by Beverly Bird
“But you are.”
Not lately. It was as if something inside her was rebelling, she thought. All her predictability and orderliness hadn’t saved her from Hines, after all.
“You’re actually doing very well,” Cross said. “A lot of people suffering PTSD even exhibit physical symptoms.”
Cait blinked at him. “Like what?”
“Headaches, nausea, backaches, missed periods.”
Cait shook her head. “No, I haven’t experienced any of—”
Then she broke off as her heart rolled over. It dawned on her in that moment that her period was a couple of days late.
Something start to shake inside her. It was just as Dr. Cross had said, she assured herself. It was a physical reaction to her ordeal. The hostage situation had seriously gotten to her. She was still so addled by it that she hadn’t even realized she was late until just this moment! And she was always prepared, always armed with her calendar, because she was exceptionally regular.
Cait covered her face with her hands. She was falling apart. Even her body was betraying her now.
“Are you all right?” Kenny asked as he returned to their table and placed a glass of champagne in front of her.
She looked up again quickly. “I’m fine.” Her heart was thundering. She was going to be sick. What if she had gotten pregnant in that underground room?
How much further out of control could her life spin?
Cait leaped to her feet. Kenny and Jared stared at her.
“What is it?” Jared asked.
“I…I think I left a candle burning at home.” It was the first thing that came to her mind.
“Is there a neighbor you can call?” Cross asked, concerned.
“I…no.” She shook her head and ran her fingers nervously through her hair. “I have to go.”
“I’ll give you a lift,” Kenny offered. “We can check it out and come back.”
“No,” she said again, and even she heard the thin reed of desperation in her voice. “That’s not necessary.” Cait grabbed her purse and fled.
“Your friend seems upset,” Kimberlie Leon said to Sam on the dance floor.
He looked around quickly, just in time to see roughly a hundred pounds of trim and glittering mint-green sail out the ballroom door. He’d been trying hard to keep his mind off her. Now something kicked him hard in the chest. Something was wrong. He unwrapped his arms from Kimberlie’s voluptuous body.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
“What’s wrong with you tonight, anyway?” she demanded.
Sam looked at her, surprised. “Nothing’s wrong with me.”
She had her hands on her hips now and looked very unhappy. “Well, I’m here to tell you that you’re nothing like what they said.”
“Like who said?” He was genuinely dumbfounded. “Why not?”
“Rumor had it that you could make a woman feel like a million dollars. I feel like chump change!”
Sam was seriously appalled. He didn’t want that getting out. “I’m sorry.”
“Then finish dancing with me.” She held her arms out to him again.
He glanced at the ballroom door. Cait was long gone, but maybe he could still catch up with her outside. It would take the valet a few minutes to get her car. “I can’t.” He left Kimberlie and started off the dance floor.
“Who is she, anyway?” Kimberlie shouted after him angrily.
“Just some sparrow,” he muttered under his breath. One who had somehow managed to get under his skin while he hadn’t been paying attention. He hurried out into the corridor and to the staircase leading downstairs.
He jogged outside just as her car sped away down the circular drive. He swore aloud.
“Would you like your car, sir?” the valet asked.
“No.” His voice was a frustrated growl. He’d missed her by seconds. His heart was still moving hard.
Sam turned back inside. He was going to have to do something about this. About this situation. About her. Unfortunately he had no idea what.
When he got back to the ballroom, Kimberlie Leon was dancing with Kenny Estrada. Sam wasn’t surprised.
The woman was seated at a table by herself at the far end of the ballroom. Her pathetic excuse for a date had gone to get her another drink.
His timing had actually been perfect. If she’d been preoccupied with him, she might not have noticed what was going on with little Nurse Matthews. Then again, a portion of her attention had been on her—and on Sam Walters—all night.
Something was afoot, she decided, something interesting. She had never been above using another person’s weaknesses or problems for her own gain, but in this case she couldn’t imagine what Caitlyn Matthews’s obvious upset might mean to her. She pursed her lips, thinking about it. One minute the little twit had been talking to Jared Cross, then that slick intern had come back and she’d jumped up to run. The woman doubted the intern had had anything to do with it. But she’d put money on it having been something that Dr. Cross had said.
As for Sam, he hadn’t taken his eyes off Caitlyn all night. And Kimberlie Leon was one seriously ticked-off doctor. The woman laughed aloud at that.
Hospitals weren’t altogether bad places, after all.
There was only one way to find out what was going on, she decided, eyeing her date as he headed back toward their table. Poor little Nurse Matthews obviously needed a friend, someone she could confide in.
“Here you go,” her date said, offering her a fresh drink.
The woman took it and grinned like a cat.
Five
Cait didn’t even make it home without stopping at an all-night drugstore.
“You’re being an absolute ninny,” she said to herself through clenched teeth, sitting behind the wheel of her car after she parked. “It’s just two days.” But she was never late. Her body had always been as orderly as the rest of her life.
Cait had a sudden mental image of a firecracker spiraling crazily out of control. That was all that was left of her old self these days, she thought desperately—a bunch of errant, fizzling sparks. Pregnant?
She had to know, and as soon as possible. There was no sense in going off the deep end until she had the facts. But she needed them immediately. If she was pregnant, she had to start taking better care of herself. Not that she hadn’t always done so before. She was very careful about her cholesterol—after all, her great-aunt, the only relative she knew anything about, had died of a heart attack. She took multivitamins daily, never neglected a flu shot. But if she was pregnant, then these ridiculous PTSD symptoms were simply going to have to go away.
She groaned aloud and got out of her car. She went inside and stood staring at the intimidating array of pregnancy test kits. Suddenly she had a flash of the liquor store again, of all those bottles of wine and liquors. First booze, now a pregnancy test, she thought giddily. What was next?
She read the back of each box carefully. It was difficult because her hands were shaking and the print kept jumping. Again and again she squeezed her eyes shut and opened them, forcing herself to focus. She finally found what she wanted, one that claimed to give an accurate answer even if a woman was only a day late.
Cait turned to the cash register with it. She waited, her heart leaping in her chest like a rabbit, half expecting the cashier to make some mention of what she was buying. But the girl was clearly not interested. Cait paid for the test and snatched up the bag, then forced herself to walk calmly from the store.
Billy the Kid was lying in the living-room window when she let herself into her apartment, waiting and watching for her as he always did. He looked around when she came in, feigning disinterest, and that was an old trick, too. Then he attempted to roll over on the sill. With a panicked squawk and a thud, he landed on the floor.
Cait dropped the bag and ran to him. “Oh, Billy. Poor baby.” She caught him just as he was about to jump up and run away. She stroked his orange fur, crooning to him. “This has been h
ard on you, too, hasn’t it? You were wrapped in a baby blanket, shot at, and now I’ve disrupted your routine.” He looked at her, his eyes accusing, as if to say, You never go out at night. It’s dark out there and you’re just coming in. What’s this about?
“I’m sorry,” she apologized automatically. Then she had another staggering thought. What would a baby do to poor Billy’s life? And what if she let her baby roll off the window ledge?
Cait pressed her fingers to her temples. What was she thinking? Babies didn’t lie on window ledges! Okay, then, a bassinet. Or a changing table. She couldn’t handle a baby if she was wacky like this, she thought again. She had to calm down, had to get back to herself. Yes, she thought, this PTSD nonsense was definitely going to have to go.
Cait stood and went back for the bag she’d dropped. She took it into her bathroom, pulled the box out and set it carefully on top of the toilet so it would be readily available in the morning. Ten minutes later she lay in bed, her eyes deliberately closed. Then she jackknifed into a sitting position, letting out an involuntary squeal.
What about Sam?
He’d made it clear what he thought of her. He’d obviously considered her to be nothing more than an amusing diversion while they’d been held captive. He wouldn’t want the responsibility of a child, wouldn’t want anything to do with it. He was the most emphatic bachelor she had ever met. What if he tried to make her get rid of the baby? Or what if she was misreading him completely and he nosed his way in on the whole business?
A baby would disrupt her life enough, Cait thought. Babies did what they wanted, when they wanted and how they wanted. They did not listen to reason. She couldn’t even comprehend what the inclusion of Sam Walters in the mix would do to her world.
“Get hold of yourself,” she hissed. She didn’t even know yet if it was true, if she was…pregnant.
Even thinking the word made her stomach somersault all over again. She realized that she literally felt ill, the way she had before going into the hospital for the first time after her ordeal. Cait clapped a hand to her mouth. It was psychosomatic, she assured herself. Her nerves—and her wild mental rantings—were making her sick to her stomach. Or maybe it was as simple as those sips of champagne on a mostly empty stomach. It probably had nothing to do with being…with being…
“Pregnant,” she whispered.
There, she’d said it aloud. And though her heart thrummed, it didn’t actually arrest.
But what about Sam?
If she was pregnant, then she could never, ever let him know, she decided. Something squeezed in the area of her chest, but she knew it was the best thing she could do. She would change jobs, move to another city. What really held her in Mission Creek, after all? She’d been alone her whole life; she could raise a child that way, as well. She just couldn’t do it here, right under Sam’s nose.
Cait lay back down carefully and closed her eyes again. It wasn’t until she was dozing off that her whirling thoughts finally settled into something a little more coherent. It occurred to her that in all her wild ramblings, every panic-ridden possibility involved keeping the baby.
Cait was awake before the alarm went off the next day. She hurried into the bathroom at first light, tripping over Billy on the way. He let out an indignant yowl and fled into the living room. She forgot to go after him to tell him that she was sorry. She closed and locked the bathroom door, forgetting, too, that she lived alone and no one was likely to intrude.
Then she did the test.
Cait carried the little stick back to the bedroom and placed it on her dresser. Then she sat on her bed and watched the nightstand clock. One minute passed with excruciating deliberation. Time crawled. She whimpered with frustration.
Two minutes. Three. It was finally time to look at the stick, but she found that she couldn’t get up from the bed to go see.
Another full minute passed before Cait managed to stand. She crept to the dresser. Closed her eyes. Looked down. Opened them again.
Positive.
She gave a small cry of distress and felt her knees start to fold. She grabbed the stick and ran to the bathroom to get the carton and compare the stick to the picture there. A pink line meant positive. It was definitely positive.
Well, then.
Suddenly a quiet sense of calm and wonder stole over her. She could do this, she realized again. It was really just a matter of organizing, planning, getting her life in the proper order to accommodate a newborn. And she had nine whole months to do that. Well, eight and a half. But organizing was something she was very good at. It wouldn’t take her that long.
She put a hand to her tummy. A baby. Someone to belong to, who would belong to her. Finally. It was overwhelming. Her throat closed.
She finally dropped the box and the stick into the trash can. Within half an hour she had showered and dressed in jeans and a pink T-shirt. She sat at her kitchen table and dutifully shoveled in spoonfuls of cornflakes.
A baby.
She read the nutritional values on the back of the cereal box avidly. It might be time to take a step up from the generic brand, she thought. She would have to compare the vitamin percentages the next time she was in the grocery store.
But her first order of business was Sam.
Cait took her bowl to the sink and rinsed it out. She had to put as much space between them as possible and as soon as possible. Her heart squeezed. They’d worked together for four years. He knew her well, at least in a professional capacity. What if her behavior tipped him off? If she suddenly felt repeatedly queasy or light-headed, he would notice. She could hardly be running to the bathroom every ten minutes to toss up her cookies without him wondering why.
Cait found her car keys and drove to the hospital.
This time she didn’t hesitate as she parked and went inside. She was a woman with a mission. She went directly to the personnel office and sat, flipping through a magazine, until a counselor came out of one of the back rooms. She was a statuesque blonde in a ruby-red blouse and trim denim jeans. She looked surprised to see Cait. “Can I help you?”
Cait put the magazine down quickly. “Yes, please. I need to speak to someone about a transfer.”
“Well, go on back to my office. What’s your name? I’ll get your file.”
Cait told her and went back to the only room with an open door and lights on. She sat and waited for the woman to return.
When the counselor did, she dropped a blue folder on her desk and sat behind it neatly. “A transfer, hmm?”
Cait nodded. “To another physician. I’m an RN here.”
“Yes.”
Cait was startled. “It’s that easy? I can have a transfer just like that?”
“Well, pretty much. But what I meant was, yes, I know you’re an RN. I’ve glanced at your file. I’m Nancy Walters, by the way.”
Cait smiled politely and nodded, then her heart jumped over a beat. “Walters?”
The woman smiled. “Bingo. I was married to Sam Walters, a physician on staff here. The one you apparently want to be reassigned from. Does that make this awkward?”
Yes, Cait thought. No. “Oh, my. I didn’t realize you work here.” And she’d never heard that Sam had been married. Then again, she tried to stay away from gossip.
“I only started a few months ago,” Nancy explained. “If you like, I can hold your file for another counselor. Emmy Metican will be in tomorrow. I just stopped in to catch up on some things. That’s the only reason you caught me here on a weekend.”
Cait felt herself flushing. “That won’t be necessary,” she said, deciding. “Let’s get this over with.”
Nancy nodded and pulled a green form out of a drawer. “Are you having a problem with Sam?”
“No,” Cait said quickly. She realized suddenly that if she said anything negative about him, his ex-wife could use it against him if she wanted to hurt him. Maybe this was a bad idea, after all.
“We’re still friends,” Nancy said as though reading her m
ind. “Plus, I like my alimony.”
“Ah.” Cait gave a shaky laugh.
“It’s just that, in instances like this, I need to give a reason for the request.”
“That makes sense.”
Nancy waited a moment. “And yours would be?” she asked finally.
“Oh!” Cait opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Well, we were kidnapped together.”
The woman’s expression turned from one of wry humor to compassion. “Yes, I heard about it. Everyone has.”
Cait flinched, reminded of how Tabitha had said everyone was talking about her. “The whole ordeal was painful for me.” Her mind seized on the word Dr. Cross often used. “It was traumatic.”
“I’m sure it was.”
“I want to start over. I…I want to transfer to neonatal.” She hadn’t considered it before, but the words just popped out.
“To the nursery? That’s where it happened, in the new wing, right?”
Cait nodded hard. “Yes.”
“Wouldn’t that be difficult for you, as well?”
“Actually, it’s the people associated with the nightmare that I’m having trouble with, not the location. I went back there last week. I was fine.” Then she thought of the things Sam had said that day and felt her face flame.
Nancy nodded and pretended not to notice. “Some of the people who escaped work in that unit,” she reminded her.
Cait thought fast. “That’s just it. They escaped.”
“But you and Sam didn’t.”
“Exactly. It’s no personal reflection on him at all—or professional, either, for that matter. I’ve worked with him for years. He’s a good doctor. But I need a clean slate now.” She was talking too much, Cait realized. She was babbling. But she badly needed to convince this woman to put in for the transfer. “I want to be able to do my job without constant reminders,” she continued. “And…and Dr. Walters is the only one who seems to remind me of what happened.”
Nancy sat back. “It sounds reasonable to me, but I’m not a psychiatrist.”
“I’m trained in pediatrics,” Cait pointed out.