Cheesecake and Teardrops (32 page)

“Chase, I swear you've gotten huge since I saw you last,” Nate said, taking a sip of coffee. “How's the baby doing?”

“The baby's just fine. I brought the latest sonogram.”

Chase reached inside her purse for the picture. “But I still don't wanna know the sex. There are so few surprises in life.” She leaned forward and handed Nate the sonogram.

“I know what you mean,” he agreed, looking at the photo of the baby before handing it to Charisma, who sat next to him on the sofa. Charisma looked at the sonogram, nodded, and handed it back to Chase.

“So you're still set on adoption?” he asked Chase.

“Yes,” she said.

“That's why we called you over. Charisma and I have a proposition for you. We'd like to adopt the baby,” he told her.

Chase chose her words carefully. “Charisma, let's be honest, okay? There is no love lost between us. None. And now you want to adopt my baby? Why?”

“Chase, you're absolutely right. We've had our moments—lots of them. And when I first found out you were pregnant, I could have killed you. But that baby you're carrying is also my husband's. Rather than having it raised by complete strangers, we would rather keep the baby in the family. True, you and I have had our differences, but let's not make an innocent child suffer because of it. Especially when there's a better solution.”

“I think I'll take that decaf now,” Chase said, rubbing her belly.

“No problem. Are you hungry?” Charisma asked her.

“I stay hungry. Pregnancy is unbelievable. No wonder I'm big as a house.” Chase shook her head. “And I'm not due until December.”

“You sit here and relax, and I'll whip us up some breakfast.” Charisma stood.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Chase asked.

“No, I'm good. You relax,” Charisma said. Charisma prepared fresh fruit, omelets, salmon cakes, English muffins, juice, and coffee. They ate in the dining room. Chase ate generous portions of everything.

Neither Nate nor Charisma pressured her in any way. They just let the conversation flow naturally, discussing work issues, the latest movies, and current events.

“Charisma, that was delicious. I can barely boil water, but you are some cook.” Chase smiled.

“Glad you enjoyed it,” Charisma said, sipping her juice.

Chase glanced at her Movado watch. “I hate to eat and run, but I don't want to be late for an appointment. I'm learning that the world doesn't revolve around Chase Martini.” She chuckled lightly. “And I'll think seriously about your proposition. Honestly.” She got up from the table and checked her watch again.

Nate and Charisma escorted Chase to the front door.

“I'll get back to you both as soon as I can,” Chase promised.

“We appreciate that,” Nate said.

“Thanks.” Charisma smiled. She closed the door behind her and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Well, we've done our part,” Nate assured her.

“All we can do now is hope and pray,” Charisma added.

Two weeks passed and no word from Chase. Charisma was a bundle of nerves. What if Chase said no? Then again, maybe no news was good news. Charisma had only mentioned their desire to adopt the baby to her mother, not wanting to jinx anything.

Jena had a heart-to-heart with her daughter. “I know you want a baby, sweetheart, but can you deal with raising a child of Nate's with another woman?”

“I think I can. As a matter of fact, I know I can.”

“Then you have my blessing, and I look forward to my first grand.”

 

Nate and Charisma ran out to When We Were Queens. Cinderella had developed an award-winning men's line that kept Nate's face baby smooth and free from razor bumps. He didn't mind dropping by the shop to replenish his supply, and he didn't mind investing the time, effort, and money required to maintain his appearance.

They had just returned home and were sitting down to dinner in the kitchen when they got the call.

“Hi, Nate, it's Chase.”

“Just a second, Chase.” He put the phone next to Charisma's ear so that she could hear too.

“I hope I didn't catch you two at a bad time,” Chase began.

“Not at all,” Nate and Charisma said.

“First of all, I owe you both an apology for taking the Madison account from you, Charisma, and making your life miserable,” Chase admitted.

“Apology accepted, Chase,” Charisma said.

“Thank you.” Chase paused. “I guess I'll keep this short and sweet. I've decided that you can adopt the baby. At least I'll know that she's loved.”

“She?” Charisma asked.

“Yeah, it's a girl.”

“Oh my God. Thank you so much, Chase. How can I ever repay you?” Charisma asked.

“I feel that you'll be a good mother to my child, but Charisma, every time you look into my child's eyes, I want you to remember that all white women aren't bitches.”

Chase was right. Charisma would never again refer to her as Miss Crappuccino or Upper-Middle ass. She began to cry tears of joy.

Nate spoke for them both. “Thank you, Chase. Thank you. Our attorneys will be in touch.”

“I think it's best if we handle this as soon as possible. I'll see you both soon,” Chase said before they all hung up.

The following week they all sat down with their attorneys to sign the legal adoption papers pending the paternity-test results. Charisma was only slightly surprised to see Nico representing Chase. Shaking both Nate and Charisma's hands, he conducted himself like the professional he was. She was grateful for that.

After the papers were signed, Nate went to bring the car around. Charisma and Nico had a moment alone.

“Listen, Nico. I'm sorry things didn't work out for us,” she said.

“Don't worry about it,” Nico said with his hands in his pocket. “I'm a big boy. I wish you and your husband all the best.”

“Thank you, Nico.”

Heather's scale had reached a new low when she stepped on it that morning. She was pleasantly surprised to have lost another four pounds. That brought her grand total to forty-two pounds. She was amazed. She jumped off, showered, and headed to work.

She parked her car on Hillside Avenue. By the time she walked into the library, she was huffing and puffing, trying to catch her breath. Although her breathing finally returned to normal, the pain in her chest remained. Heather tried to dismiss it, blaming it on her busy schedule and working out four days a week. By early afternoon, she was not doing any better. She told her boss she was exhausted and drove herself home. Heather went straight to bed, and slept all the way through the next morning. She didn't even hear her mother come in the night before. She was out for the count. When she did finally wake up, it was well past ten. There was no way she could make it in to work, so she called in. She dragged herself out of bed, barely able to lift her leadlike legs off the floor. What the hell was going on? Heather made herself a light breakfast—toast and coffee—and threw it right up. She was starving, but she couldn't keep anything down. She wanted to take some ibuprofen for her splitting headache, but couldn't on an empty stomach. So she prepared a cool washcloth from the bathroom for her forehead and went back to bed.

By the time her mother returned home that evening, Heather had a low-grade fever. Leola insisted that she come upstairs and get in her old bed. Leaning on her mother for support, she climbed the basement stairs. Settled in her old bedroom, Heather managed to keep a half bowl of chicken soup down—for a minute, anyway. She had just enough time to make it to the bathroom, but unfortunately, she couldn't get the toilet seat up fast enough. She vomited all over the toilet. Leola insisted that she get right back in bed, that she'd handle the cleanup herself. Too exhausted to argue, Heather gladly went back to her room and drifted off to sleep.

This time she awoke to the delicious aroma of her mother's baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and string beans. She was famished, having not had a real meal in two days. Her mother brought her a small plate of dinner on a tray, and she tried to eat as best she could. Moments later she was once again headed for the bathroom, but luckily this time it was a false alarm. Relieved, she headed back to bed.

Her mother came to check on her with a thermometer in hand. Heather's temperature had gone up another degree. Leola sponged her daughter down with alcohol, trying to make her as comfortable as possible. When she returned half an hour later, Heather's fever had jumped to 102 degrees, and her pulse was racing. It was time to go to the emergency room. She went down to Heather's apartment, grabbed some underclothes, a pair of yoga pants, a top and sneakers, and quickly helped her dress.

She drove Heather to Jamaica Hospital's emergency room. Having worked in the emergency room several years ago, Leola was familiar with the staff. After waiting a few minutes, she was relieved for the prompt attention Heather received. Shortly after, a bed was found for her. Heather changed into a hospital gown, and a nurse took her blood pressure. The attending physician, Dr. Voltra, came by to prepare her chart. He spoke with Leola and she filled him in on Heather's condition. Then, he turned his attention to Heather. Did she have any known drug allergies? Was she pregnant? What medication, if any, was she currently on?

Heather hated to admit in her mother's presence that she was taking Z3K without being under a doctor's supervision, but her health was obviously being compromised. She sighed and grabbed the railing for support, her damp hair matted along her forehead. She couldn't bear to look in her mother's eyes, preferring to watch Dr. Voltra instead.

“I've been purging and taking Z3K for a couple of months. It's a diet pill that—”

“I know all about Z3K,” Dr. Voltra assured her, making notes.

“Well, I don't,” Leola said. “What the hell is Z3K?”

“It's the latest miracle diet pill on the black market. It's not FDA approved and for good reason. Based on preliminary testing, it carries a high risk of heart failure, diabetes, and stroke,” Dr. Voltra told her. “And bingeing and purging also carry serious health risks.”

“Heather, what the hell were you thinking?” Leola asked her daughter. “Are you crazy?”

“I just wanted to lose some weight,” Heather insisted. “I was so tired of being fat.”

“Then you cut calories, exercise, see a nutritionist. You don't try to kill yourself with pills, for goodness sake. You could've been killed. What's wrong with you?” Leola shook her head. “And purging?”

“I'm sorry.” Heather began to cry. “I'm sorry.”

“Okay,” Dr. Voltra said. “Hindsight is twenty-twenty. Let's bring that fever down and get you well. Heather, we'll be doing some blood work, we'll start you on an IV, and admit you as soon as a bed is available. Hang in there. Leola, can I see you for a moment?” he asked.

Leola joined the doctor a few yards away. Heather tried to make out what they were saying. It was hard, especially when another doctor was being paged over the PA system. Leola and the doctor spoke for several minutes before Leola returned to her daughter's side.

Three hours later Heather was admitted to five east. Once settled into her room, she insisted that her mother go home and get some rest. Her fever had broken and she was resting comfortably. Heather was hooked up to a heart monitor and every few hours a nurse would come in to check on her.

Early the next morning Heather got up and headed for the bathroom. Like all women forced to wash in a basin, she washed as high as possible, as low as possible, and then she just washed possible. It was bad enough washing with an IV attached. She thanked God that she wasn't on her period.

That would have been a real mess. Heather was scheduled for a battery of tests. Wearing the same yucky green hospital gown that covered her body the night before in emergency, Heather made her way to the stress-test clinic with the assistance of an orderly named Felipe. The orderly safely secured her in a wheelchair before wheeling her into the elevator for the second floor. Still connected to an IV, Heather was starving, since she hadn't eaten anything since a bland chicken and mixed vegetable dinner six hours earlier. Her stomach churned as Felipe helped her out of the wheelchair and into a wooden seat outside the clinic.

After about fifteen minutes, Heather was called inside. The nurse helped her with her IV bag and led her into the room, which consisted of four treadmills. The nurse hooked up several monitors to Heather's chest and back before the testing began. She explained exactly what the test would consist of as she helped Heather climb up on the treadmill. The entire exam was over before Heather knew it. In fact, she waited longer for Felipe to return with the wheelchair than she did for the entire test to end. She watched an old rerun of
The Jeffersons
on the wide screen television in the waiting area with the other patients. A couple of nurses were chowing down on pancakes and sausages at the front desk. They smacked, swallowed, and slurped coffee, apparently oblivious to Heather's famished state.

Finally, Felipe arrived along with her ride. He quickly checked her identification bracelet, grabbed her chart from the nurse's station, helped her into the wheelchair, and together they headed back to five east. To say that Heather was relieved that breakfast was being served was an understatement. When she returned to her room, the bed had already been made and two fresh hospital gowns lay on the pillow. The bed next to hers was still vacant. She had the room to herself. Just as she was about to sit on the side of the bed, there was a light tap at the door.

Heather was never so happy to see her mother in her life. Carrying a large tote bag and dressed in her nurse's uniform, a smiling Leola walked in. She placed the bag in a nearby chair and gave Heather a big hug. Heather gave her mom a big, fat kiss before releasing her.

She grabbed the tote from the chair, rummaging through its contents. She was anxious to discard the hospital's best and change into her own pajamas. She quickly closed the curtain surrounding her bed for privacy. With Leola's help, it only took a few moments to slip into her pajama bottom and top and rearrange the IV bag. She was thankful that Leola had brought her personal toiletries and her comb and brush, which she immediately put to use. Her mother had even thrown in a couple of issues of
Ebony
and
Essence
magazines and a container of disinfectant wipes.

Heather placed the tote in her lower nightstand drawer, but not before Leola grabbed the disinfectant wipes and wiped down the nightstand and the bed. She then headed for the bathroom to sanitize the toilet, the face bowl and all the fixtures, as well as the doorknobs and light switches.

“I called your boss and told her you were in the hospital,” Leola said.

“Did she give you the third degree?”

“No, I just told her that I rushed you to emergency, and that you were admitted.”

“Oh, what time is it?” Heather asked.

“Ooh, I almost forgot.” Leola reached inside her pants pocket and gave Heather her watch.

“Thanks.”

It was a little past eight. Heather fastened the watch onto her right wrist as breakfast arrived. “I am so hungry,” she admitted to the server, who grinned in return.

“That's a good sign,” Leola told her daughter. “Here, get back in bed.” She helped Heather adjust the table to a comfortable height and removed the cover from the plate.

Heather was given a low-sodium, low-fat meal. She frowned at the sight of the lukewarm oatmeal, a soft-boiled egg, and a slice of wheat bread. There was a pat of butter, a container of orange juice, and a carton of skim milk on the side.

“After all the weight I've lost, you'd think they wouldn't mind giving me something that would stick to my ribs.” Heather sucked her teeth.

“I'm sure they're waiting for the test results before they decide on your dietary needs.”

Heather tried to enjoy the meal as best she could, but it wasn't easy. “What time does the TV and phone man come?”

“Probably around ten. I'll leave you some money and tell them at the desk that you want your phone and TV connected.”

She handed Heather a twenty.

“Thanks, Ma.”

“Well, I better get to work. Have one of the nurses call me when your doctor comes in. I want to hear what he has to say.”

“Okay, Ma.”

“Love you, gotta run. Now make sure you eat.” She gave Heather a quick hug before opening the blinds to let the sun in.

“See you later,” Heather said as she swallowed a spoonful of bland oatmeal. Barely touching her egg, she took a few sips of the warm orange juice and called it a done deal. She laid back in bed, trying to rest her mind. She had never been hospitalized before and besides being completely bored, she was worried about her health. She wasn't in any real pain, but she felt a deep sense of pressure with every breath she took. Sure, she now looked better in her jeans, but at what cost?

Heather closed her eyes and tried to relax, blocking out the noise coming from the nearby nurses' station. Apparently, she had dozed off, awakening to the sound of a male voice. It was the phone-TV man. He was a short, middle-aged man dressed in a dark blue uniform.

“You want to be connected?” he asked.

“Yes,” Heather answered. “How much is it?”

“Twenty dollars a day to hook up both.”

“All right,” she said simply, giving him the twenty-dollar bill her mother had given her. “How long will it take?”

“Give me about fifteen minutes.” He reached in his left chest pocket for a pen and receipt book and handed her a receipt. On his way out, he nearly collided with the food server, who had returned to pick up Heather's breakfast tray. Evidently, they knew each other, stopping for a few moments to say hello.

“You hardly ate your breakfast,” the twenty-something girl said to Heather. She was from the islands. Heather couldn't tell which one.

“I guess I wasn't hungry.”

“Nothing like home cooking, eh?” she said and they both laughed. “I know it's hard, but eat, get your strength back, and you'll be outta here in no time. Okay?”

Heather nodded. “From your lips to God's ears.”

“Take care, now.” She smiled on her way out.

Heather reached down, opened the nightstand drawer, and pulled out the disinfectant wipes. She proceeded to wipe down the telephone and the remote. She was truly her mother's daughter. Thank goodness the TV was on. She watched a few cooking shows before getting bored. Unfortunately, daytime TV didn't boast the most intriguing shows. She began flipping channels again before settling on one of the soaps. Funny, she hadn't seen that particular show in years, but she was able to catch up on a couple of the story lines.

One of the nurses came in to change the IV solution, advising her that the doctor was making rounds and would be in to see her shortly. Evidently, by hospital standards,
shortly
meant over an hour. She called her mother, who arranged to have someone cover for her and was there in no time. Heather had lunch, more bland food. This time it was fish and stewed tomatoes. Heather was not amused. How was she supposed to keep her strength up on this stuff when she could barely keep it down?

Heather got up to use the bathroom, fussing with each step she took. When she returned, she was relieved to see that the doctor had arrived. Dr. Goldberg was a slim white man of medium build. With a white lab coat over his suit and a stethoscope around his neck, he could have just returned from vacation in the sun.

“This must be our patient,” he said as Heather got back in bed. “I'm Dr. Goldberg, and you are a very lucky young lady.”

“She certainly is,” Leola said. “I'm her mother, Leola Grey. I work in neonatal.”