Family Affair (39 page)

"What do you think?" Dr. Robicheck asked.

"Uh, wow," Chase replied, not knowing where to sit.

"Over here." Dr. Robicheck pointed to one of the burgundy leather chairs that surrounded the round oak table located in the center of the room.

Chase sat down.

"Coffee or tea?" Dr. Robicheck said.

"Coffee, please."

"Cream and sugar?" Dr. Robicheck looked at her expectantly.

"Lots of cream, please—like the French do it."

"Very good." Dr. Robicheck reacted like Chase had made the correct choice. "There, then." She set down two cups.

Chase sipped hers. "Thank you."

"Do you like the new arrangement? Do you feel more comfortable, more at ease?"

Chase thought for a moment. It was weird. It was new and indirectly, it had been her doing. These changes appeared to make Dr. Robicheck more enthusiastic about her career.

"I do. I do feel more at ease. I'm no longer fish-bowling." She leaned back in her chair and sipped her coffee. She suddenly wished she had a biscotti like the ones they had at Starbucks. She'd get some at Costco. She could do Costco now. There were a lot of things she could do now.

"Fish bowling?" Dr. Robicheck queried.

"You know, having someone look at you like you're a goldfish swimming 'round and 'round your glass prison, big eyeballs staring in at you making faux gulping gestures. I've always felt sorry for goldfish."

"I see. That's a good term. I will remember it."

Chase noticed she didn't have a yellow legal pad or a pen. "You aren't writing things down anymore?" She couldn't decide if she should be pleased or disappointed—like what she had to say wasn't important anymore.

"No. I decided that was intimidating as well, that I used to concentrate more on my notes than really listening to my patients. I have a strong memory and if I don't remember I can ask."

They then proceeded to have a visit, for it was more like that, than a session of picking Chase's brain for traces of neurosis.

Afterward, Chase drove home in the finest of moods. The sun was bright, the air crisp with the shadow of winter lurking about. The first snow would be coming soon, she thought.

When she got home she gave the dogs their treat, each a Jumbone, which they took with them reverently up to the writing studio where they would happily munch on them. Gitana had waddled off to work in the care of Nora to do the books for the month's end report. Chase sat in her ergonomic chair and the dogs leapt up on the couch and began chewing their bones.

She spun around in her chair as an idea hit her. "You know, girls I'm having a good day—let's ruin it and call my editor."

She dialed the number.

Ariana picked up immediately. "Oh, my God! What's wrong? You didn't lose another notebook."

"Technically, that one was stolen," Chase said, reminding her.

Sometimes, Chase disliked caller ID. It dispensed with the prologue. She had lost a notebook once. She'd gone to pick Gitana up at the airport after she'd been to an orchid convention in Phoenix. She took her notebook everywhere and had been writing while she waited. Gitana arrived and she got up to give her a hug. She turned back around to find her knapsack had been stolen. The thief must have been disappointed as it contained one black and white marbled composition book, a pocket Webster's dictionary and a mechanical pencil.

"What's wrong then?"

Chase took a deep breath. "I've written a book."

"Already? Another one isn't due."

Chase heard her flipping through her desk calendar. For ten years they'd both spent many phone calls flipping through their various desk calendars negotiating dates. "It's not. I wrote it while I was doing my assigned one."

"What kind of book?" Ariana's voice was tight.

Chase imagined her face drawn, eyes narrowed so the pupils resembled peppercorns allowing no brown of the cornea to be visible. Ariana was not a beauty. She was stout with short spiky blond hair. She had a pointed chin and thin lips that made her look like one of the masks of the Comedia d'Arte.

"It's a mystery novel with straight people in it." Chase's mouth was dry. She grabbed for the bottle of Dasani that sat on her desk. She took a quick sip.

"Really?" Ariana's voice lifted.

Chase took the plunge, grabbing from the recesses of her spirit for courage. "I'd like to send you a precis, outline, whatever you want so you could tell me if I should submit it. I trust your judgment."

"Is it good?"

Chase glanced at the manuscript as it sat piled on her desk, all four hundred and twenty-five pages. "I think so. I workshopped it with my writer's group."

"Send the whole thing. I'd love to read it."

"For sure?" Chase said.

"Chase, I've been waiting for you to realize thatyou're talented enough to write other fiction. You've got a great imagination and so switching genres is a logical move for you. You can still write lesbian fiction but why not expand your audience with some different stuff. I'm thrilled. It's time. Send it Express Mail, will you?"

"I'll send it this afternoon." Chase was completely taken aback.

"Great. When's the baby due?"

Now, this was really different. Ariana seldom thought of anyone othier than herself. "The second week of December."

"She'll be a Sagittarius like me. How fortunate. Ta-Ta." She clicked off.

"Okay, that's fucking weird," Chase said, putting the phone down.

"What's weird?" Gitana asked.

Chase whirled around in her chair. "You know for a waddling pregnant gal, you sure are sneaky." She surveyed the dogs. "Great guarding, by the way."

Annie opened one eye, wagged her tail and went back to sleep.

"I think they knew it was me." Gitana kissed her on the cheek. "You didn't answer my question." She eyed the manuscript on the desk.

"Ariana asked about you and the baby." Chase didn't meet her gaze.

"That's unusually kind of her. What else?"

How did Gitana know her so well? "And she'll look at the book." Chase had taken to calling it "the book" as if to differentiate it from her other books. Chase put her hand on it as if in blessing. She thought of Jacinda. Did she have some rosary beads or prayer or relic to give the book good vibes?

"Oh, Chase that's fantastic." She hugged her. "I'm so proud."

"Wait until she rips it to shreds." Chase frowned.

"She wouldn't even look at it if she didn't think it was worth her time."

This was true. Ariana never went out of her way. No sympathy, no pity, the word "altruism" had been banished from her lexicon like it was a salacious oath.

"You're right."

"Are you going to do some work?" Gitana inquired.

"Not really."

"Want to take a nap?" Gitana said, running her finger across Chase's collarbone.

"As in a nap-nap or a naughty nap?"

Gitana smiled. "The latter."

Chapter Twenty-Seven

It was the second week of November and snowflakes the size of quarters were gendy covering everything with complete disregard for size or shape. The landscape was a monochrome white sky with white falling stuff, on white ground—like a gallon of paint poured over the world.

"This is so beautiful," Gitana said, lounging on the couch, sipping hot cocoa and gazing out the window. She looked beatific.

Chase was on the phone dialing the transportation hodine. "No, this is dangerous," she said as she glanced outside. She listened intently to the recorded message. "For Chrissakes, they've closed the fucking airport and 1-40 from Santa Rosa to Grants."

"Don't worry. It can't snow forever," Gitana said. "Drink your cocoa and relax."

Chase sat next to her and looked out the large front window in utter panic. She popped back up. "I'm going to check the weather on the Internet." She tromped upstairs and shortly tromped back down.

"What's wrong?" Gitana said, looking up from her copy of the Collected Works of Emily Dickinson. She read out loud every day for Bud's benefit. "Maybe she'll grow up to be a poet," Gitana had told her.

"The satellite dish must be covered in snow. If I don't come back, send out the dogs."

"Why don't you take them along?" Gitana suggested.

Annie and Jane both jumped up from where they were sleeping on the floor.

"All right, let's go."

Chase put on her yellow Gore-Tex parka and her Sorel boots. She was dressed for the Arctic.

"Don't forget your hat," Gitana called out as Chase and the dogs went for the back door.

"She'll make a fabulous mother," Chase told the dogs who were only interested in getting outside. They barked furiously at the sunroom door in anticipation of release. Chase grabbed her blue knit hat and followed them out.

The dogs raced around in sheer happiness. Chase checked the snow gauge she had constructed of a one-by-one board with a three foot measuring stick glued to the front of it. The stick read thirteen inches. No wonder the airport and the freeways were closed. The freeway, she thought panicking. The freeway that connected to the other freeway that led to the hospital that contained the maternity ward and a qualified physician. This was not good.

She brushed off the satellite dish. The snow was almost up to her kneecaps. What if there was a storm like this in December? What if they couldn't get to the hospital in time? She tried not to panic, but her heart raced and it thumped in her head. Just breathe, she told herself. But what if? Town. They'd have to stay in town until the baby was born.

She ran through the possibilities as she rescued the buried snow shovel from beside the potting shed. She made a path from the front door to the gate, then from the sunroom door up to the writing studio. The dogs bounded and played, diving their snouts into the ever-increasing drifts and coming up with beards and mustaches of snow. They played while she attempted to stave off dread. She looked at them plaintively. They would have to be boarded. She hated to do it as they viewed the kennel as time spent incarcerated, but at least they'd be safe.