Sleeping Beauty (38 page)

He takes a deep breath, like he’s going to need all the air he can suck in to deliver the bad news he has left. “Second, we typically don’t advise taking lithium during pregnancy due to the risk of heart defects in the developing fetus.”

By now Brendan is squeezing my hand so hard that my fingertips have gone numb from the lack of blood flow. I shoot him a look of protest, trying to pull my hand from his. That’s when I notice that his face is the color of a white sock that’s accidentally been washed with jeans: sort of grayish-blue, like he’s holding his breath or something.

“Similarly,” says Billy, oblivious to Brendan’s oxygen deprivation, “Carbamazepine is contraindicated during pregnancy due to the risk of heart defects and spina bifida.”

“Is that–is that–” I stutter, but of course I already know what it is. I see visions of kids born with their spinal columns outside of their bodies.

“Claire drank about two gallons of orange juice a day well before she conceived,” says Brendan.

I’m staring at him, thinking the shock of the morning has caused him to lose his marbles. I look back at Bill, about to add something like, “And pancakes…I ate a lot of pancakes,” but he looks perfectly composed, like discussing my breakfast proclivities is nothing out of the ordinary for a prenatal visit.

“That’s good,” says Bill before turning to me. “You probably know that orange juice contains a lot of folic acid, which has been shown to prevent neural tube defects such as spina bifida. Of course,” he goes on, “everything we’re discussing are just the
risks
. There’s a good chance that the fetus has developed normally. We’ll know more after we do some tests.”

“What kind of tests?” My voice sounds strange and husky.

“Ultrasounds are standard to look for any abnormalities. There’s a blood test for spina bifida.”

“We don’t have to do that thing…the long needle thing?” I shudder at the thought of a foot-long needle being poked through my navel to extract amniotic fluid. No way anyone’s doing that to me unless I’m out cold.

He shakes his head. “There’s no reason for doing an amniocentesis unless the ultrasound and the blood tests come back with conflicting results. That’s rare.”

“What if, you know...there
are
defects? Lots of them?”

He looks grim. “If the defects are, ah, incompatible with life, then I’d recommend that the pregnancy not be continued. If there are defects that affect quality of life, I can certainly discuss those with you both and let you come to a decision.”

“Oh. Well. Okay.” Those three little words, they’re all I can get to come out of my mouth.

*****

Clop! Clop! Clop! Clop! Clop! Clop!

“Is there a horse stuck in your machine,” I say to Bill, “or did you accidentally tune in to a horse race?”

He smiles. “Nice strong heartbeat. That’s good.”

I crane my head, trying to see the monitor that Bill and Brendan are watching so intently. Brendan hasn’t torn his eyes away from the screen since the slimy goop got dumped on my belly, and Billy started sliding something around on it that looks like a karaoke microphone.

“Hmm,” says Billy.

“Yeah, I see,” says Brendan. He finally tears his eyes away from the screen and looks at me, a little smile playing around his lips. “You want to know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

“Oh, great, you mean
you
already know? How’s that fair?”

He frowns, like he’s just realized that he should be feigning the role of the proud dad instead of playing doctor. “Sorry. You want me to stop looking?”

“No,” I say immediately. Brendan may think two doctors in one room is unbearable, but I can’t think of anything better right now than four medically-trained eyes zeroed in on that screen. “And yes, I do want to know.”

He leans down and kisses me on the forehead. “It’s a girl.”

“Oh…wow.” I don’t know why, but knowing that it’s a girl makes it seem less like a baby and more like a person. “Is everything else alright?”

“Hold on, we’re not done.” Brendan smiles, looking embarrassed. “I mean
he’s
not done.”

“That’s okay,” says Bill in his big, enthusiastic voice. “The more the merrier over here. What do you think of this, Dr. Charmant?”

Brendan gets closer to the screen. I can only see the side of his face, but now he looks decidedly worried. “I think that our guess is wrong. But it can’t be wrong.”

“What guess?” I say. “It’s not a girl? It’s a boy?” They ignore me.

“You said seventeen, eighteen weeks?” says Bill to Brendan. He shrugs. “So it’s more like thirteen or fourteen. No big deal.”

“It
is
a big deal,” says Brendan. “Because that would make the conception date around the second week of August.”

“What’s the matter?” says Bill with a smile, “Did you go on a month-long vacation, or did they just decide to ground you into the dirt with that fellowship?”

I blush enough for the both of us, knowing what’s coming.

“Claire and I broke up on July thirteenth,” he says, much more matter-of-factly than I would have been able to muster. “We reconciled the second week of August.”

“Ah, well, see? It must have been then. Nothing like making up after a separation! So she’s three and half months.”

Brendan shakes his head. “We reconciled, but we weren’t, uh,
intimate
, for another month.” He looks at me. “San Clemente was the second week of September, right?”

I’m dying of shame. Luckily, Bill Brady’s glued to his monitor now like it’s Monday Night Football and his favorite team’s playing.

“Yeah, I think so,” I mutter. I know Brendan’s always wondered about Jonathan Varner, but he’s never asked point-blank. It had been fun to let him conjecture, but the enjoyment of that little game has come to a screeching halt.
If either of them asks me if I screwed someone else during that month,
I think,
I’m going to rip their eyeballs out of their sockets.

I don’t know what Bill’s thinking, but at least Brendan doesn’t doubt my virtue. “July eleventh must be the conception date,” he says. “There’s no other explanation.”

The two of them share a concerned look.

“Yeah, I know,” says Brendan, as if Bill has telepathically imparted some important information to him.

“You know
what
?” I say.

Bill turns to me. “The good news is that I don’t see any congenital defects. Heart, spinal column, organs all look normal. I am a little concerned about her size. She’s a lot smaller than I’d like to see at seventeen and a half weeks.”

“Is that why I’m not showing?” I say. “Shouldn’t I be bigger?”

“Oligohydramnios?” says Brendan to Bill.

I almost say “bless you” and offer him a tissue. “Oligo-what?”

“In addition to the baby’s size,” Bill explains, “I have concerns about the amount of amniotic fluid you’re producing. It’s a little less than I’d like to see.”

What is this with the ‘I’d like to see?’
I think.
Sounds like something my dad would have said when I let him down. ‘Your grades are a little lower than I’d like to see, Claire.’

“What can I do?” I say. “Should I eat more?”

Bill smiles. Brendan does not. “I’m afraid eating more isn’t really going to do anything but make
you
bigger, and not in a good way.”

“Well, what’s wrong with being small if all her organs are normal?”

“Low birth weight babies tend to be petite as children and adults, which isn’t a problem in and of itself, but it tends to go hand-in-hand with cognitive or developmental challenges. Since we’ve ruled out the congenital defects for now, I’d say we can probably take a watch-and-see approach.”

“What’s that mean?”

“We’ll do some blood work to test for the more common chromosomal abnormalities, but I don’t see anything now that would indicate that she has Down’s Syndrome or any other problem like that. I’ll check the hormone levels in your blood as well, see if we can’t confirm the gestational age. And we’ll want to keep an eye on the amniotic fluid level to make sure it’s not inhibiting her ability to develop.”

‘
The low amniotic levels,’
I think.
He means ‘
your
amniotic fluid levels.’ God, this
does
feel like I’m letting him down.
“You mean she’s being squeezed?” I say.

He smiles. “Something like that. I think it’s premature to worry about anything specific right now. We’ll have you in more frequently for ultrasounds so we can keep an eye on her. I’ll let you know as soon as the blood work is done.”

He wipes the slime off the wand and hands Brendan a wad of tissues. Brendan proceeds to swab my stomach, clearing away the goop.

I’m feeling about as low as I can in the absence of any specific, definitive bad news being dumped on me, when Bill hands me a piece of paper.

“Here,” he says. “She’s a doll, don’t you think?”

I snatch it out of his hand. “Oh, wow,” I whisper. “I can’t believe how…
clear
it is. It’s like a photograph.” I hold it up to Brendan, who only glances at it. He looks suddenly distracted.

Bill pats the machine. “Three-D ultrasound. It’s a diagnostic tool and Sears Portrait Studio all rolled into one.”

“Billy,” says Brendan while I’m still mooning over the ultrasound image. “I was hoping to discuss something else with you, about Claire’s privacy. We’re both concerned about all the details of her visits here getting out to the press.” His expression turns dejected. “I’m sure you know about the charges against me, and although there’s no merit whatsoever to them, I don’t want to put you in the position where you’d be risking your professional–”

“Who’s Claire?” he says.

As we watch, he uses the mouse to select a field on the monitor. He deletes the words “Beau, Claire,” replacing them with “Doe, Jane.”

Brendan’s eyes dart towards me. He has a puzzled look on his face.

“
I’m
Claire,” I say in an offended tone.

Bill shakes my hand. “Nice to meet you, Jane. I’m really glad you guys could drop by for a little Sunday visit, especially since I’m not normally here on the weekends, but I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to stay and chat.” He chuckles. “I’m all wrapped up in the Doe case right now, but as soon as I’m done here I’m sure Marilyn will have a ‘honey-do’ list all drawn up and ready for me to tackle at home. But, if you can find time in your schedules, I’d like to have you back for tea and crumpets in two weeks, same Bat time, same Bat channel.”

We’re both staring dumbly at him when he shakes Brendan’s hand and pats me on the shoulder. “I’ll see you both then.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

November 16
^th

“Claire, you’re going to have to talk to me sooner or later,” says Rev. He turns the car onto the avenue leading to the hospital entrance. “Representation without communication is a bad idea.”

We’ve been trapped in gridlock traffic since he picked me up at Andy Gordon’s an hour and a half ago, and I know he wasn’t happy to find out where I’ve been hiding for the last week.

“Is that like taxation without representation?” I retort. “Why don’t you just go chuck some tea in a harbor somewhere then, and work out all that frustration you’re carrying around?”

We’ve arrived at the hospital. Rev pulls his car under the entrance canopy. According to Grayson, Davin barely made itoff the rescue helicopter into the trauma center. He’d been in a medically-induced coma until yesterday afternoon. He’d barely been conscious for more than an hour before he was demanding to see Rev, Grayson, Earl, me, West–practically everyone in his crew.

“Okay, well when you want to talk, you’ll talk,” he says.

“Oh, I want to talk, I just don’t want to talk to
you
.” I twist out of my seatbelt and get out of the car. “Or Grayson, or Davin for that matter.”

“And why’s that?” he drawls. He gets out and looks around for a valet. “We’re the three people trying the hardest to get you what you want, dally.”

I ignore him, walking quickly through the automatic doors, hoping to ditch him while he deals with the parking valet.

“Ms. Beau!” says a voice from behind me.

I spin around, expecting a stalking reporter or one of the clingy fans who stick to your finger like a booger you can’t flick off. Turns out that it’s worse.

“Ms. Gaelic,” I say, trying to keep my voice light and casual while my mind races to remember if she was outside and followed me in, or if she was ensconced safely inside during my and Rev’s little rant outside.

She strips her lips away from her pearly whites and gives me an eyeful of snarling incisors. “I certainly hope you didn’t waste all your time coming here to see Mr. Wibbens.”

My heart dishes up a series of thumps like a sumo wrestler pounding the timpani at the end of Beethoven’s Ninth. “Is he–is he–” I can’t bring myself to say the word ‘dead.’

“The hospital tells me he
still
can’t have visitors, can you believe that?” She rolls her eyes like it’s the most preposterous thing she’s ever heard, keeping a recovering trauma patient from a police interrogation.

“What do you want with Davin?” I say.

She flashes a disingenuous grin. “Like everyone else involved in the case against Dr. Charmant, we just want to ask him some questions.”

“Involved? How is Davin involved?”

“Pardon me, did I say ‘involved?’ What I meant was that he seems to have been a witness to a great deal that happened after the alleged assault took place. We’re just trying to get a complete picture before the trial which…” She fishes her cell phone out of her purse and glances at the screen. “Which starts in two days, can you believe it?” she says in a “time just flies when you’re having fun, doesn’t it?” voice.

Thankfully, Rev has much longer legs than I do. I knew he wouldn’t be far behind me.

“Lucinda,” says Rev. His tone borders on homicidal rage, but I’m not sure if that’s residual pique from the end of our conversation, the sight of Lucinda Gaelic, or a little bit of both. “What are you doing here?”