She Woke Up Married (11 page)

“Sarah,” Sarah said.

“Oh, right.” Paris flounced to the cupboard, picked out one of Millie’s Siamese cat cups, poured coffee out of the Mr. Coffee, and plopped dramatically in the other kitchen chair, leaving Millie standing.

“Neiman Marcus, Macy’s, that’s about it.
There’s a Saks on Las Vegas Boulevard, and a few other high-end stores out on West Sunset,” Millie rambled. “Darn good coffee, Sarah. Paris, you shouldn’t be drinking this crap.”

“Okay, ladies, we’ll get this all worked out. Sarah, Millie, let’s roll. I’ll bring the car to the front of the building.” Turner slugged down the rest of his coffee, got up, backed out of the kitchen, and made a break for it. He heard the sound of female arguing in the distance as he grabbed his jacket and keys and ran out the door.

Turner finally snagged a Load and Unload Only spot in front of the building. He eased the station wagon into the parallel spot and turned off the key. He was thinking very unpreacherlike thoughts by now about how to unload all these women out of his life. But apparently this was his journey to take, and he better make the best of it.

Besides, he was married to Paris now, and he’d have to make the best of it. She just needed some understanding. And a reality check. And maybe a spanking. He smiled at that thought. He better watch himself, he’d get all hot for her again. He thought about bills and baseball for a while.

He waited. And waited. He turned on the radio to the oldies-but-fifties station. He sang along to “Crazy Little Thing Called Love” at the top of his lungs. A few people opened their win
dows and started to yell, but didn’t. He hoped that was because a little music in the morning wasn’t a bad thing.

Where were those women? He would go up and get them, but that would be like walking into the jungle…at night…with a T-bone steak in his pocket. They’d eat him in three bites. So he sang three more songs, this time a little softer.

A glint of color caught his eye, and he turned to take in the amazing trio of women headed his way. Paris was dressed in a black dress and big hat, her standard fare. Sarah didn’t have the conservative skirt and blouse on anymore; instead she wore what looked like one of Paris’s wrap dresses, even though she’d buttoned a sweater over the top to cover up any cleavage visual.

Millie looked very nice and even had a hat on. Kind of a Mamie-Eisenhower-goes-bad thing.

Millie swung open the front passenger door, but Paris flew past her like a true New Yorker. Millie shrugged and climbed in back with Sarah.

“Where did you get this monstrosity?” Paris said as she slid into the seat next to him.

“This isn’t a monstrosity, it’s a 1969 Vista Cruiser Wagon,” Turner replied.

“It’s my car,” Millie said. “It’s my showgirl car-pool wagon. We’d load up a pile of us long-legged ladies and get to work. It saved us all money, and we had a great time. We all chipped
in on the car. Then we all retired one by one and I ended up with it. It’s a beaut, isn’t it?” Millie settled back into her seat. “I only let Turner drive it,” she added. “Turner, you should take the back way. The morning traffic is starting up.”

“Don’t drive all jerky. I’ll get sick,” Paris added.

“Can you go through downtown? I’d love to see a few sights on the way,” Sarah asked.

Turner sucked his breath in slowly and put the car in drive. God help him, because nobody else would.

Dr. Shapiro ran the ultrasound bar over Paris’s gooped-up stomach three more times and stared at the monitor intently. He pointed at the monitor and made humming noises. Turner stood behind him, nodding. This was pretty much pissing Paris off.

“What is it, an alien?”

“It’s twins.” Dr. Shapiro shifted the monitor so Paris could see. She propped herself up and stared at the wavy gray lines, trying to see what they were seeing.

“See here?” Turner stepped over and pointed. “Two heads.”

“I have a two-headed baby.” Paris fell back against the hard hospital couch with a thud.

“No, you have two one-headed babies.” Dr. Shapiro laughed.

“How the hell will I get them out of me?”

“It’s been done before,” the doctor replied. He put down the ultrasound bar and wiped some of the gel off her with a soft cloth.

“You did this. You put two in there.” Paris felt like crying. She bit her tongue to try and keep the tears in.

“My apologies,” Turner said. He went around beside her and took her hand in his. She pulled it away.

“How can you tell so early?”

“The size of her uterus, for one, and the ultrasound quite clearly shows two separate sacs. Why don’t you get dressed and we’ll have a chat about it in my office. I’ll answer any questions you might have.”

Swell. A chat. Paris grimaced at the doctor. Trust Turner to come up with some happy jolly sort of obstetrician. The two of them were just beaming. Turner shook the doctor’s hand.

Paris sat up by herself. “I’m so glad you two are so happy. It’s peachy, isn’t it? Now I have two huge kids in me and I’ll be stretched till I pop.” She swung her feet over the side of the bed and slid down. She got dizzy. Turner steadied her.

“You can get dressed, and I’ll be with you in a few minutes, Mrs. Pruitt.” Dr. Shapiro did his vanishing act.

“And now you’ll have two babies to take care of, Turner. Have you taken that in?” Paris tore off the flimsy paper gown they’d given her.

“Look at you! I should have known. I thought you were a bit bigger than average.” Turner patted her belly.

“Cut that out.” She pushed his hand away. “This is horrible. It was bad enough before.”

“You’re going to be fine, Paris. But we need to take even better care of you now,” Turner said.

She wrestled away from him. “Get out. I want to be alone.”

“I’m not going to leave you, Paris. I’ll be here for you, no matter what.” Turner put his arms around her.

She felt herself be unresponsive. She wanted to lean on him and cry and be comforted, but she just couldn’t bring herself to break down and let him in. He let her go, but he kissed her gently on the cheek, then walked out the door and shut it quietly behind him.

Paris sat down in the green leather chair next to the ultrasound bed. She felt the tears roll down her cheek. She wiped them away. What was she going to do? It was bad enough, the whole idea of her handing one baby over to Turner and getting on with her life, but two? Everyone would think she was a monster.

But deep in her there was a monster. It was just like her mother’s monster. And two babies
would make it twice as bad. She’d never be able to make it. She’d crack up, and it would be just like her mother with her little sister. She remembered how her mother would cry for days at a time, not change the baby, and even gave up nursing her. Paris had started feeding it and changing it and trying to cover up for her mother. She’d cut school until they’d come to get her.

Then they’d started with the doctors, and her father just hadn’t been able to deal with it, and everything had gone so, so wrong. Paris remembered the day when they’d taken her mother away in a car. A nurse had stayed with her and the baby. Her father had just put his head in his hands and cried. If she’d just been older than eight, she could have taken care of her broken-up family. If they’d just left her alone and let her stay home with them.

After that she’d ditched from public school so many times they’d finally put her in St. Mary’s Boarding School. She’d suddenly felt bad for the trouble she’d added to her father’s life. She’d wondered if it had contributed to his death. She’d wondered if he’d somehow killed himself. No one had really told her that, and they’d all talked about his heart problem. She’d known it was his
broken
heart that had killed him.

She grabbed five Kleenexes out of the box on
the table next to her and bawled into them until she hiccupped. She wished she knew more about everything that had happened. But one thing was for sure. She wasn’t going to let her history hurt these babies. Turner would take good care of them. He’d see to it they were happy. He’d probably marry some nice girl, and the babies wouldn’t have a mom who thought that passing car lights were spaceships and hid her children under a bed.

Paris sobbed again and blew her nose. She grabbed another bunch of tissues. These memories were killing her. She’d just have to shove them away like she always did and get on with life.

She’d just have these babies and give them to Turner and return to New York. She could lose herself in New York. She’d go back to work for Rita and make a comeback. Or maybe Rita would even let her help out with the agency.

They always needed models to mentor and teach the new ones. And she’d be a ruler-rapping, tough teacher at that. She stuffed all the used tissues in the trash can and took out another pile to wipe all the leftover ultrasound goo off her stomach. Yuk, she was a mess. She cleaned herself up and finished dressing. She could do this. She could. She sucked in a big breath, grabbed her canvas-and-leather handbag, and braced herself to walk out the door.

Turner had listened to Paris crying in the exam room. He’d been guarding the door for the last twenty minutes, redirecting staff and letting Paris have a few moments alone. He was hoping she’d think over her decision now that they’d confirmed it was twins. But he was prepared either way. These were his children. It was actually a blessing having two. They’d have a brother or a sister, and even if Paris left, they’d be a little family.

He’d asked himself almost every night how Paris could leave her baby and walk away. How could her heart not ache for her child? He knew she truly thought that it would be better for the child if she was out of the picture. How she’d become so completely convinced that she would follow in her mother’s footsteps was not so clear to him.

He was going to bring this up in the doctor’s office. He himself had some questions that needed answers. Maybe if Paris heard the answers from a medical professional, it would help.

It made him ache to hear her sobbing in that room and not be able to go to her. But she was still not ready to let him in. Somewhere, long ago, Paris James had had her heart broken so badly that it might never be fixed.

But he had to try. He loved her. He loved those two babies she was carrying.

Turner decided at that moment that he would find out everything there was to find out about postpartum depression and psychosis, and about Paris’s family. When she talked about that time, about her father and mother, rare as that was, it was always from the perspective of a young child. He was pretty sure she had never looked into the actual facts. Maybe, just maybe there might be something there that would help her.

Paris came out of the room at that moment. Her eyes were red from crying.

“I’ll tell them you’re ready,” Turner said.

A few minutes later they were both seated in front of Dr. Shapiro’s desk. Paris was nervously twisting a strand of hair. Turner was staring at the plastic model of a womb with a plastic baby in it. It was all such a miracle. Dr. Shapiro had his hands laced in front of him and was smiling at Paris.

“Well now, we’ll just get right to it, shall we? From the ultrasound we can see you’ve got fraternal, or dizygotic, twins in there. That means they are in separate amniotic sacs and are not identical. Identicals most often share one amniotic sac. Identical twins are one egg that split into two babies at some point. Fraternal twins came from two different eggs. Are there twins in your family, Patricia?” Dr. Shapiro paused his hand gestures depicting dividing eggs and looked at her.

“Not that I know of,” Paris answered.

Turner looked at her to see if she’d correct the name thing. He guessed she wanted to stay as anonymous as possible wherever she went, so they were using her real name on the chart—Patricia. She didn’t say a word, but her face was pale and her hands fidgeted with the strap of her handbag. He put his hand over hers gently. She didn’t push him away this time, probably for the doctor’s sake. But he could hope.

“Well, many factors can up the percentage of twins, including maternal age.”

Paris tossed her red hair back with the hand Turner had captured, escaping his grasp. She harrumphed.

“Don’t sweat it, Mrs. Pruitt, you are still a young woman. These days I see many patients in their forties having babies. The most important thing I need to tell you is to take extremely good care of yourself. I’d like you both to go to a prenatal class we have here that talks about maternal care during your pregnancy.

“I would’ve liked to have had you in here a bit earlier, but I’m glad you are here now. We like to monitor twin pregnancies a bit more closely.” The doctor handed them a pile of pamphlets with pregnant women on them and kept talking.

“You are in good health generally, and things looked fine on the ultrasound. Because it’s twins
we’ll want to see you every two weeks from now on. Twins deliver anywhere from thirty-five to thirty-eight weeks rather than the full forty. If we get to thirty-eight, we’re really doing well.”

“Oh, are
we?
” Paris snarled.

Dr. Shapiro seemed unfazed. “Yes, we are. We are a team. Me, you, and your husband. Our goal is to get those two babies delivered healthy and happy. Right?”

“Right,” Turner answered. He felt bad that it had taken him so long to get Paris on track with an OB. But what Dr. Shapiro didn’t know was that they’d gone through three other potential doctors before this, and Paris had dismissed each one for whatever whim she’d come up with.

This time Turner had put his foot down and insisted Dr. Shapiro was the one. Turner liked him. He was easy to talk to. Which reminded him; the moment had come to bring up the subject he was determined to know something about.

Turner spoke up. “I have some questions, Doctor. I’d like to know everything there is about postpartum depression. My wife’s mother had a severe case, and Patricia is convinced she will have the same problem.”

Paris looked at Turner as if she might slap him. Her face went red as flame and her green eyes snapped with anger. He didn’t want to
bring up old pain, but this was his chance to get her to listen to reason. It looked to him as if Dr. Shapiro was on his wavelength. The doctor paused to look at Paris, sat back down, and appeared as if he was choosing his words carefully.

“We’ve made some real advancements in this area. I had a patient that helped educate me on this matter more than anything I learned in med school.” He looked up at his bookshelf and pulled down several books. He handed them to Turner and indicated one particular thin blue paperback book. “My patient participated in a study with this woman, Dr. Katharina Dalton, in London. We did a natural progesterone treatment following the birth of her second child, and it was extremely successful in her case. I myself was very impressed with the overall theories presented in this book. It changed the way I treat my patients who have difficulties with postpartum,” Shapiro said. “There are many new approaches.”

Turner thanked God for sending them to this particular doctor. Someone who didn’t autopilot through the issue—someone who had taken the time to listen to a patient and read new research. It truly seemed like a miracle at the moment. Perhaps Paris would see that as well.

“Is it hereditary?” Paris asked coldly.

“There are hereditary factors, yes. A predispo
sition to depression and severe premenstrual syndrome as a reaction to the hormonal drop in progesterone present in both the natural cycle and more severely after delivery of a child. But again, we’ve been having some success with natural progesterone treatments for all of those conditions in combination with other things.”

Turner knew that all Paris had heard was
yes, it’s hereditary,
and he already knew that her PMS was the stuff of legend. He sensed that she had not even heard the part about treatments.

“But even severe cases can be treated and recover to normal levels, yes?” Turner tried hard to get that fact back into the conversation.

“With the kind of support Patricia has, I know we could diagnose early and make sure she gets the help she needs.”

That’s what Turner wanted Paris to hear. But when he looked over at her, she was up and out of the office door. It slammed behind her.

“Problems?” The doctor pressed his fingertips together.

“Big ones. I’ll read up and we’ll try this conversation again. I can’t go into too much detail, but this is something we will have to deal with as we go.”

“Let’s just take things a step at a time. Just because her mother had it doesn’t mean she is made of the same genetic material. It could by
pass her completely. But a family history is something to pay attention to. We’ll talk more after you’ve read that book. I think it might help.”

Turner looked at the book in his hand.
Depression after Childbirth
by Katharina Dalton. “I hope so, Doctor.”

“The class is Friday. Please get Patricia there. I think it might help her to be around other pregnant women.”

Turner didn’t think so. But who knew? He only knew he had to find the key to unlock Paris’s fears. And he
was
going to find it. He wouldn’t stop until he found it.

Turner thanked the doctor and went to find Paris. He wondered, for a moment, what was driving him. He came through to the waiting room and saw Paris standing by a large fishtank, her back to him. Her red hair spilled down her back in soft waves of curls. She had on simple clothes today—a pale green shift dress. She looked like any other woman in the waiting room, not a formerly famous model.