Courting Disaster (7 page)

“You're hiding from someone?”

She nodded. Stan didn't like that. He had
planned to insist she go to SF General. With a baby ready to pop out, it wasn't as if she had a choice. But if she was scared and hiding…He hated making decisions. Lately, he'd always gone to Angie to help him make them. Maybe he should phone—

“Hey,” the taxicab driver shouted, “I don't want no kids born in this cab. Let's get goin' or I want you both out of here.”

“All right,” Stan said, his anxiety growing. “Head north. Marin General in Greenbrae, just off Highway 101. You know it?”

“Yeah, I know it. Hang on tight. I don't like the way she's moanin'.”

They practically flew across the Golden Gate Bridge. Twenty minutes and one contraction later they reached the emergency entrance. Stan ran inside to get help. He came back out with a wheelchair.

“Good luck, you two,” the cabdriver said, then sped off.

Stan noticed the relief on the man's face as he left them. He would have liked to leave as well—to go back home, back to his nice comfy bed. How had he gotten caught up in this, anyway?

He didn't say a word as he pushed Hannah into the emergency ward, preferring to concentrate on getting her into a doctor's hands and out of his own.

Emergency was fairly quiet, as he expected it might be in this area. The nurse approached. “So this is our mother-to-be,” she said. Stan and Hannah both nodded. “We have some paperwork first.” Stan inwardly groaned.

“Name?” The nurse asked.

Hannah looked so scared, shy, and overwhelmed that Stan answered for her.

“Hannah,” he replied.

“Last name?”

“Uh…” He glanced at Hannah, and the nurse gawked at him.

“Jones,” Hannah said, slightly dazed.

The nurse's mouth twisted skeptically as she wrote. “Address?”

Hannah gave the address of the Athina. Stan also learned she was twenty-three years old and could name no living relative. She'd been raised in foster homes and never knew her parents. She refused to give any information about the father of the child. Somehow, as the nurse continued the questions, Stan found himself holding Hannah's hand tight, doing his best to give moral support.

When the nurse pulled out yet another form, Hannah doubled over with a contraction. Perspiration flowed from Stan's forehead. He was sure she'd give birth right there at the front desk.

“Can't we hurry?” he wailed. The contractions seemed to be only about five minutes apart at this point.

The nurse was unmoved as she asked about insurance coverage. Because Hannah didn't have any, Stan went through a lengthy song-and-dance during which he agreed to pay basic, everything-goes-like-clockwork costs, capped at $12,000. That it could cost so much to have a baby stunned him. Fortunately, his father had plenty of money.

“We're going to send you up to the maternity ward,” the nurse said. “You don't need to be in
emergency, the baby's got a while yet. They'll take good care of you up there.” She then handed copies of the paperwork to Stan. “Give this to the receiving desk on the fifth floor.”

“Me? But…” He gazed longingly over his shoulder toward the exit.

“The elevators are to your left.”

Before he knew it, Stan was not only on the fifth floor, but waiting outside the examination room. Everyone seemed to assume he wanted to stay with Hannah. Rather than argue, he went along. After making sure she was all right, he planned to go straight home.

His own nervousness surprised him, a ridiculous state to be in over someone he'd just met. Someone whose last name he didn't know because whatever it was, it certainly wasn't Jones. She was a stranger to him. Nothing more.

When Dr. Linda Jedlicka peered into the waiting room, Stan jumped to his feet. “Is she all right?”

“She's fine.” The doctor gave him a reassuring smile. “The baby's heartbeat is strong. I expect things will be happening in the next hour or two. She's asked for natural childbirth, so we'll move her into a very nice delivery room set up to look much like a bedroom. If anything goes wrong, though, it's just steps away from a full operating room. You can wait for her in number twelve on the right. When the nurse wheels her in she'll show you a button to press if things start happening more quickly than expected.”

“Me?” Stan felt woozy. “But, you see, I…”

Dr. Jedlicka's eyes were kind as she rubbed his
shoulder. “Don't worry. She'll be just fine. And so will you.”

 

As Stan sat in the delivery room with Hannah, he again considered calling Angie. She should take over here for him. Women understood these things. He didn't. Not the slightest bit. Hannah seemed to find comfort by his presence, though, and he decided to wait a while. Big mistake.

When “things” started to happen, as the doctor put it, all hell broke loose.

All Stan could remember was that he'd tried to leave, he really had, but Hannah was holding his hand so tight his knuckles were squished together, and the nurse gave him a fierce glare as she said, “You aren't going to leave her alone
now,
are you?”

He edged closer to Hannah for protection.

Before he knew it, he'd been tied into a gown like a sausage, and the dictatorial nurse was instructing him to tell Hannah when to breathe.

“Breathe?” His voice cracked. That was the only word he managed to get out of his mouth when the nurse told him exactly what she thought of men who didn't bother to attend Lamaze classes. He was too dumbfounded to speak up for himself, especially when Hannah went into the most violent contraction he'd ever seen.

He took a moment to thank God he wasn't a woman.

The nurse coached him on how to coach Hannah, and he found himself growing increasingly light-headed as he huffed and puffed along with her through the contractions, and wiped sweat from her brow—and his own—in between them.

After what seemed like an eternity, the doctor announced that the crown of the baby's head was visible.

Up to this time, he'd stayed near Hannah's head, her legs draped with a sheet. Now, though, at the excitement Dr. Jedlicka and the nurse displayed, curiosity got hold of him. He peeked. He thought he'd feel like a Peeping Tom, but he didn't. The sight was too overwhelming for there to be anything the slightest bit sexual about it.

Birth, right there, in front of his eyes.

He felt weak in the knees, but he couldn't turn away. He couldn't miss it. He gripped Hannah's hand, and for the first time, smiled at her. “Soon, Hannah. Everything will be fine.”

She was surprisingly stoical. He could tell when the pain came hard, but she never cried out. In fact, between contractions, he heard her thanking him for staying with her. Between her thanks and the nurse's frowns, he'd been frozen to the spot.

And scared. Every little order the doctor gave to Hannah or the nurse was like a stab to his heart.
What's wrong?
He'd wanted to shout.
Is something wrong?
But he'd been too afraid to ask for fear that the doctor would say yes.

Now, though, now…

His head was swimming when the doctor said, “Here it comes.”

Stan held his breath as the baby's entire head emerged, and then watched the doctor ease out a shoulder. He had no idea a baby's bones were so gelatinous.

The hospital room began to spin. The baby was coated with some whitish, reddish gunk. Once the
head and shoulders were out, the rest followed so quickly, Stan couldn't believe it.

“It's a girl!” The doctor announced.

A girl?
His eyes welled with tears.

“She's beautiful,” the nurse said, smiling at Hannah.

“Take the scissors,” the doctor ordered.

From a deep fog, Stan tore his gaze from the baby and realized he was the one the doctor was speaking to. The nurse handed him huge shears.

“Cut,” Dr. Jedlicka said.

The umbilical cord.

Stan moved the scissors where the doctor indicated and pressed down. The cord was much harder than he thought, and as he pressed, he realized that this was living flesh…
alive.

Black and purple spots danced in front of his eyes. He wondered if he'd ever forget the sound of the scissors against the cord, the way it felt as he cut through it.

The nurse was cleaning up the baby, he guessed. He wasn't aware of much of anything except that Hannah was no longer in pain. He was watching the doctor, trying to regain his composure, to be cool, suave Stan once again, when the afterbirth came sliding out of Hannah's body.

And that was when Stan-the-Man fell over in a dead faint.

Angie was ready to give whoever was pounding at her door before eight o'clock in the morning a good piece of her mind, but her annoyance vanished at the sight of Stan, unshaven, disheveled, exhausted, and babbling like a madman.

His story about helping some woman he barely knew give birth was a half sentence from total incoherence. Angie realized it was the waitress, but still, why would some stranger want Stan Bonnette with her at such a time? No one could be that desperate.

He was going to sleep for a while, he said, and asked if she'd drive him back to the hospital later to meet Hannah and the baby. Of course she agreed. She'd never seen Stan in such a state—troubled, confused, and overwhelmingly elated all at the same time. She had to find out what this was all about.

She thought he'd sleep most of the day, but at noon he was shaved, nattily dressed in a sports jacket, knit pullover, gabardine slacks, and loafers,
his hair perfectly coiffed, and ready to head for Marin General.

“How did this happen to me?” Stan asked, wringing his hands as he sat in the passenger seat of her Mercedes. “I just
smiled
at the woman. Next thing I know I'm watching her have a baby. I mean—oh, my God!”

“It doesn't make any sense to me,” Angie admitted.

“I'll say, though, it was lucky for her I went along,” he said proudly. “I kept a clear eye on the doctor and nurses. Made sure they did a good job. At the same time, I kept Hannah calm. The birth was much easier for her because of that, you know.”

“Is that so?” Angie looked at him as if he'd taken leave of his senses.

“Still”—he gave a weary sigh—“I had no idea my smile was so endearing.” He rubbed his eyes. Deep bags were under them. “I may never smile at a strange woman again.”

They soon reached the hospital. At the nursery window, Stan pointed out Baby Jones to Angie. “She's seven pounds, nine ounces,” he said. “With all her fingers and toes. You know, Hannah really did check them. She's a good, healthy size. The doctor said we should have no problems with her.”

Angie was surprised to hear the note of pride in his voice, as if he had something to do with it. “I can't wait to meet Hannah, Daddy.”

“Don't start, Angie,” Stan warned.

Hannah was dozing when they reached her
room, but woke at the sound of footsteps. At the restaurant Angie had thought her to be a plain person, the type a judicious use of makeup might help. But when Hannah smiled at Stan, her face took on a warm glow that made her almost beautiful. He hurried toward her, then stopped, suddenly shy. She held out her hands, and he gripped them tightly as he bent down and kissed her cheek. “You've come back,” she said.

“Yes. And…” He gestured toward Angie in the doorway. Only then did Hannah seem to shrink again into shy plainness. “Hello,” she said, her voice soft.

Angie introduced herself. “Your baby is beautiful.”

“She is,” Hannah said proudly.

“Are you all right?” Stan asked. “Comfortable? You aren't still in any pain, are you? Can I get you some water? Juice?”

“No need, Stan, relax,” Hannah said with a soft chuckle. “They're taking very good care of me. I'm fine, and it's all thanks to you.”

He stared at her, his Adam's apple bobbing as if he needed to swallow but couldn't, then he gave a quick glance at Angie, and finally the floor.

“Have you named the baby yet?” Angie asked.

“Kaitlyn,” Hannah said. “Kaitlyn Emily.” She looked again at Stan. “Since everything went well, Stan, we'll be released tomorrow afternoon. I'll pay you back for all this. It'll take a while, but I will.”

“Don't worry about it,” he said. “Will you go back to your apartment, then? Will there be anyone around to look in on you?”

She shook her head, her mouth firm. “I can't go back to it. I'll get a room for a week or so. After that, I'm not sure. Perhaps Los Angeles. I know some people there.”

“Los Angeles?” Stan was horrified. “You can't take a newborn to Los Angeles. The smog will kill her. A person has to become acclimated to a place like that! You need to stay in San Francisco.” He frowned. “What kind of a room will you stay in? Do you have money for a good room? There are so many dives in this city. You can't take Kaitlyn to a dive.”

“Don't worry, Stan,” Hannah said. “We'll be all right.”

“Maybe you should stay with Angie,” he suggested.

At Angie's stunned and annoyed glower, he quickly added, “Or with me. I've got room. And my apartment is healthy. I keep it clean.”

“I can't accept that,” Hannah said. “It's too much.”

“You can trust me.” Stan turned to Angie. “Tell her. She can trust me. I'd never impose myself. Not that you aren't a beautiful woman, but…you're a mother.” The last word he spoke so reverently that both Angie and Hannah had to smile.

The nurse brought in a tray with a light snack. “The doctor says you're undernourished. You need to build up strength,” she told Hannah, then eyed her visitors. “And rest.”

Stan went to the notepad and pen beside the bedside telephone and scribbled something as he talked. “We'll be here tomorrow,” Stan said, “to help when you're discharged. We'll figure out
what the best place is for you to go to at that time, okay? I wrote down Angie's cell phone number since she'll drive.” He glanced at Angie. “You will, won't you?”

“Sure,” she said, wide-eyed at this new and decisive Stan.

“Angie's number is in case my cell phone isn't working. She's got a Mercedes,” Stan continued. “It'll be a safe car for the baby to ride in.”

Angie knew Stan's cell phone didn't work well because he'd been too cheap to pay for a good one. That had been part of his character, but if he'd paid for a hospital room for a relative stranger, his metamorphosis was even greater than she'd thought.

Hannah frowned with worry, but then she nodded.

As Angie and Stan walked down the hall, Stan paused at the nursery. “Let me take another quick look at Kaitlyn.”

Baby Jones was sleeping, but that didn't stop Stan from waving and making comical faces at her. “Can you believe I actually saw her being born? Being born! It was like…so amazing!”

He stood so straight and stepped so high as they walked down the hall, Angie was surprised he didn't bump his head on the ceiling.

 

“I'm so glad you called me, Hannah. I was worried about you.” Dianne Randle's matronly face was lined with concern. A woman of about fifty-five, she added no color to her short gray hair, and no makeup detracted from the piercing blue of her eyes. Her plump figure gave her a motherly air
that Hannah, as well as many other young women, found comforting.

“Thank you for coming,” Hannah said.

“I checked all the files I could about the young man you told me about. Mr. Bonnette has no record that we're aware of at Social Services, and I asked one of my contacts in the police department to check as well. He seems all right as far as that goes, but still, are you sure you can trust him? Not every sicko comes with a warning label, you know. Sometimes, they don't have any until it's too late.”

The social worker's question gave Hannah pause. Over the past month, Dianne had become a friend as well as the one who had guided her through the government blitz of paperwork needed to take part in California's MediCal program. The sole benefit to Hannah's low salary was access to free prenatal care, hospitalization for the baby's birth, and afterward, Aid to Families with Dependent Children benefits.

Hannah had first learned about the help Social Services gave to unwed mothers through her friend Shelly Farms. Shelly was a strange man—he dressed like one of the homeless, but he was smart, and knew a lot of good people. She'd gone to him when things started to go badly between her and Tyler, and he suggested she go to Social Services.

When Tyler found out, he'd been furious. He insisted he'd take care of everything, but she'd grown wary of him. If it hadn't have been for Shelly, she didn't know how she would have got
ten through this period. Lately, though, he'd stopped coming by the restaurant to visit her. She wondered why. He told her he'd always be there to help her, but he wasn't. It both worried and confused her.

Now Dianne was raising questions about another man Hannah had put her trust in.

“Maybe you're right,” she said. “I should know by now not to trust my judgment.”

“Don't write this new one off completely yet,” Dianne advised. “He might be exactly what you need. I take it your boyfriend Tyler knows nothing about this?”

“Former boyfriend, and no, he doesn't.”

Dianne frowned. “We're going to have to have a serious conversation about your life and where it's going.”

Hannah didn't want to hear it. “Have you heard from Shelly lately?” she asked. “I haven't seen him for days.”

Dianne looked startled by the question. “You don't know—” She stopped abruptly, then smiled and said, “You don't know where he is and neither do I. Perhaps he's simply out finding some lost souls to send me.” She stood and patted Hannah's arm. “And I'm glad he does. Now, don't worry so much. Forget about everything but you and that baby. No newspapers, hear? No TV unless it's a comedy or love story. No depressing news stories, okay?”

Hannah smiled. “Okay.”

“Everything will be all right,” Dianne said, her eyes strangely sad. “I'll be back tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Hannah said.

 

Angie spent the entire evening from the moment Paavo picked her up until halfway through the dinner speculating about Stan, Hannah, and their relationship. She could tell he was becoming bored, and she didn't blame him. Stan was one of his least favorite people, especially when he came to believe that Stan would have preferred to be the one engaged to Angie. She had to laugh at the idea of her and Stan, but Paavo was serious.

He was a lot more interested in her story about a purple cake and a stripper. To her surprise, he was especially intrigued that both callers were women. He seemed lost in thought at that point, and hardly offered any commiseration as she talked about her poor luck at finding the restaurant or banquet hall where her party would be held.

None of this, however, was the reason she'd wanted to go to dinner with him tonight, and it certainly wasn't why she'd chosen Moose's. The only problem was, she wasn't sure how to get to what she really wanted to talk about. She decided to take a diversionary route.

“What kind of engagement party have you always wanted?”

He had just taken a mouthful of food and nearly choked on it. “Do you know how many engagement parties I've been to?”

She shook her head.

“None. Does that tell you anything?” She must have looked disappointed because he quickly added, “The only party I care about is ours—after the wedding is over. Engagement parties, bridal
showers, the wedding reception, even a stag party—I'd gladly do without them. I want you to be my wife, Angie. The rest is so much…what's the word? Frippery.”

She swallowed hard, unsure whether to cry or to hug him.

He took her hand and spoke. “Being engaged is, for me, a time to show the world that a beautiful, warm, loving woman has agreed to be my wife. I know you want a fancy party and a big wedding. They're important to you, and for that reason alone, they're important to me. But to tell you the truth,” he said, and she saw the smile in his blue eyes, “I'll be glad when they're over.”

What more could she ask for? She half stood to reach him for a kiss. “You're right,” she said when she sat back down. “I shouldn't get so wrapped up in…fripperies.”

“That's not what I said at all,” he protested. “You should, because that's part of what makes you the charming woman I love. But that doesn't mean I should as well. Being engaged, being married, doesn't mean we agree on everything, or are in lockstep, it means we respect each other's opinions, and our differences. You love parties; I barely tolerate them.”

She nodded. “That's the way my parents have always been.”

“That's right.” His mouth turned down. “Your mother welcomed me with open arms; your father hates my guts.”

“Even after you had lunch with him?” she asked. “Didn't that help?”

“We're working on it,” he said. “But don't put
much hope there. If you can think of anything I should be doing, let me know.”

“Become Italian,” she quipped.

He wasn't in the mood to laugh.

“I don't think there is anything,” she admitted, “because the problem isn't you. When I was still living at home, I'd have a new date almost every week, it seemed, and the only ones he ever approved of were a couple of guys who were sons of friends of his. In both cases, I didn't go out with either fellow a second time.”

“So, it's hopeless,” he murmured.

“No, not at all. Mamma says he'll come around in time. He already admits, to her, that I'm happy with you and that's what matters most. He even admits, to her, that you're a good man. The next step is to get him to admit those things to us. He's a stubborn old coot, but his heart is in the right place.”

“I suppose,” Paavo admitted. “But he's an expert at hiding it.”