Dream Keeper (25 page)

“There goes the diet,” Connie grinned, turning her attention back to Rissa. Digging into her purse, she produced her cellphone and punched in a number. Eyes on Rissa, giving her best impersonation of discretion, she murmured into the phone, copied a number, and punched it into the phone. She murmured again, nodding all the while, then passed the phone to Rissa. “Talk to her.”

Almost afraid to refuse, when the mild tremor rose from her stomach to her breasts, Rissa took the phone. “Hello?”

“Yes, Dr. Stanton here. Are you Mrs. Traylor?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.” Rissa’s wide eyes locked on Connie.
How did you do this?
she mouthed. Connie blew on her nails and proudly polished them against her scrub blouse.

“Congratulations on your pregnancy. I understand that you have a referral and that you’d like an appointment.”

“Yes. Yes, I would.” Rissa clutched the phone in both hands and willed herself to something other than the word ‘yes.’ “I’m wondering what your earliest availability would be.”

“It happens that I have a cancellation at four. Will that work for you?”

“Four? Today?”

“Yes, today.” The doctor’s laugh was musical. “I know they say that you have to wait months for an appointment with me, but little accidents do happen. My four o’clock is still fogged in at Kennedy, leaving the slot available for you—if you want it.”

“I do. I’ll be there. The Prado, right?” Rissa gripped the phone harder. “If you…can you add me to your patient load?”

The bell-like laughter chimed again. “Consider yourself in. I’ll see you at four.”

“At four,” Rissa echoed, folding the phone closed. Connie was diligently studying the dessert menu, but paused long enough to blithely take the phone from Rissa’s hand. When the nurses looked at her, Rissa brought her palms together in brief silent prayer. “I have an appointment. How did you do that?”

“It’s not always what you know, it’s who you know.” Connie turned her attention back to the waitress and returned the menu. “I’ll have the chocolate lava cake,” she breathed reverently.

“And I’ll share it with her,” Jeannette grinned, wiggling her fork.

“The hell you will—she’ll have her own.” The waitress smiled and Connie frowned. “I mean it.”

Rissa grabbed her bag and stood. “Thanks guys. It’s almost three now and I’ll have to make it around the perimeter to be there on time. Connie, I can’t thank you enough. Thank you from me and Dench—and the baby.”

Both nurses looked up.

“No worries,” Rissa grinned, pulling out her credit card. “I’ve got you. I’ll run the card on the way out. Enjoy.”

Time seemed to blur as she raced through the restaurant, but she took her time descending the marble stairs, and she gripped the polished brass rail every step of the way to street level.

Less than a twenty-minute ride and, this time of day, it can take an hour or more, if traffic is bad.
Belting herself into the driver’s seat, she tried to think of the fastest route to the doctor’s office.
The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Dang, I could never remember that in high school…maybe this baby will be better at math and science than I was.
The random thought pleased her as she backed out of the parking slot.
Don’t worry, baby, you will be.

Aiming the little black and silver BMW north on I-85, Rissa was surprised and pleased to find cooperation on the part of Atlanta’s naturally cantankerous drivers. Not a single accident, crime, or “sunshine slowdown” impeded her progress. “I’m going to make it on time,” she congratulated herself, ignoring the nervous quiver in her belly. Pulling out her sunglasses, she shook her hair back and covered her eyes. The distracting little quiver touched her again. “Hey, stop that.” She kept driving.

Merging onto GA-400, she flipped coins into the toll basket and immediately began to watch the traffic signs. Her belly quivered with a quick wave of warmth. “I told you not to do that. I’m the mother and the driver. I’m also very responsible. I’ll get us there in plenty of time—trust me.”

Rissa managed the turns onto I-285 and Ashford-Dunwoody without further input from her baby and was relieved to find Dr. Stanton’s office. “See, I told you we would make it.” She pulled into the parking space and glanced at the time. “And with fifteen minutes to spare.” Suddenly, the quiver was back, much lower and deeper this time. Probing and sizzling with the intensity of a low-density pulsar, it left her breathless and sinking into her leather seat.

“Whoa! When did you learn to do that?” Eyes wide behind her shades, Rissa blew out hard and pressed her hand to her instantly sweaty brow. “I thought only your daddy could do that trick.”

Recovering, still trying to breathe and regulate her heartbeat, she peered out of her windows, hoping nobody had seen her ride the hormonal whip the baby generated. Satisfied that she was alone, Rissa made fast repair to her makeup in her rearview mirror, and tried to compose herself.

“Now, you’re going to have to stop that. We’re going in here to see the doctor, and I want you on your best behavior, okay?” Smoothing lipstick across the fullness of her lower lip, Rissa had another thought. “You know what, on second thought, we are going to see a doctor, a really good one. If you have any other new tricks, this would be a good time to trot them out, okay?”

Nothing. “Now you want to be contrary?” When she felt no response, Rissa decided that it was a sign of cooperation. “Better that than an outright rebellion in utero. Let’s go.”

Slate, chrome, and glass defined the lobby of Dr. Stanton’s building, but entering her office transported Rissa to an entirely different place. Subtly relaxing shades of mauve, crème, and sage, augmented by beautiful furnishings and healthy plants, greeted her eye. Soft edged window treatments and curving furniture as well crafted and carefully chosen as that in her own home quieted her nerves.

Simple but eye-catching paintings of women on what looked like the Georgia coast worked to make Rissa smile. Woven baskets and a wall of collectibles gathered her attention, and she longed to touch them.
But my mama raised me better than that.
She kept her hands at her sides and crossed the elegant room-sized carpet to speak to the charming receptionist.

Round-faced with beautifully locked blonde hair twisted high, she looked completely understanding and welcoming. Giving the woman her name was easy, and she waited for the baby to send a signal, but none came.
Trying to make Mommy look crazy?
The receptionist, Lydia, spoke with a sweet island clip as she pointed out the information needed on the medical forms she handed across her desk.

Good thing we’re early.
Rissa took the forms and found a chair. Sitting, she found the chair every bit as comfortable as it looked. She pulled reading glasses and a pen from her purse and went to work on the pages, finishing as a tall, athletically built woman materialized in front of her.
Big girl is fast. Wonder where she played ball?

The tall woman smiled, a hint of recognition in her eyes. “I’m Paula Griffin, Dr. Stanton’s nurse. If you’re ready, I’ll show you to the examination room.” Her eyes tried to place Rissa’s face as she turned away.

Leaving her paperwork with Lydia, Rissa followed Paula.
She’s over six feet,
Rissa guessed, walking with the nurse.
We’re about the same age, I wonder…Paula Griffin…

“I know.” Paula stopped suddenly, her voice soft and amused. “You went to Clark College, right?”

“Yes.” Feeling disadvantaged, Rissa studied the taller woman’s face and sucked at her teeth when the memory clicked into place. One hand on her hip, she pointed, and shook her finger accusingly. “You were Paula Charles, and you were playing for USC when you hip-checked me into the bleachers that time.”

“And you were Marissa Yarborough, a known ball thief. It was my job.”

“I was bruised for a month.”

“And my team took a loss because of you.”

They glared at each other for a long second, then burst into a flurry of girlish giggles.

“Hard as you hit me, I’m not surprised that you’re a nurse. Somebody has to be able to take care of your victims.”

“Fast little thief. Did I see that you’re a lawyer now? That is what was on your paperwork, right? Huh, probably because you finally figured out that what you were doing on the court was a crime.” Paula laughed, offering her hand.

Rissa accepted the hand and smiled when she shook it. “It’s good to see you.”

“Yes, you, too.” Paula’s smile was sweet to the point of tenderness. “I’m an MSRN and you’re about to be a mother. Small world.”

“You’re not kidding.” Rissa wrapped her arms around herself. “I figured you for the WNBA.”

“I thought the same about you. What happened?”

Rissa shrugged. “I wasn’t tall enough, or good enough. Then I fell in love.”

“Makes perfect sense to me. I’m still waiting for Mr. Right and refusing to settle for Mr. Right Now, especially after a divorce. Come on, let me get you settled.”

When she pushed open the door to the exam room, Rissa was a little disappointed that, while the colors were soothing and the temperature was comfortable, it was set up for a gynecological examination—stirrups and all.

“Here’s your gown, and the doctor will be right with you.” Stopping at the door’s edge, Paula looked back. “I am really glad that I got to see you again. Congratulations on your pregnancy.”

“Thank you.” Rissa would have said more, but the smooth-voiced woman had already disappeared as the door whispered shut behind her. The room seemed empty in Paula’s absence and Rissa stood alone, holding the soft lavender gown she’d been given.
It’s a doctor’s office,
she reminded herself, unbuttoning her jacket and sliding it off her shoulders.
This is not some medieval torture chamber.

I’m here for a routine visit—if you could call trying to find a way to hang onto your baby routine.
She hooked the hangar holding her suit and shirt on the hook behind the door and slipped out of her tall boots. Feeling vulnerable and debating whether or not she should make a quick call to Dench, she slid her arms into the gown and sat on the edge of the exam table with a hand resting on her stomach. When she felt no tremors, she looked down and waited—nothing.

A little jealous of the baby’s apparent ability to sleep through the tense situation, she let her feet swing off the end of the table and tried to think of good questions for the doctor. Her mind went completely blank when she heard the light knock at the door.

“Yes?”

“Are you ready for me, Mrs. Traylor?”

Hardly.
“Come in,” Rissa called with more poise than she felt.

Dr. Alexis Stanton was a sturdy, square-built woman in her mid-forties, and she wore her wire-framed glasses with the same authority that she accorded her stethoscope. Soft, dark hair, fluffy and natural, curled around her strong, copper-colored face. Carrying enough pounds to pad her medium frame comfortably, the doctor pulled at the lapels of her lab coat and closed the door behind herself. When she moved closer and tapped the corner of Rissa’s file against her palm, Rissa noticed that, though she had square, capable hands, her fingers were long and agile.

Surgeon,
she recalled. The doctor tipped her head, looked up at her and smiled. Rissa smiled back, liking the bright twinkle of the doctor’s eyes behind the glasses.
Maple syrup. Her eyes are the same color as maple syrup.

“You look a little nervous, but don’t worry. About the worst thing we have here would be a speculum,” the doctor laughed. “Most of my work involves consultation and support. In your case, I’ll be working closely with Joyce Ashton.”

“And we have to do this? Even though I just saw Joyce?”

“That’s a joke, right?” Washing her hands at the corner sink, the doctor looked over her shoulder. “Mrs. Traylor, if you took your car in for repair, would you want to rely on someone else’s description of the work to be done? Or would you expect the mechanic who was actually going to do the work to do an inspection?”

“Good point.” She slid down on the table and held her breath, waiting for the baby to protest—again, nothing. The exam was brief and specific and over almost before Rissa realized it. Closing her eyes, she waited for the baby to do something when the doctor spread cool gel on her skin as she prepared for the ultrasound scan, but nothing happened.

I’m keeping my mouth shut,
Rissa decided.
You’re not even here yet, and you’re already confusing me.

“That will do it.” The doctor smiled, retracting her equipment. Happy to dress, Rissa climbed down from the table and met the doctor in her office for further consultation.

This office looks like my sitting room,
she thought, easing into a pale blue velvet wing chair. When the doctor poured herbal tea and offered a savory cup, Rissa took it and endured a humbling wash of déjà vu.
Was it only this morning that I was sitting in Chris Gordon’s office with a cup of chamomile tea?
“Is this when I get to ask what your verdict is? Or do I have to wait for tests to come back?”

“No, there’s no need to wait. I’ve made measurements and observations, and we can talk right now. In fact, I think we should.”

Rissa’s stomach lurched, and it had nothing to do with the fetal-generated tremors.
That one was all me—all nerves.

Stanton took the matching wing chair and angled her body to face Rissa as she sat. She took an easy sip of her tea and paused to appreciate the brew. “You already know that you’re facing a diagnosis of an insufficient cervix. In your case, it means that you have approximately a quarter of the space needed to successfully carry your baby to term.”

The cup and saucer clattered in Rissa’s shaking hand, until the doctor reached to take them from her.

“That’s the bad news.” The doctor returned to her seat. “The good news is that you’re healthy, the fetus is healthy, and there are some options.”

“Options?” She hated herself for hoping, but that was why she was here, wasn’t it?