She Woke Up Married (17 page)

“Our babies are fighting for their lives, Paris.”

“I won’t do anything to hurt them,” Paris sniffed. She wiped the tears off her face with her hand.

Paris saw movement—the nurse with a mask at the other end of the room, checking each baby. Turner watched her. She saw a deep crease form in Turner’s forehead.

A woman came in—probably a mother—and went over to one of the glass boxes. The nurse came over and talked to the woman, then helped her tie a medical mask on her face. Paris watched as she pushed her hand through an opening in one of the incubators and into a glove sort of thing. She heard her talking to her baby in soft tones. Then the nurse rested her hand on the mother’s shoulder for a moment.

Paris snuffled. The mother looked up at her. After a few more minutes the mother removed her hand from the opening and walked over to Paris.

She put her hand on Paris’s hand. Paris looked up at the woman’s eyes and saw the pain there. But she saw something else, too.

The woman dropped her mask down and spoke to Paris. “Is your baby in here?” the woman asked her.

“No. I…a friend of mine wanted me to see.”

The woman looked confused but passed over that thought and held Paris’s hand. “I’ll pray for you,” she said.

Paris felt a terrible sting of emotion hit her. It hurt so bad she thought she might cry out loud. “I’ll be fine,” she murmured, her voice breaking
a little. “I’ll pray for you, too. I will. My husband is a minister.” Did she really say that?

The woman looked up at Turner, who nodded quietly to her.

“Thank you.” She took Paris’s hand in both of hers and held it for a minute. “He gained two ounces,” she said.

Paris saw tears in the woman’s eyes. “I’m sure he’ll be okay,” she replied.

The woman dropped back and wiped her eyes with her gown sleeve. “I better get back. It helps them to have their mother’s voice and touch. Even if it is a glove.”

The nurse stepped over to Turner. “You better take her back.”

Turner grabbed the end of the gurney and pulled Paris out of the room.

“I swear to you, I won’t let anything happen. I want them to have a good start,” Paris choked through her tears.

Sarah was standing in the hallway. So was Lennie the orderly.

Sarah leaned over her. “I have nothing more to say to you, Paris, but if I hear you whine about how laying on your back is ruining your hair, or complain about how put-upon you are, I swear I will slap you myself.”

“I can be a very strong person when I want to,” Paris said quietly.

Turner just stood there and let that woman
talk to her like that. Then he let the orderly take the gurney from him and roll her back down the hall. He stayed with Sarah. Paris felt sick to her stomach.

“My, my, we’ve really pissed someone off, haven’t we?” Lennie leered at her.

“Apparently.”

“I’d behave if I were you. Dr. Shapiro’s nurse, Rosie, is one scary lady.”

“I hear ya.”

Lennie got her back to her room, and Rosie the scary nurse came in. They undid her straps and did the sheet transfer again. Once she was back on the bed, Rosie reattached all her wires and belts and took another round of readings. They remade the bed around Paris and gave her several warmed blankets off a tray. They felt so comforting that Paris started to cry.

“Get some sleep, Mrs. Pruitt. Dr. Shapiro will see you in the morning bright and early. I suggest you follow doctor’s orders to the letter. He’s a very good doctor. Keep flat. Ring the bell if you want to go to the bathroom. We’ll use a pan for the next twenty-four hours. After that, if Dr. Shapiro says it’s okay, you can get up for that only,” nurse Rosie said.

Paris had nothing to say, or any ability to say it.

The nurse tested each machine, watched the reading, then seemed satisfied. She turned and padded out of the room with her soundless
white shoes. Lennie rolled the gurney out after her. “G’night Mrs. P,” he called back.

Turner came in the room. He stood next to her bed and felt her cheek. “Warm enough?”

“Y-yes.”

“Your chills are from your blood pressure dropping down after being too high. Dr. Shapiro gave you some medication to make it drop.”

“That won’t hurt the babies, will it?”

“No, it won’t.” Turner was deadly silent between his short answers. “It’s good of you to ask.”

“I’m not as much of a monster as she thinks I am,” Paris said.

“It’s not about you anymore, Paris. Unless you can make some kind of shift in thinking, I don’t see much hope for a good outcome with this pregnancy, or with us. I am seriously concerned.”

Paris looked up into Turner’s face. His usual warmth was gone. In its place was something else—anger? Disappointment? Whatever it was, it hurt her more than anything Sarah had said. She was shocked at how much it hurt. It made her ache with pain.

“I thought you said it wasn’t my fault?” Her voice was betraying her feelings, and she didn’t like that. She bit her lip.

“It’s not about fault, Paris. You didn’t mean to get sick. But what happens next
is
up to you. I’ve watched you push people around for months
now. I’m hardly surprised one of them pushed back. But you are carrying two little lives that are depending on you to think of them first from now on. I don’t know if you are capable of that, and it makes me terribly sad to think that my faith in you has been a mistake.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve held the belief that you had the capacity to love. That once we faced some of your early pain, and you began to heal, you might find yourself capable of giving and receiving love. Sarah doesn’t seem to think you have that ability.”

“She hates me.”

“She doesn’t know you like I do, but I’ve been waiting to see some effort on your part. A sign of recognition that you have been entrusted with the care of two lives. Maybe I’ve been a fool, like Sarah says.”

For the first time, Paris thought that Turner might leave her. For the first time, she understood why.

“If you want to leave after the birth, I’m not going to stop you, Paris. I had high hopes we’d make a real family for our children. But I’m only one man. I have a great deal of love to give, but I can’t fix this, Paris.” His voice was so hard and broken at the same time. She could hardly stand it.

“I—I’m sorry, Turner. Sorry for everything. I can change, I promise.”

“Prove it,” Turner replied. Then he walked out of the room.

Paris lay flat on her back in the hard hospital bed with her eyes wide open, tears streaming down her temples. Outside the window she saw the neon competing with the stars, making them dim. Out in the desert, not far away, the stars filled the night sky like nowhere she’d ever seen before. The desert was beautiful. A good place for her children to grow up.

She wanted them to grow up. She wanted them to have a wonderful father like Turner. She had been a horrible woman for so long that she didn’t know how to change. She cried for being horrible and hard and unloving, and for the tiny little babies she’d seen in the preemie ward. Why did Turner even bother with her?

At least she could give him the gift of his babies, well and healthy. Paris thought for a moment about Turner, and how much she cared whether he hated her or not. She didn’t want him to hate her. She…she loved him. She lay awake until the light of morning streaked a rainbow of pink and yellow light into her room, thinking about love, thinking about her children. Thinking about Turner.

Turner hadn’t slept much. He stood at the window staring at the morning sky. He ran his hand over his face and rubbed his aching forehead. The smell of perking coffee hung in the air. The pot made gurgling noises.

Sarah opened the front door quietly. She looked startled to see him there.

“Turner?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“The babies are doing fine. I checked before I left.”

“And Paris?”

“She’s fine.”

Turner heard the edge still in Sarah’s voice. How could she not think badly of Paris if she
didn’t know the inner turmoil Paris was having? He’d been so respectful of Paris’s privacy, but it was costing her the love and support of other people in her life.

He knew Paris probably didn’t care about that. But he did.

This probably wasn’t the time to talk to Sarah about it, though, after a night shift.

Sarah hung up her sweater on the coatrack and came over to where Turner was standing. “It’s a beautiful sky today, isn’t it? Millie says you’re thinking about house hunting. Is that right?” she asked.

“It’s going to get pretty crowded around here with two babies,” Turner said softly.

“There’s no hurry, though. When Paris leaves you’ll have your room back and we can rig up a nursery in there with you pretty easily. Or we’ll just turn the living room into baby world while they’re still infants.” She laughed a little, in a forced way.

Turner looked over at Sarah and tried to read where she was coming from. He didn’t understand her sometimes.

“I’m hoping that Paris will change her mind.”

Sarah took a step over to the table and pulled a chair out. She sat down hard and crossed her arms across the sparkly white linoleum tabletop. “Turner, why would you want her to stay? I get that the babies would do better with her for a
short time, but she obviously doesn’t care. She is the least maternal woman I’ve ever seen. She shows you no affection, and frankly, sometimes I think you’ve lost your mind. I know you are an optimistic, godly man, but sometimes we need to cut our losses and get on with life. We’ll all pitch in and make sure your children are surrounded with love. That’s more than their so-called mother would ever do.”

Turner let her get all that out. After all, this was the first time Sarah had actually said it out loud to him. The bitterness in her voice told him that she’d been holding it and twisting on it for a very long time.

He was bone tired. “Let’s have some coffee.” He walked to the kitchen and took down two cups. He saw Paris’s Garfield cup on the shelf. How could a woman who brought her cartoon cup from New York not have a soft side? It must be in there somewhere.

“Another round of coffee around the table is not going to make this all better, Turner.” Sarah sounded like she was going to cry. “And besides, I’d rather have tea. Just micro me a cup.” She wiped at her eyes and slumped in the chair.

Turner filled a cup with water and pulled out a peppermint tea bag. He stuck it in the microwave and punched the buttons. The machine whirred. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the Mr. Coffee. That was Millie’s phrase for the
electric coffeemaker. She liked to call things by their brand names. The Amana. The Frigidaire. It made him smile.

“We need a new house, Sarah. We don’t have a washer and dryer. That’s seventeen-thousand diapers a day,” he joked. He didn’t know why he picked that moment to joke—just trying to cut the tension.

“I see your point.”

The microwave dinged, and he pulled her tea out. He balanced a small dish on top for the bag and brought both his coffee and her tea to the table. This kitchen table was getting a lot of talk time lately. It used to be Millie’s favorite spot until the hordes had come. This table had seen some mighty hot talk on her Hot Line. He smiled as he sat down.

He held his hot coffee cup in his hands, warming them. It seemed like there was a chill in the room, but he knew it was just the discomfort of the conversation.

“Sarah,” he said quietly as he sat down next to her. “There’s something I feel I need to tell you. I’d like you to keep it as a confidence, the way I have. I know you are an honorable person, and will do that if I ask you to.”

“Yes.”

“Paris has very personal reasons for believing she might be a danger to her own children. She is convinced she will repeat her mother’s medical
history of postpartum psychosis. I’ve tried to convince her this is a new era, with new treatments, and that she most likely won’t even have this problem, but she is basically scared out of her wits.”

Sarah was very quiet. She stared at Turner like she was taking it all in slowly.

“Does this make sense to you? She had a very bad time of it as a child. You know her parents are both dead. She was put into an orphanage.”

“I didn’t know,” Sarah answered. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Yes. The best I can do at this point is track down the records. If I can show her what could be done today under similar circumstances, I think she might listen. I’ve been reading up, and this one book in particular has very solid evidence that natural progesterone therapy can make a significant difference. Plus we’ve made major medical advancements in the treatment of depression.”

“I saw that book on the table. Katharina Dalton, right? I read some of it. It’s actually a shame more OBs don’t read this research. It seems to me women should be aware of the various options.”

“I know. At least Dr. Shapiro read it. We’ve talked some, but I’ve decided the best hope lies in recovering the true information about the past and getting her to face it. She was quite young,
and she has her own version locked in her head.”

“Locked is right,” Sarah said. She picked up her tea and sipped. Turner could see her hand was shaking.

“I’m telling you this so you can understand she’s not quite the coldhearted creature she appears to be. She’s in a great deal of pain, really. And fate has given her to me. For my own reasons, I am very much in love with her. I don’t know what will become of that, but I’m determined to find out. She’s a unique person, full of spirit. She just needs healing.”

“And you think you are the person to do that?”

“I do.”

Sarah put down her tea as if it were heavy in her hand. Turner saw that her face was pale. He took another gulp of his coffee.

“I was a little rough on her tonight,” Sarah said. She looked down into her cup, as if she might be slightly ashamed of herself.

Turner wondered just what “rough” meant. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I wanted her to understand that the health of her babies was more important than the discomfort she might have to endure. I was angry at her for complaining and…for being so cold-blooded about leaving you—and them.”

Turner had caught part of what she had said
to Paris, but not all. He was upset with Sarah, but he understood. Besides, Paris needed a wake-up call. Maybe Sarah was meant to be the messenger. He couldn’t control everyone’s reactions to Paris. Paris was going to have to start taking responsibility for her own actions. He listened to Sarah and watched her emotions play out on her face.

“I said some terrible things to her right before you got there. And you already know I arranged that visit to the preemie ward. I’m sorry, Turner. If I’d known some of this, I wouldn’t have been so harsh.” Her cheeks were red with embarrassment. “What can I do to help?”

“Actually, you can do some medical research for me at the college library, and if you find anything about new advancements in treatment, bring them to me. Other than that, you said what you felt was the truth. Maybe Paris needed to see those babies, and hear your words. I’d just like to suggest you have some compassion for Paris now that I’ve told you the whole story, and try and understand where she’s coming from.”

“Please let me know what you find out about her parents. It might help me focus the research.” Sarah took another sip of her tea, pushed the cup aside, and got up from the table abruptly.

Turner saw that her eyes were starting to brim with tears.

“I’m going to get some rest. I’m sorry, Turner.

I hope you can help her.” She left the room quickly.

His coffee was moving toward lukewarm. He got up and poured a refill from the pot, then leaned against the counter and sipped from his favorite black cup.

What would it be like to have been ripped from his family and put in an orphanage? He knew St. Mary’s was a decent place, but the nuns could hardly substitute for the love of a mother and father. The internal pain she must have endured was hard for him to imagine.

He’d been in the most loving of families his whole life. He missed them right now, badly. He looked at the kitchen clock. It was 6
A.M
., 4
A.M
. on Aitutaki Island. He’d have to wait till ten or eleven to catch them at a decent morning hour.

If he could take Paris there, let her see what his family was like, that would be such a gift. That, and the white sand beaches, the lapping waves, the palm trees in the warm wind. He would just have to make that happen sometime soon.

Right now, he had a very pressing engagement to get ready for. Turner finished his coffee, rinsed out the cup, and put it in the “Whirlpool” dishwasher. He was headed for a hot shower, a suit, and a meeting with St. Mary’s parish priest. But first he’d stop at the hospital. He had left things badly with Paris.

Turner wondered if Paris was capable of rising
above her old demons. He had to be prepared for the worst. But while he had her, he was going to do battle with everything he had in him. He looked out the window at the bright sun. The desert was famous for cleansing the spirit. He must have faith that Paris was in his keeping for a reason.

“Wow, you’ve got your regular reverend duds on.” Paris sat up slightly, surprised to see Turner so early, and with his collar and a suit. He looked very…preacherlike, but very sexy too, which she was sure must be a sin on her part to even think. Maybe. She forgot what the rules were. She tried to sound light with him. As if she weren’t devastated by what had occurred between them last night. She wondered if her levity was working.

“You look very tired.”

“I can’t sleep in hospitals. Nurses slapping those white shoes on the floor all night, intercoms, it just gives me the creepies,” Paris lied. She could have slept if her mind would have shut up for a minute. It hadn’t left her alone at all last night. It had gone from one worry to the next in quick order, and she had felt completely powerless to stop it. Particularly when she hadn’t been able to numb herself with a sleeping pill or a glass of wine or a martini, the way she’d been doing for the last ten years.

Turner brought a chair up close to the side of the bed. “Has the doctor been in yet?”

“Yes. He poked around and mumbled and said something about keeping an eye on me for another day. You didn’t miss much. He said he’d be back after lunch.”

“I have an appointment at ten, but I’ll come back after that. I want to talk to him.”

“Hey, we’re doing fine. You don’t need to watch me watch soap operas and eat Jell-O.” Paris gave him a weak smile and pulled up the blankets.

Turner looked surprised. She could hardly blame him. Her voice didn’t have its usual acid bite. Her words probably sounded
reasonable,
for pity’s sake. That was a shock, she was sure. But she’d spent the whole night thinking about Turner, and what a raw deal he’d gotten, marrying her, and how horrible she’d been over the last five months. At least she could make the next part of this time less difficult for him.

“I brought you some things. Here’s a nightgown and some other stuff.” Turner pulled out Paris’s small bag and unzipped the top. “And here.” He handed her one of her bears. Actually it turned out to be one of her favorites.

“Wow. Alice Vanderbear. Thanks.”

Turner planted the bear next to Paris and smiled at her. “I figured you might want a few things from home.”

Home, Paris thought. Did she have one? Even her place in New York was sort of the condo of the year. She’d sublet it without much thought or emotion. Paris stared at the bear. She didn’t have much emotion about things or places, or even people. She was either mad as a hatter or numb. She hugged the bear and felt like she was going to cry. But she didn’t.

She looked up to see Turner looking at her. His deep brown eyes held a well of feelings, she could see that. But things had shifted between them, and it made her ache with emotion.

“I’ve got something for you. I picked this up this morning and got it activated.” He handed her a tiny purple box.

She opened it up. It was a pager.

“So if you need me, just push this button, and it will page me.”

“Thank you, Turner.” She meant that. She knew it was all about the babies, but maybe it should be. She didn’t exactly deserve any consideration from him, considering her terrible treatment of him.

“Sorry it wasn’t a diamond bracelet, I’m a bit short of jewelry money these days. But it is purple, and kind of shiny.”

“This is much better than jewelry. Which reminds me, I have insurance.”

“I just gave them mine so they’d let you in the place. We’ve sort of skipped over some of the
business parts of being married. I’ll get some paperwork together and we’ll talk about it.”

Turner Pruitt was being business-like with her. She tried not to cry. A sharp pain crossed her temple. She reached up and touched her head until it passed.

“Also we’ll need to talk about money. But that can wait till you are feeling better.”

“What about money?”

“Well, I’m going to shift some funds out of a trust account I have, and I’ve been thinking I’ll need to buy a house. There’s just not enough room for everyone….” Turner dropped his thought. “And we’ll have to be a bit more careful with our grocery bills and that sort of thing for a while so I can pull in some extra to pad the down payment. The trust only goes so far.”

Paris couldn’t believe what an idiot she’d been, eating Twinkies and watching soaps for months, not even offering up funds for her own keep. Well, she had paid for all the expensive linens and any shopping channel moments she’d had, and what, a few take-out dinners? She’d been the worst guest imaginable. She was the worst
wife
imaginable.