by Lianne Simon
A small bright spot moves across the display and stops. “At the MIP point.”
“Release.” The spot flashes and begins to move back the way it came.
That’s it? The catheter tickles on its way out.
Ever so gently—the ultrasound lady wipes a soft cloth across my belly.
A moment later, Dr. Pierson stands beside me. “Rest for about fifteen minutes before you get dressed. Then I’ll see you in my office.”
Dani and I grin like idiots while my mother smiles at us. Yeah, Mom. We’re happy.
Danièle
Nap, eat, walk, sleep—with my short cycles, the days blur. When I’m awake, all Melanie and I talk about is whether or not she’s pregnant. Uncertainty’s the worst part.
Flowers and chocolates arrive. From Ethan. For me a get well card. For Melanie a thank you and a dozen roses.
Mrs. Fairbairn suggests I lie on my side with a pillow between my knees. That works well for a few hours, but then I move back to the living room. With the cushions arranged just so, the plush sofa affords the most comfortable place to recline. Even with Melanie’s sleeping body draped across mine.
After the embryo transfers, Dr. Pierson prescribed three days of what she termed couch rest—no exertion, no stress, and no motorbikes.
Melanie spends most of her day either worried crazy or asleep.
Blood tests confirm the pregnancy, but Dr. Pierson wants to verify normal development with an ultrasound. Just before she retires.
So we wait.
Melanie’s ginger hair whispers of raspberries and cinnamon. I brush a wayward strand away from my nose. Years ago, while her mother lay in a hospital bed, recovering from breast cancer surgery, Melanie made my shoulder her pillow. I’m happy to oblige—now as before.
Sometime later—hours, months, years—Mrs. Fairbairn walks over to the sofa and sits on the floor next to us. She holds the back of her fingers against Melanie’s forehead for a moment before whispering, “Your appointment’s in an hour.”
Has it already been a month? I have no idea the day. “Ultrasound?”
“Yes.” The compassion in her eyes proves her a mother. She brushes the hair away from her daughter’s face. “Time to get up, honey.”
Melanie groans and stretches her arms. Tired eyes sweep my face and leave behind a smile. She pushes herself upright and yawns.
Concern overshadows the tenderness in Mrs. Fairbairn’s eyes. “I noticed a maxi pad in the bathroom trash. Are you bleeding?”
“Huh? No.” After a bit, realization sweeps the confusion from Melanie’s eyes. She fixes her gaze on me.
Heat flares on my cheeks. “That was mine. I’ve had a bit of pink mucous. Dr. Pierson said to expect some drainage.”
Melanie snorts and gives me a quick hug. “Leaking from your vagina—welcome to The Girls’ Club. Are you dilating?”
“Yes. That and using the estrogen cream.” The doctor assured me dilation was only necessary until things healed and I was sexually active. So I’ve been faithful.
If wearing a sanitary napkin, oozing a pink discharge, and having things poked into my vagina are true signs of womanhood, perhaps I’ve made a mistake. How well would I react to menstruation? Certainly men experience fewer such indignities. I lever myself up off the sofa and make my way to the bathroom. Perhaps a hot shower will wash away my new-found sense of vulnerability.
We arrive in the waiting area twenty minutes late. A nurse rushes me to an examining room and takes Melanie elsewhere. I sit on the table for a moment before changing into the hospital gown. A great weariness settles over me.
A nurse accompanies Dr. Nguyen. She stands guard while I lie down and assume the position. He grabs a speculum from the counter. “Have you been dilating?”
“Yes, sir.” Where’s Dr. Pierson? And Melanie?
“Any discharge?”
“A little bit of pink. Less now than at first.”
He grunts, nods, and slides the duck-billed instrument into place.
Pain arches my back up off the table. I clench my teeth and hold my breath until he finishes the exam. He drops the speculum into the sink and removes his gloves. “You’re healing fine. Your gynecologist can handle your care in the future.”
After they leave, I stare out the window and try not to succumb to depression. When my phone chirps, I hop down off the examining table and grab my cell from my purse.
<< Melanie—baby ok
I’m going to be a mother.
Only one. I scramble to get dressed and rush down the hallway to find and comfort the mother of my child.
Chapter 11
Melanie
While Dani’s outside jogging, I start sorting through Mom’s stuff. Papers she might need for filing her taxes. Old photos. A recent portrait of Dad. Lots of pictures of people I don’t know.
One drawer has every last Christmas or birthday card Beatrice or Dad or me ever gave her. Even my stupid old crayon drawings.
“Oh, wow, Mom.” Either you’re a true pack rat or you really love me. Maybe both.
I make up an open me first box for her with some of the nicest photos. I even find an old one of me and Dani pretending to be bride and groom.
Tucked away in the bottom of one drawer is a velvet case. Hidden, lost, or forgotten. When I unsnap the cover, I discover it holds an ivory-framed picture.
Mom—in her late teens, early twenties—with some boy groping her. Well, that’s what it looks like at first. His hand is farther north than I ever let Tommy’s go.
All my love—Ronnie is scrawled across the bottom. Weirder still—the dude looks kinda like a guy version of Dani. Only taller and heavier.
A vehicle pulls into our driveway, so I set the case aside and walk to the door. Tommy waves at me from his pickup. We haven’t talked since—when did Dani and I go riding with him? More than a month ago. Is he my friend or not? Well… kinda… sometimes… when he isn’t being too possessive. But with Dani around, I never spend any time with the boy.
“Get out here,” he shouts, and waves an arm at me. He sounds pissed.
“I’m coming.” My flip flops aren’t by the door, so I step outside barefoot.
He waves one hand toward the real-estate sign. “Were you gonna tell me about this? Huh?”
Sold! “I didn’t know. They musta got a contract today or something.”
“Come on, Melanie. I seen your danged sign when we packed up all them motorcycle parts. You coulda told me about it then. You movin’ or what?”
“Sorry. Yeah. Virginia.”
He thumps the steering wheel with his fist. Hard. His dark eyes shine with moisture. I’ve never seen him so upset before. “Don’t go. Please? I’ll let you stay with me.”
I’ll bet you would. “I can’t, Tommy.”
“You won’t.”
“Yeah, whatever.” An almost careless shrug twitches my shoulders. “I’m having a baby for Dani and her fiancé.”
He steps out of the truck and slams the door. “Pregnant? Without even talkin’ to me?”
“Don’t you yell at me! It was none of your freaking business.”
Tommy steps close, his whole face twisted with pain and anger.
“You gonna hit me? Huh?”
His jaw clenches, but the rage does a slow fade. We stare at each other as his sadness grows. “Well, I guess it never will be then, neither.” Tommy gets back into his truck and screeches on down the road.
“Goodbye, Tommy.” Guess that didn’t go so well, huh?
Sold. A renegade tear escapes. The drop runs down my face, drips off my chin, and loses itself in the grass. Here’s one for lost love? Yeah. Guess so.
Nausea pummels me then. I dash back inside and lean over the kitchen sink till the spasms run their course, then rinse my sorrow down the drain.
Danièle
Six weeks after surgery, my health returns to normal. Almost. I dare not ride a motorbike yet, or sit on anything too firm. Tailbone pain whispers to me after a busy day. I s
till require a pillow between my knees to sleep, but at least I no longer need pain medication or sleeping pills or maxi pads.
The home buyers offer to purchase most of the furnishings. Melanie and I take Mr. Fairbairn’s clothes—and some of hers—to the local Salvation Army. What remains are a few precious memories—photos, scrapbooks, trophies, and family treasures, such as the flow blue china I bubble wrapped earlier.
I tape the last box of dishes closed and push it into the corner with the others. A half dozen shipping cartons are all that remain of a once-vibrant household.
You’re too quiet. “Maybe they’re wrong,” I say.
Melanie’s cheerfulness evaporated when her first post-implantation ultrasound revealed only one heartbeat. She glances up from scrubbing the refrigerator. “Yeah. Maybe. Your dad has a jet?”
If I push her, she’ll withdraw even further. “The trust owns the airplane. He leases a portion of the flight time for personal use.” After I told my mother that Mrs. Fairbairn intended to sell everything, including her car, Mum offered to drop her old friend off in Atlanta. When I asked, my mother also agreed to an overnight hotel stay before leaving Miami.
Melanie closes the refrigerator door and glances at her watch. “I’m done. You wanna shower first?”
“Why don’t you? I’d like to jog a bit.”
We spent most of the day cleaning and packing boxes. Dust and grime cover my arms. No doubt I’ve smeared dirt on my face. In a few hours, my parents will arrive. Perhaps Randy as well. I have one last opportunity to run in the Florida sunshine.
Outside, a breath of cool air sweeps my face, even as hot sunshine dances across my skin. On the other side of the street, rain nourishes flowering trees. I stretch my arms above my head and yawn. What a marvelous place.
I sprint a block toward the university, but the jarring proves too much, so I slow to a brisk walk. Six weeks without running has stolen my breath away. How long will it take to get back into shape? Has losing a testis and gaining vaginal depth altered something fundamental? The psychologists always associated physical strength with masculinity.
A mile from home, I sprint back toward the house until my lungs burn. I stand then, hands on my knees, and pant until the darkness clears.
Well, what’s done is done. I shake my head and continue walking.
In my peripheral vision, a white van paces me. Cooper? I walk around to the driver’s side. “What’re you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” The always-serious security officer cracks a smile. “You should be more careful.”
I take in my surroundings then. Situational awareness, my father calls it.
Alone. On a quiet side street. A block from the relative safety of the Fairbairn home. No ID. Not even my cell phone on me. Would anyone notice if someone dragged me into a van and sped away? Probably not. I walk on a bit faster. No. Daddy would not approve.
Cooper backs into the Fairbairns’ driveway and gets out.
I give him a quick hug. “This is a welcome surprise. Are you on vacation, or does my uncle suspect a terrorist attack?”
One eyebrow twitches up Cooper’s forehead. I’ve been teasing him since the day he started working for the company. His eyes perform a quick scan of the neighborhood, as though he thinks my comment serious. “I’m in town for recurrent training and a bit of R and R.” He nods toward the house. “You have some packages for Atlanta?”
He insists on loading the boxes himself. After I carry out two of the smaller ones, he stops and frowns at me until I go back inside and wait. Not that I blame him. Daddy would be cross if Cooper let me hurt myself.
Cooper’s the sort of man whose raw virility reminds me how little effect male hormones have on my body. I wonder what the honorably-discharged officer thinks of spending his days acting as chauffeur and bodyguard to a rich girl who ignores his security protocols.
With the last two cartons under one arm, Cooper stops in the doorway, “Anything else needs to go?”
I get up and hug him again. “No. See you tonight?”
“I’m your wheels.” He nods and pulls the door shut.
Melanie strolls into the kitchen, wearing only a bra and panties. In one hand she holds the new top I gave her. “Was that Ethan? What a hunk!”
The door swings open again, and Cooper pokes his head into the room. “Don’t forget to lock up.”
Melanie’s blouse falls to the floor. Freckles die in a panic of roses blooming across her cheeks. One hand goes to her mouth as an embarrassed squeal bursts from her lips.
The door snaps shut.
Melanie throws me a deadly warning—if I laugh, she’ll kill me.
I bite my lip to keep from smiling, turn my back to her, and lock the door. When I look again, she’s gone.
You two would make a brilliant couple.
Melanie
Back in my room, I finish dressing in front of the mirror. Like I actually care about my looks for a change. Dani gave me a nice silk blouse and a black skirt—not even my Sunday best is good enough for meeting her mother.
Should I care?
Well, yeah. Guess so. Dani always dresses nice. And wears makeup. I’ll miss my blue jeans, but in a couple of weeks, they won’t fit anyhow.
In the mirror, Dani’s face peeks over my shoulder. “I’m sorry. That was Cooper—Clarence Cooper. He’s a driver, bodyguard, and whatever else the company requires. Uncle Randolph hired him right out of the Marine Corps.” A mischievous grin overtakes the girl’s face. “He’s single.”
What would happen if I married somebody who worked for the Welles? Would the girl let me be nanny if I had kids of my own? “He’s cute.”
“So are you. Let’s do your makeup.”
I follow her into the kitchen and perch on one of the breakfast bar stools.
Dani brushes my cheeks, touches up my eyes, and applies a burnt orange to my lips. No layers of foundation or anything. Not like they do in the online videos. A touch of mascara, but no eyeliner or shadow either. Good. I’m not sure I like makeup in the first place.
“Let me know what you think.” Dani puts everything back into her case and clicks the lid shut.
I stroll into the bathroom and flick on the light switch. Air rushes into my lungs—a silent gasp. So this is what it’s like to be pretty. Doubt almost drives tears from my eyes. Too many good things are happening. I turn away from the mirror and flee to my bedroom.
Dani’s makeup, Dani’s clothes, Dani’s baby—what happens when she doesn’t need me around anymore?
The girl pokes her head into my bedroom. “Our ride’s here.”
Footsteps cross the kitchen—my mother by the sound of them. “Ready to go, honey?”
“Yeah, Mom.” I grab my suitcase and jacket, but stop in the doorway and gaze back at the lonely remains of my old life. Bed, dresser, nightstand, curtains—my father’s death erased all the pleasant memories of childhood and left the room barren. Even my old teddy bear succumbed to melancholy. Hollow eyes beg me not to leave him behind.
The Cooper guy waits in the kitchen. By the door. Guarding the place. When I drag my suitcase into the room, he hoists the thing like it weighs nothing at all, and steps outside.
A minute later, my mother strolls into the kitchen. “You have everything?”
“Yeah.” Nothing’s left for me here, Mom.
Desolation overtakes the living room and seeps into the kitchen. I flee outside. My gaze wanders in the dusk—from the house to the BMW and back again—but I keep them far from the black emptiness of my old memories.
Cooper holds the door for me long after Dani has already slipped into the back seat. A precious memory of Dad beckons to me then—a bright image of our final motorcycle ride before he deployed. Too late, I reach a hand toward the fading image. I’ll never see you again.
The BMW pulls out of the driveway, and I lose sight of the house as we turn north on Alhambra Circle. In the dark silence my vision blurs.
Chapter 12
Danièle
The Biltmore Hotel stands less than three miles from the Fairbairn home. Melanie’s eyes glow with the wonder such a place generates in those not yet jaded by their wealth or computer-generated special effects. Mrs. Fairbairn takes her daughter’s hand and strolls into the lobby.
My vision climbs the marble columns up to a sapphire-inlaid ceiling. I bump into Melanie, stop, and gape at my surroundings. We’ve been transported to a Mediterranean palace.
Cooper never gets distracted by the beauty around him, at least not while at work. He escorts Melanie and me up to our room. We drop off our luggage and join my parents in their suite.
Melanie’s mother breaks into a sunny grin. “Hello, Keela.”
“Laura!” Mum rushes to embrace Mrs. Fairbairn.
Melanie’s eyes burn with impatience, but she fidgets in silence while our mothers chat.
Don’t make her wait long, Mum. She’s not your daughter.
A minute passes. After five, Mum gazes in our direction, flashes her blue eyes, and nods my cue.
“You remember Mrs. Fairbairn’s daughter, Melanie.”
“Why of course. What a lovely young woman you’ve become.”
Melanie looks as refined as any of my preparatory school classmates. “Thank you, Mrs. Welles,” she says.
Mum gives Melanie a cordial smile. Melanie’s left a satisfactory first impression.
My mother fixes her searching gaze on me next. I refuse to echo the doubt she transmits.
A knock at the door provides a welcome interruption. “Room service.”
Cooper signals us to leave. Mum rolls impatient eyes, but takes Mrs. Fairbairn’s hand and walks down the hallway.
I nudge Melanie toward the second bedroom. “Let’s go wash up.” No need to explain my father’s security rules.
In the bathroom, she eyes me in the mirror. “Are you in the witness protection program or something?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Well, yeah. Everybody around you is paranoid.”
“My father and Uncle Randolph worked for British Military Intelligence during the Troubles in Northern Ireland.”