate the light shining instrument he held. I mumbled, “No.”

  “That’s okay. I can look it up. It might be the cause of your nausea if you’ve recently made a change.”

  “I don’t take pills other than aspirin.”

  “Diaphragm, patch, IUD, Depo shot.”

  After I shook my head indicating no for each, he finally added weakly, “Rhythm method?”

  The last brought a snort of laughter I couldn’t suppress.

  “So, no birth control.” His gruff voice telegraphed his disapproval.

  “No, but it’s highly unlikely that…” My stomach lurched, and I felt the blood drain from my head. I honestly thought I might faint as a horrible possibility presented itself.

  “I’ll visit my own doctor if I’m not better tomorrow. Thanks for coming in to accommodate Marty’s late-night demand.”

  “Church is waiting to find out if he poisoned you.”

  Basically, Dr. Wilson guilted me into submitting to a few more tests, finally establishing it wasn’t food poisoning causing my upset stomach. It was the baby Marty Jones had planted inside me.

  “How can that be? It only happened once. I orgasmed many times during the once, does that count as more than once?” Stunned didn’t cover my emotional response. All rational thought departed.

  “Did you use any form of prevention?” Young though he was, the doctor’s tone had become gruff and disapproving.

  “Condom—it came off during. I guess it did. I had to fish it out afterward. Gross.”

  It was his turn to look embarrassed and very young again. I think I gave him too much information.

  “Wow. I hope you like this guy because—you do like this guy, right? It wasn’t forced?”

  Oddly, the child doctor’s anxious concern steadied me into reassuring him. “Hey,” I said, and reached out to pat his arm. “It’s cool. I’m in the middle of remodeling, and my kitchen project is going to have to go on hold while I get a nursery finished.” My extraordinary stretch from reality to wonderland made him relax.

  “Good. That’s good,” he muttered.

  That of course remained to be seen, but I wasn’t one for sharing drama.

  “This is private, right? I’m not interested in telling the peanut gallery outside.” I insisted the doctor keep my diagnosis to himself, laying on all kinds of reasons. “Church can make a fresh batch of chili after he scrubs his kitchen. His business won’t suffer from either outcome.” I finally piddled to a halt, returning his glare. Evidently, I’d insulted him.

  “Of course, what I want to do more than anything is run out in the middle of the street and start telling your business. But, thankfully for you, I can’t divulge patient information. I’m bound by the HIPPA laws and the AMA,” he answered stiffly.

  “Of course,” I muttered as if I’d known that. Well I did sort of, but who knows what information goes anywhere these days. I shrugged and asked, “We finished?” I hoped so. I needed to get home and think.

  “You need to see a doctor. Get some vitamins. Tell the father.”

  “Your bedside manner sucks. But thanks.” I headed for the door, he followed.

  “Probably a touch of flu,” I told them all when I stepped into the waiting room. The child doctor walked out behind me and didn’t contradict my story.

  “Sorry I ruined your shoes,” I told Marty on my way past him to the door.

  “Don’t worry about it. They’ll clean up. Meanwhile, your girlfriend had a change in plans. I’m taking you home.” During my examination, he’d been busy. He’d had clothes and his vehicle delivered and now wore sweats and sneakers.

  While I wondered what was up with Megan and the giant claiming to be her man, Marty guided me to the Hummer I’d almost ridden in once before.

  Tell the father. After a quick peek at said sire, I slouched on the front seat of the Hummer and concentrated on my shoes.

  “You going to be okay?” Marty’s voice was anxious.

  You think you’re worried. Hah. His presence was both infuriating and reassuring. “I’m tired, my stomach is still upset, and I want to get home and rest.”

  All my answer was true. He didn’t push me for more, and I didn’t offer. When he pulled into the narrow drive way, I didn’t invite him in. I hopped out and scurried into the house, locking the door behind me.

  After the sound of the Hummer died away, I walked to the closet under the stairs and stepped inside. Door shut, I crouched amid the shoes and boxes on the floor, trying to get a grip on my new reality as I stared into the darkness.

  Chapter Eight

  Marty

  Something was wrong, really, wrong. I knew it, but she wouldn’t tell me a thing. She’d walked into see the doc sassing and sarcastic. She was quiet when she came out. Too quiet. I intended to find out why.

  I drove back to the clinic. The lights were out, but junior’s Jeep sat out back. I let myself in. He had his coat on, ready to make a run for it.

  “There are rules. I’m not telling you a thing, so go home, Marty.”

  What an attitude. And I helped put the ingrate through school. “Did I ask you to tell me anything?”

  I wandered around the office, giving him time to marinate in guilt and gratitude. It usually worked. This time not.

  “Look, just tell me that she’s going to be okay.”

  “So, who is she to you? Did she apply for a job or something?”

  I saw an angle he
re. “She’s done some work for Smoke in the past. I was going to hire her again, but hell, if she’s sick…” I let my voice trail off. “So, did she pass the physical?”

  “What kind of work?” he asked suspiciously. “She won’t be jumping out of airplanes and helicopters that’s for sure.”

  “Why not?” Like I would put a woman in that kind of… Well if the right one came in and applied, maybe, but not my dance queen. “She’s a big strong girl. Why not? You turning sexist? Think she can’t handle the equipment?”

  “Marty, let it rest. I’m not telling you anything other than if that was a pre-job physical, which we both know it wasn’t, she didn’t pass.”

  He walked out of the place with me trailing behind him and I was still whining for answers. I knew better. I didn’t want to bully the kid. But dammit. “Look, Garret. She’s kind of a girlfriend.” The look of horror he gave me let me know she was doomed. I froze. “Jesus. What’s wrong with her? Is it, is it…? God dammit, tell me.”

  I was in full panic mode. “The earlier we get her into treatment, the better her chances. Who should we see? Give me a name. A doctor specializing in her condition.”

  “Are you saying that you and my patient are a couple?” By this time, we were standing by his Jeep.

  “Yes,” I lied.

  “Since when? I thought you didn’t date.” The little ass seemed way too interested in my life, suddenly. “Was that Marilyn?”

  “Yes. We met, we danced… What the hell difference does that make? We’re a couple. And couples share each other’s troubles. So, what’s wrong with her?” I’d started out reasonably enough, but I didn’t do so well keeping the snarl from my final burst of words. I might have also been standing a little too close to him.

  He maneuvered enough to crack his door and exited our close encounter by sliding into the Jeep. He wasn’t intimidated. That was good. But shit, I still didn’t know what was wrong with her and… I glared at him, not sure how much of my concerned boyfriend act had been an act.

  There wasn’t enough sun to warrant them, but, pointedly he put on his sunglasses before he rolled down his window. “She’s not sick like Aunt Kit, Marty. I’m not a specialist in…” It was his turn to glare. “You, sneaky bastard.” The window started back up. He threw the last words out the one inch opening he left at the top. “If you want to know what’s wrong with her, ask her.”

  I heard the locks click on his door, his final insult before he backed up, barely missing my toes. Then he revved the motor and peeled out of the parking lot.

  In the sixth year of our marriage, Kit had decided she wanted us to be parents. I was twenty-three, working alongside Jack. He’d gone out on his own and rounded up enough oil jockeys, and skilled wild men, to call it a crew. We were hustling twenty-four hours a day, trying to stay alive long enough to build the business, and I was away from home a lot.

  “Marty, I want a kid but it doesn’t look like it’s going to happen for us without a boost. What do you think?”

  What I’d thought was shit, damn, fuck, I’m a loser who can’t even give his woman a baby. What I’d said was, “Sure. Whatever you want.” I’d pretty much always said yes to what Kit wanted. I expected us to go through some kind of fertility ritual. Or maybe an adoption process where she’d bring home a baby, preferably a boy, and I’d watch her raise him until he was old enough for me to teach him the business.

  It didn’t happen that way. I came home from a job in South America and found Garret living with us. He was eleven. Not an unknown at all since he’d already been hanging at the house a lot. His father, Bud Wilson, lived down the street. Bud was a drunk. Kit decided Garret would do better with us. Nobody objected. The kid moved his stuff into a room, and she bought him some video games. When he got old enough, she enrolled him in college.

  Now and then, Bud would come down to check on him. As Garret got older, the situation reversed, and he’d go down and check on Bud. It was good all around. Kit had been like that, seeing need, and reaching out to fix what was broken while others stood on the sidelines.

  I’d worked really, really, hard in our marriage to not be needy. I’d wanted Kit to need me. But she’d needed me to give her a baby, and when that didn’t happen, she’d settled for the drunk’s kid from down the block. I stood in the parking lot watching the kid, now all grown up, drive away, knowing in my gut something big had just happened without knowing exactly what.

  She’s not sick like Aunt Kit, Marty. My thoughts swung from Kit and Garret to holding Holly as she retched over the toilet bowl.

  What’s wrong with her? Jesus God, I couldn’t go through that again. That being sickness and death. Though I judged myself a coward, part of me wanted to go back to my office, bury myself in the paperwork Elaine had stacked on my desk, and forget I’d ever met Holly Smith.

  But damn, I couldn’t do that. I only knew one way to find out what was wrong with Holly. I was sorry for the way I’d discovered her address, but glad I’d been smart enough to get my ride to the clinic in time to take her home.

  I knew where she lived, I’d take Garret’s advice. I’d ask her what was wrong with her. One way or another, I’d get it out of her. And then we’d figure out what to do next. I wasn’t sure how she’d feel about my being part of her get-well team.

  That wasn’t true. I was sure she’d tell me to fuck off. She didn’t take orders well. Maybe bribes would work. Breakfast seemed a good way to start.

  I stopped for coffee, bought some donuts to go along with it, debated over sugared or filled, and finally drove to her house. And then remembered she’d puked her guts out the night before. The coffee and donuts suddenly seemed like a poor idea. The entire ludicrous conversation running in my head had been masking the anxiety pounding in my veins. It came back full force.

  I didn’t question any of my actions until I pulled into her driveway and shut down my ride. It was eight thirty in the morning. She ought to have been up. She didn’t seem like the kind of person who’d be a late sleeper. Maybe she’s still sick. She could be in there unconscious.

  I was still in my vehicle, trying to decide if I would be justified in breaking in to check on her, when she came walking down the street. She looked fine. Brisk walk, long stride, no obvious health issues or pain on display. She spied me sitting in her drive and scowled. I relaxed. She was better.

  I grabbed the box of donuts and scooped up the coffee. Breakfast time.

  Holly

  There are times I enjoy getting out for exercise. I’m not a jogger. Too much work. But, I love to walk in early morning when there’s little traffic and no people cluttering the world. Well usually I do. This morning not so much. I had an unpleasant creepy feeling making me secure the packages in my arms and hurry.

  As I approached my place I spotted a vehicle parked in my drive. I lengthened my stride, replacing one anxiety with another.

  Did I miss something? I tried to remember if I’d paid all the utility bills. I’d forgotten once, they’d shut off the water on a Friday, and I’d had to go without for a weekend. I groaned in relief and exasperation when I recognized my visitor.

  “And there he is, again.” Good God, Marty Jones was sitting in his monster truck in my driveway. Gah. I shifted my bag of groceries to my left side and fumbled for my key.

  As soon as I’d gotten home earlier, I’d retreated to my closet to have a panic attack. I could pretty much take root in any dark closed space and not come out until I got my mind back. I’d been using this method of dealing with stress for a long time. The possibility that I might be pregnant seemed like a good enough reason to make like a mushroom.

  But, as soon as I’d gotten comfortable on the floor, most of my thoughts had centered on disbelief rather than panic. I’m not sure how long I mumbled to myself in my therapy cubicle, but when I came out, I felt better. And I had a plan of action.

  First, the doctor said he could be wrong. I agreed. He was probably wrong. He told me to see a specialist. I agreed wi
th that, too. I needed to know what was what before I gave up on my fancy faucets and invested in a crib.

  I couldn’t afford doctors any better at seven o’clock in the morning than I could three hours before. So, I decided to visit another kind of specialist. Someplace close that sold pregnancy tests.

  I’d been hungry when I came out of the closet. So, after I’d showered, pulled on some sweats, and shrugged into my coat, I’d walked to the 24/7 grocery that had a pharmacy as well.

  Breakfast food had looked good to me—all of it. I carried bacon, eggs, bread, milk, and a frozen box of hash browns in my arms.

  I’d also picked up three Home Pregnancy Kits. Feeling surprisingly good for a chick who’d barfed her brains out the night before, I’d headed home. That changed when I saw my unwelcome guest.

  No doubt, planning to head me off before I could get inside and call the cops, Marty stepped out of his huge, gas guzzling, environmentally shocking, albeit comfortable, vehicle, and watched my approach.

  “You are like a frigging bad headache that goes away then reappears with no warning. What is it about ‘get lost’ you don’t understand?” Maybe I could rude him into leaving.

  “Thought you might want breakfast.” He held up his box of donuts, my favorite kind. My stomach rumbled. I knew he heard it because his frigging eyebrow went up, and he grinned. What was I supposed to do?

  “All right. Bring the donuts, and come in.” As a matter of fact, I was about to do eggs, hash browns, bacon, and toast. The donuts would be dessert. To say I was hungry would be an understatement.

  As I have a right to be. After all, my last meal of chili and peanut butter sandwiches hadn’t stayed down long enough to digest. Of course, I was famished.

  I went straight through the miniscule foyer, passed the couch in the living room through the opening to the kitchen. He followed.

  “Nice place.”

  “Thank you.” I set my groceries on the counter and watched him pull out a kitchen chair and sit down. After I unloaded the breakfast supplies, I left the pregnancy detectors in the sack, and pushed it to the back of the counter. I’d take it up to the master bathroom and use it after Marty was gone. “Make yourself at home.”