The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (11 page)

“So, wait. If your job got cut in half, would that be a good thing, too?” I resented his implication that my job was expendable. Or at least half-expendable.

“My job has nothing to do with it.”

Of course it didn’t; his job was far more important than mine. He was a big-shot homicide detective in a city with more than one murder a day. His job was essential; people’s lives and safety depended on it. By comparison, he must think what I did—making papier-mâché daisies with mental patients—was trivial. “So exactly what are you saying? That my job’s not important? They can just cut half my hours, no harm done, no big deal?”

Nick sat up and set his bottle on the coffee table, half-smiling. Why was he smiling? Was he laughing at me? “Calm down, Zoe. You’re pissed off, and that’s understandable. But think clearly for a minute.”

So now I was too emotional to think clearly?

“Right now, you’re mad, and no question, you have reasons to be. The MBAs running that place are managing from their assholes. But, luckily for us, the cut might work out to your advantage.”

“Really.” I was baffled. “My advantage? I must have missed something. To me, it looks like I’ll be losing salary, job security, health benefits, development funds for the art program, control over my patients’ therapy—”

“Yes, you’re right. All those things are true. Even so, in some ways the change might be good for you personally. At least, right now.”

“Nick. We have a baby coming. We need my income—”

“Exactly. We have a baby coming. And we don’t need your income as much as you think; why do you think I’m doing so much overtime? I’m pulling in a lot of cash for when the baby comes. Forget about money. Point is you might appreciate having some time to yourself before the baby comes. This way, you’ll have more time to spend with Molly and prepare her for her sibling. Time to relax and fix up the nursery. Time to talk about our wedding—”

Oh, yes. The wedding. It kept getting postponed, was now tentatively planned for late December, when I’d be as big as a whale. I closed my eyes, covered them with my hands, overwhelmed.

Nick was still talking, listing more things that, without a full-time job, I’d have time for.

“…So you don’t need to worry about losing your medical insurance. Once we’re married, my benefits cover you, Molly and the baby.”

Nick seemed chipper and bright, finding a dozen positive sides to my career disaster. But I was exasperated. Did he think that, since I was pregnant, I should be fat and happy, just sit around and study bride magazines and pick the baby’s window treatments?

“What’s wrong, Zoe? Talk.”

Talk? Okay. “Fine. You want to know what’s wrong? What’s wrong is you’re patronizing me.”

He looked baffled. “How am I patronizing—”

“How? You’ve just dismissed my work as if it’s completely irrelevant. Expendable. I’m not a stock boy at the supermarket. Believe it or not, my work is important—”

“Of course it is. I never said it wasn’t. Don’t be defensive.” His tone was gentle, firm. Unapologetic.

“I’m not being defensive—”

“All I’m saying is that, if your hours have to be cut, the timing couldn’t be better. You can relax. Get your life organized. After all, your father’s going to add to the mix—”

My father? Wait, I hadn’t told him about my father’s condition, but Nick was already assuming I’d have to take care of him. Suddenly I was hot, short of breath. I broke into a sweat. “Trust me, Nick. I don’t need to take time from my profession to manage my personal life. And certainly not to attend to my father. I am not, nor will I ever be his caretaker.” How could Nick suggest such an idea?

Nick shrugged calmly, not rattled by my reaction. He repeated himself slowly, as if speaking to a child. “Zoe, calm down. All I’m saying is that the half-time thing isn’t a complete tragedy, at least not right now.”

I crossed my arms, blew steam out of my ears. Instead of validating my frustration and sympathizing with my plight, Nick was hell-bent on tenderly, lovingly insisting that my job cut was good, possibly even fabulous. He took another swig of beer. How could he be so infuriatingly unrattled?

“You don’t get it, Nick.”

“I get that you’re very upset. And I get that you’re stressed out. And I get that you’re a pregnant woman whose hormones are charmingly out of whack—”

Okay, that was it; I exploded. I was on my feet, blasting. “So now I’m upset because of my hormones? You’re saying that my concern for my career is a ‘female’ problem?”

Nick shook his head. “No. Come on, Zoe.” He reached out, grabbed my arm and pulled me back to the sofa. “Sit.”

I was breathless and hot. And actually, a little dizzy. I wanted to sit down again, but I wouldn’t. I was too stubborn and mad.

Nick released my hand, leaned back and ran a hand through his hair. His eyes were tired, bloodshot. In the last two days, he’d worked thirty-odd hours chasing a serial rapist/killer through Old City. Probably he wasn’t thinking real seriously about my job problem. Probably he was trying to quiet me down so he could go to bed. Poor guy was exhausted. Why was I being so hard on him? It wasn’t his fault my job was fizzling out. He was only trying to cheer me up.

“Dammit, Nick.” I sat again. “This is not about hormones. If your job were cut, you’d be upset, too. Of course, being you, you’d be all silent and macho and never let anyone know how you felt. But I can’t help it. I’m pissed off and I don’t care who knows. I’ve worked damned hard to build this job and this life for Molly and me. And now, suddenly, in a heartbeat, my job’s dissolving, and the baby’s coming, and after a dozen years my father reappears and the doctor said he’s dying, and everything I’ve built—it’s all coming apart, and there’s nothing I can do about any of it.” Tears streamed unexpectedly, flooded uncontrollably from my eyes. My voice was gulpy and high-pitched, didn’t sound like me. I was imploding, overwrought.

Nick sat quietly, patiently, probably assessing my hormone levels. When I finished, he remained still, watching me with hesitant blue eyes. The silence grew until, drained from crying and embarrassed, I stood to leave the room. Nick was on his feet, reached out and stopped me, held me tight, his breathing uneven.

Even in bed, he didn’t continue the discussion, didn’t mention my job situation again. When the lights were out, though, he gently touched my face.

“I didn’t know Walter was dying.” His voice was a dark whisper. “No wonder you’re upset, Zoe. You have every right to be. I’m sorry.”

I didn’t answer. There was no point trying to explain. Nick assumed that my father, not my job, was the real reason I was upset. The idea was absurd. I’d been estranged from my father for years, wasn’t the least bit affected by his health. But my eyes already burned from crying, and I was spent from the events of the day, finding it difficult to stay awake. Nick kissed my forehead good night, his arms encasing me. In moments, he was snoring. Or maybe, my nose puffed up and swollen from crying, the droning snores I heard as I dozed off were my own.

T
HIS TIME, MY PARENT
S were dancing. Waltzing lithely through the hallway, around the dining room floor. They didn’t notice me as I sped frantically through the house, searching, looking in cabinets, in the closet under the front staircase. They didn’t look my way as I tossed sofa cushions, tore paintings from the walls. While they glided together, gracefully in step, I ripped through the house, needing to find—what was it? My baby? Yes. I was looking for my baby. It was there, lost somewhere in the house—in peril. Oblivious, the couple dipped and turned, spinning, smiling and indifferent as I cried out, wailing, calling for my child.

In the nursery, I found an empty crib, and knew I was too late. I wailed so loud that Nick thought I was having a miscarriage.

“Zoe—” He shook me, lifting the blankets, probably checking the bed sheets for blood. “What? What’s wrong?” Alarmed, he sat up, apparently ready to leave for the hospital.

I apologized for waking him and got up to use the bathroom, trying to shake the nightmare from my mind. It was after five, and I doubted I could fall asleep again. Quietly, letting Nick sleep, I went to check on Molly. I stood in her room, listened to her even breathing, rearranged her covers. Then I wandered down the hall to the room that would be the nursery. It was mostly empty, the walls bare. Molly’s old crib was there. And our old cane rocking chair. And my ton of pregnancy books, in a heap on the floor. I sat there in the almost empty room, rocking, and my mind wandered again through the halls of my nightmare, recalling the desperation I’d felt, the sense that I’d lost my child. Ridiculous. Actually, the dream had simply reflected my anxiety, my general sense of being out of control and vulnerable. That was all. My parents and their house had appeared simply because my father was back in my life, reviving all kinds of unresolved issues, for no other reason. The dream had been a typical hodgepodge of memory and emotion, just a regular dream.

Feeling calmer, I rocked in the darkness, my hand resting on my swelling belly, cradling the tiny foreigner who boarded there. Watching the streetlight pour through the still undraped window into the vacant crib, I considered how much work I had to do before the baby arrived. The walls had been painted yellow in September, but I still had to finish the detail work, add a strip of wallpaper patterned with baby ducks and chicks. And I had to clean up Molly’s old baby furniture, polish the wood of the crib and the dressing table, the armoire. Get a new stroller and high chair, a car seat, a playpen. And toys. And a layette. Diapers, and a bag. Oh, man. I began to remember the houseful of equipment that infants generated. Bottles, bibs. Pacifiers. Teething rings. Blankets. And I wanted one of those strappy thingies so I could carry the baby around like a papoose. There was so much to do, and the baby was due in just five months. How was I going to get everything ready in time?

Nick’s voice echoed in my mind, cheerily declaring that having half a job wasn’t a tragedy. That losing my hours at work might be a good thing, that I could use the time.

The truth was that he was right. I could use some time to get ready for the baby. And to be alone with Nick and Molly before the baby was born, while we were still just us. No question, right now, our family would benefit from me being available, close to home. Much as it irritated me to admit it, I was lucky that my hours had been cut. So why had it bothered me to hear Nick say so? Again, I heard his voice: “Your hormones are out of whack.”

And I got insulted all over again. Resented his knowing, understanding, patient attitude. What was going on with me? The very thought of Nick made me weak in the knees. I still swooned when he walked into the room, still found myself paralyzed by his gaze. But half the time, lately, I bristled at every word he said. Why? What was wrong with me? Damn. Could he be right about my hormones? Medically speaking, were they out of whack? For sure, the rest of me was. Nothing felt normal. My feet swelled in my shoes. My breasts burst out of my bras. My body had been taken over by a tiny alien, and my form changed daily, magically knowing all on its own what to do to bring that little being to life.

I rocked for a while, thinking about the baby. Would it look like Nick? I smiled, picturing a tiny baby with Nick’s rugged face. And imagining the room smelling powdery soft, sweet like baby skin. I gazed out the window at the row houses across the street, the view the baby would have from the crib, and I patted my belly, wondered if the baby was awake, if it could sense my attention. For a moment, amazed, I thought that the baby was responding, pushing back at my hand. Then, slowly, I realized that the pressure wasn’t a tiny push. It wasn’t local; it expanded across my waist, around my back, and it increased, squeezing until I was dizzy. And then, as I leaned back, panting in the rocker, it eased, leaving me breathless and chilled in the almost empty room.

The moment passed, and so did the sensation, but I stayed there, wondering what had just occurred. A cramp? A contraction? Oh, God. Was I going to have a miscarriage? For a long while, I didn’t move. I sat still, as if moving might cause me to lose the baby. Finally, I reached for the stack of books beside me, poring through them, trying to find an explanation that I could accept. In a pamphlet on home birthing, I read that the female body prepares itself for delivery throughout the pregnancy. Its muscles practice for the work of labor, starting months before they give birth. That was it, I told myself. No big deal. My body’s practicing, getting itself ready to give birth, nothing more.

The sun was up when I got back into bed. Without opening his eyes, Nick covered my belly with an arm. We lay there, my arms crossed beneath his, layers of limbs covering, protecting our small, precious stranger.

S
O FAR, NO CHARGES
had been filed against my father. SO, given his medical condition, on Thursday morning, before my doctor’s appointment, Nick and I moved him and the four new shirts, six pairs of socks and underwear, two sweaters, navy blazer, and two pairs of pants I’d just bought him into Harrington Place, a posh high-rise retirement home near the art museum and Fairmount Park. Susan’s mother-in-law had spent her last years there, and Susan had pulled strings for Dad to get a spot in the assisted care unit, sharing a two-bedroom suite with another man. The facility offered varying levels of medical care, as needed, as well as a broad spectrum of social, cultural and recreational activities. Dad would be taken care of there, and I was relieved.

Nick had taken over the logistics of the move. Susan had her firm draw up power of attorney forms, and, somehow Nick had convinced my father to sign them. All I had to do myself was some Medicare and insurance paperwork in the administration office, and after I finished filling out forms, I went to my father’s suite. The place was well furnished, decorated in neutral tones. A living room with a blue-cushioned sofa and two matching easy chairs, a coffee table, a television. Two bedrooms, each with its own bath. I looked into one, saw my father sound asleep, apparently exhausted from the move.