The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (13 page)

“No, you’re not—”

“I’ve got to wonder if you’re feeling trapped. Maybe you’re having second thoughts about us—”

“Not at all—”

“I love you, Zoe. And I know having your father around is confusing the issue, opening a lot of old wounds. I don’t want to interrogate you. I just want to understand what’s going on. I don’t want us to get messed up, that’s all.”

“Neither do I, Nick. You’ve got to know that.” Didn’t he?

He waited, watching me with a look I couldn’t read. I had to stop this conversation, couldn’t take any more. Mercifully, Nick relaxed. “Good. Then let’s eat.”

Amazingly, he bit into his burger and moved on as if nothing were wrong. He talked about the retirement home, the posh lifestyle it offered. How you could get concert and sporting tickets right there on the premises and they had free bus service to everything. They had a movie theater, an Olympic pool and spa, a visiting-lecturers program, a library, a beauty salon, a boutique. I picked up a forkful of turkey and noodles and chewed. Washed them down with iced tea. Took another bite. Repeated the process until my plate was almost empty. Trying to be normal, worrying that the scars of my childhood were going to ruin our marriage even before it began.

Finally, lunch was over. We walked to the doctor’s office hand in hand, but all the way there, I felt uneasy and guilty. And very much alone.

“G
OOD.
THE BABY’S HEARTBEAT
is strong.”

Dr. Martin moved the ultrasound probe over my swollen abdomen. Watching the monitor, she pointed out the various parts of the small person living in my belly. Nick craned his neck, trying to see. His fascination, his delight glowed in his eyes. I was suddenly overwhelmingly fond of him again.

“That’s the heart?”

“Yes.” She pointed a rubber-gloved finger to a tiny pulsing blot on the screen. “And there’s the head. The spine.” She went on naming body parts, and I stared at the shape, trying to comprehend the amazing fact that I was watching a being take form inside me. Someone was living, growing there, day by day.

“Can you tell the sex?” Nick asked.

“Well, it’s early. Are you sure you want to know?”

Simultaneously, I said Yes, and Nick said No.

We began debating, both listing our reasons, but Dr. Martin interrupted. “It’s just four months into the pregnancy. You have time to decide. Think about it and let me know.” She was clearly busy, didn’t have time for our debate.

Nick shrugged and squeezed my hand. But I didn’t squeeze back. I wanted him to give in. I wanted him to do things my way; after all, I was the one giving birth. And I wanted to know everything I could about the baby—I didn’t want to have to call it “it.” I wanted to be able to say, “He’s kicking,” or “She’s asleep.” I wanted to consider appropriate names. And pick out clothes and wallpaper.

“Look—the baby’s stretched out on your bladder. Lounging.”

We had to laugh. Dr. Martin was right. The baby seemed to be posing like a tiny movie star. Smiling, the doctor turned off the monitor. The ultrasound was over. She wiped gel off my belly. “So, you’re four months along, into the second trimester. That part is usually a breeze, the best part of the pregnancy. Women tend to feel good, energetic. Glowing. It’s a peaceful time, for the most part. Morning sickness is generally over—yours is gone, right?”

I nodded. Other than gagging over a woman’s corpse, I’d stopped sucking down saltine crackers and hadn’t been nauseous at all. Just a little light-headed.

“How are you feeling in general?”

I glanced at Nick. He watched me, his eyes adoring and warm. I didn’t want to worry him. “All right. Fine.”

Leslie Martin was perceptive. She hesitated. “Well, good. Get dressed. Nick, can you take these to the front desk?” She held out the billing forms.

Obediently, Nick took the papers, and after squeezing my hand, stepped out of the room. When he was gone I took a deep breath. I told myself it was nothing. But I had to ask about the recurring waves of dizziness and the sensation of tightness around my belly.

When I did, Dr. Martin frowned. Not a good sign.

“The tightness. Was it like a cramp?”

I nodded. Kind of like a cramp, only higher and wider.

“It’s probably Braxton-Hicks. All during pregnancy, the baby’s body is preparing to be born and your body’s preparing to deliver. Braxton-Hicks contractions are your body’s way of practicing for labor. They’re normal.”

That was what the book had said. I released a long breath. I was normal.

“But sometimes the early contractions occur too frequently or too intensely. Then we have to take precautions.”

Precautions? I folded my hands, swallowed. “How do I know if they’re normal or not?”

“Well, to begin with, you need to keep track of them. So far, you’re just reporting an occasional incident. It’s probably nothing. But if the tightness recurs, pay attention. How often does it occur? How long does it last? How intense is it?”

Not all that often. Sort of long. Kind of mildly intense. “I don’t know, exactly.”

“Well, you’re just in your fifth month. It’s early to have a lot of these.” She advised me to keep a log of contractions. She said I should take naps. She told me not to strain myself physically or emotionally, to avoid stress at home and work and told me to see her the following week instead of waiting until our usual appointment.

“I take it that your husband doesn’t know about this?” She raised an eyebrow.

My husband? I loved how that sounded. We’d never explained our marital situation to the doctor. “Not yet. I don’t want him to worry.”

“Well, if your contractions worsen, be sure to tell him. He needs to be prepared, too.”

Prepared? Oh, God. “For what?”

She spoke slowly, gently. “It’s possible that you could develop premature labor.”

I bit my lip. I’d read about that. “You think the baby will come early?”

“Not necessarily. Lots of women have premature labor and don’t deliver early. Most hold on until close to their due dates. We have treatments that are usually quite successful.”

Usually? “By treatments, you mean drugs.” I’d read articles about premature labor.

“There are medications that help. And, if necessary, we’ll put you on bed rest.”

Bed rest. I’d been afraid she’d say that. The articles had described women who’d lived in bed for weeks or even months, controlling early labor. “For how long?” My pulse raced at the thought. I couldn’t stay in bed. I had Molly to take care of. And I still had half a job—patients who relied on me. A wedding to plan. A nursery to decorate. I was breathing too fast; my stomach was flipping.

“Zoe. Don’t get ahead of yourself. We don’t know that any of this will happen—you’ve had only…how many? One or two significant contractions?”

“But if it does—”

“If it does, we’re ready to deal with it.”

I thought of Bertram Haggerty, his offer. “What about alternative medicine?”

Dr. Martin raised an eyebrow. “Like what exactly?”

“Hypnosis?”

“Hypnosis?”

“A colleague at work has offered to work with me. He says it might help.”

Dr. Martin folded her arms. “To be honest, Zoe, I don’t know of any valid research indicating that hypnosis can affect premature labor. But, then again, hypnosis is really just extreme, controlled relaxation. And in general, the more relaxed you are, the better. So, I doubt it can hurt, and—who knows? It might help. I say go for it if you want to.”

I closed my eyes, feeling lost.

“Zoe, listen. Right now, your baby’s fine. What you need to do is to take it easy. Avoid stress. Keep track of your contractions, and call me if they become more frequent or intense.” She covered my hand with hers. “Taking care of yourself is the best way to take care of your baby. Eat well. Rest. Take walks. I’ll see you next week.”

I watched her smiling and talking, heard her voice make rhythmic, soothing sounds. When she left, I took off the gown and looked down at my belly. It was firm and a little plump, but not all that big yet. I held my hands against it, trying to feel a sign of the life inside. But feeling nothing but my own skin, I got dressed and met Nick in the waiting room across the hall, where he greeted me with a bear hug and a completely unsuspecting kiss.

F
RIDAY. MY LAST FULL
day of work. Morale at the Institute had nose-dived. Even Agnes seemed muted as she ignored me when I passed her desk. Not everyone was directly affected by the cuts; many psychiatrists had private practices and teaching positions; their work at the Institute was mostly for prestige. But staff members like me—various therapists and social workers—and researchers like Bertram, we depended on our jobs for livelihoods, and we were gloomy and dour, passing one another zombielike in the halls, allowing our moods to penetrate the walls, pollute the air.

Not surprisingly, patients were affected. In my art sessions they were increasingly agitated, unfocused, not willing to concentrate on projects. Friday’s first session was private; I worked one-on-one with schizophrenic Evie Kraus, who refused to participate. She sat silent, ignoring me, staring into the air for several long minutes. When I handed her a paintbrush, she responded by letting it fall to the floor, then knocking several jars of acrylic paints over, creating large puddles of ocher and cadmium on the linoleum. An orderly intervened, and Evie shoved him; the orderly slipped in the wet paint, knocking over the easel, covering his pastel-green uniform with puce. I was trying to calm Evie, but the orderly called for assistance, and before Evie could react to me, another orderly and a nurse rushed in. Startled, Evie tried to run, but the three surrounded her and, ignoring my protests, forced her into a jacket and wheeled her out of the studio. Just eleven minutes into her session, it was all over. The studio was empty and silent, and I was alone.

I thought about cleaning up Evie’s mess, scrubbing red and yellow stains off the floor. But I didn’t, couldn’t. They were Evie’s way of screaming, her reaction to the changes that were shaking her world, so I left them there, a sign of respect. But I was trembling, shaken by the outburst and the violent scuffle that followed. I needed to get out of the studio, wandered to the lounge, made myself a cup of tea, dumped it out, walked the halls and finally found myself at the door to Bertram’s office. I stood there, not knocking, hesitating. Why? I felt guilty, as if by being there I was doing something wrong.

That’s ridiculous, I told myself. Go ahead. Knock. You have nothing to feel guilty about.

But maybe I did. After all, I hadn’t yet told Nick about Bertram’s offer of hypnosis sessions. Hell, I hadn’t even told Nick about my early contractions, the reasons for the sessions. Shouldn’t I talk to Nick before proceeding? Was I keeping more secrets, putting up more walls?

No, I told myself. This was not about walls. This was private. Bertram wanted to work with me on my personal issues and stress levels. Those didn’t concern Nick; they were mine alone.

And so, without further debate, I knocked. Bertram answered, pleased to see me. He welcomed me into his office even though we had no appointment. I sat in the same chair as last time, relaxed just being there. At his suggestion, I pictured myself floating on my New Hampshire lake, watching a sunset in my “happy place.” And the next thing I knew, it was eleven o’clock. Almost an hour had passed; it was time for my next session. My mascara was smeared with tears, but I felt lighter and, magically, able to get through the day.

S
ATURDAY MORNING DAWNED BLUE
and sunny. Nick took Molly and Emily to the zoo, giving me time to go sort through the mess at my father’s house with Susan. Susan had insisted on helping, on the condition that I buy her breakfast first. She ordered chocolate-chip pancakes with bacon. All I wanted was a toasted bagel.

“You need to eat more.” She placed a napkin in her lap.

“And you could probably eat less.”

She glared at me. “I’m stressed. You know I eat a lot when I’m stressed.”

“What’s going on?”

“Just the usual. My life is stress. My kids don’t do anything that even rhymes with ‘help.’ My husband thinks helping me means asking a thousand questions, so that it’s easier for me to do whatever he’s helping me with myself than to answer him. And I’ve got too many cases. Including one that should have pleaded out easily, but hasn’t because I’m dealing with Doug Morrison, a moron ADA who has to be the most arrogant, incompetent lawyer in the DA’s office, if not in Philadelphia—maybe in the world—”

The waitress interrupted, offering coffee.

“Anyhow, I’m fine. Same old same old.” Susan poured sweetener into her cup. “But you should eat more. Especially calcium. And vitamins.”

“I take vitamins.”

“Order a glass of milk.”

I hated milk. “I’m having cream cheese. It’s okay.” I asked about her cases. Why she was so angry at the ADA.

“Let’s not talk about it. I’ll get an ulcer. The guy just has his head up his behind.” She gulped coffee, eyeing me, changing the subject. “So are you feeling okay? Physically?”

Except for possible early contractions and the threat of bed rest, yes. “Fine.”

She studied me, concerned, and I realized how little we’d talked about pregnancy. Susan was experienced. She’d given birth three times. Wasn’t it odd that she never talked about it?

“So.” Why did I feel so awkward asking? She was my best friend. We talked about everything. “What was it like?”

“What was what like?”

“Having babies.”

She looked into her coffee cup. “I survived. Not a big deal. Why?”

Why? Was she kidding? “I’m doing research for a PhD.”

“Zoe, it doesn’t matter what it was like for me. It’s different for everybody and for each delivery. You never know what to expect.”

Great. Thanks.

“So you’re nervous?”

I poured cream into my decaf, trying to act nonchalant. “Not really.”