Chapter One
Karma
From Merriam Webster: Karma Function: noun
Etymology: Sanskrit karma
fate, work
1 often capitalized:
the force generated by a person's actions held in
Hinduism and Buddhism to perpetuate transmigration and in its ethical
consequences to determine the nature of the person's next existence
Heather
I pick up the phone.
“Ms Marazek, yes, thank goodness we’ve reached you.
Doctor Phal needs to see
you again as soon as it’s convenient. What time is good for
you?”
I freeze. The receptionist’s tone is faintly stiff; she knows
something she
can’t say over the phone, I can tell. The smug little hint of
it in her voice
gives it away and I take a breath to regain my composure. My last
appointment
was only a week ago. The tests are due back--
“This afternoon, at four if you have an opening,” I
reply, checking the clock
in the kitchen. Thank goodness Jim’s busy with a deposition
today. If he were
here he’d be looking at me with those worried eyes. I
couldn’t take that right
now. Bad enough he was there when I started bleeding a few months ago,
commiserating
with me on what was probably the start of early menopause. But I
haven’t wanted
to worry him about the rest of it.
The coughing and headaches.
The sleeplessness.
The reflux of bile and continual afternoon fatigue.
“We have an opening at four ten. We’ll see you
then,” the receptionist chirps,
and hangs up, leaving me to stare off into the kitchen with the
receiver in my
hand, suddenly feeling very alone. I’m torn now, terribly
torn. I want to know
what’s wrong with me so I can get on with facing
it—and at the same time I
don’t want to know.
It isn’t fair. I’ve handled the diabetes most of my
teen and adult life, and
that’s been no picnic. I’ve had measles and
shingles and broken ribs. Even
though I took care of myself when I was carrying Zoë, I still
ended up with
preeclampsia and tied tubes. I watch my weight even though I
don’t really want
to, I exercise, even though I don’t really want to, I take my
vitamins and
don’t drink or smoke—
I’m sure it’s cancer. Doctor Phal won’t
sugarcoat it if it is, and I’ll just
have to deal with it.
As I step out of the shower I wonder what sort it is. One of my uncles
died of
stomach cancer, and according to my mother it was a terribly painful
way to go.
I rub my stomach ruefully. Yes medical science has made a lot of
inroads, but
still—
It could be something blood-related. Phal took several tubes, teasing
me about
being part vampire—do women my age get leukemia? I always
associated it with
children. And if I had leukemia wouldn’t I feel more run
down? I towel off and
contemplate my body in the mirror of the bathroom, letting my gaze
travel over
myself.
It’s been a good body. I do like parts of it, unlike Jim, who
seems to think
EVERY aspect of me is amazing. That sort of devoted blindness I
don’t mind, and
if he’s willing to overlook my overly pointy elbows or big
feet or scars, then
who am I to complain?
I lean forward and glare at myself, shaking my wet bangs out of my
face. “You
have Magyar blood in your veins, woman. Deal.” I snap at my
reflection.
In my only concession to vanity I admit: I so do not want to lose my
hair to
chemotherapy.
In the waiting room I listlessly glance at magazines, not reading, not
remembering anything I’ve looked at. My cell phone rings and
I open it, seeing
a familiar number and feeling a stomachdrop of dread.
Time to put on a show.
“Hey hon. Wanted to see if you were still interested in pizza
later.”
“Ah, sure, sounds great.”
Actually it sounds awful; when I’m upset I have no appetite
for anything, but I
can’t let Jim sense anything.
“So I called the house but you weren’t
in—shopping? Did I catch you at a bad
time?” he says in that ruthlessly loving way he has. Jim
can’t help being a
detective, even when he’s not aware of it, and I smile
crookedly.
“No, never a bad time to talk to you my darling.
I’ll be home when my
appointment’s over.”
“Appointment?” here it comes. Nothing gets by this
man, and I regret my slip. I
take in a deep breath.
“Yes. Doctor Phal’s office called. They needed to
see
“They called you.” His words echo in my ear and we
both sort of pause. We both
know this isn’t normal. We both know it means something
serious.
“Jim—“ I begin and stop. What can I say?
I’m weak; I want him with me. His
voice rolls out again before I can speak.
“Okay,
I’ll be there in about ten minutes.” Now I can hear
the change in his
tone, shifting from playful to something a little steelier, and just
hearing it
gives me a sense of relief.
He’ll be here when I hear it. Thank God. I fight the tears
and let my eyes
close, just waiting.
And waiting. The office is busy around me. Other people are talking to
the
receptionist, making further appointments and co-payments. I try to
lose myself
in an issue of Cosmo with no luck. I am not interested in the New
Colors of the
Month, and I don’t need any more Tricks In Bed My Man Will
Love. He wears me
out as it IS, thank you, without resorting to tricks of any
sort—unless you
call the time we played around with the tub of Cool Whip—
Jim walks through the waiting room door, catching me in mid-blush. I
rise to
receive his gentle peck on the cheek and he looks at me carefully.
“You look flushed—“ he observes. I give
him my most mysterious smile.
“Memories.”
“Good ones?”
“Cool Whip.”
Now he’s blushing. With aplomb he sits on the sofa beside me,
shooting me one
of his ‘not now’ looks and then glances around the
room. Against my side, I’m
feeling the bulge of his holster through his coat.
“When’s your appointment?” he demands
softly, looking at me once again, his
expression more serious. I bite my lip and check my watch.
“Seven minutes ago. Phal must be running late,” I
reply softly. I feel his big
hand steal into mine and I grip it tightly. We don’t say
anything. We don’t
have to.
The screening nurse comes over to me a few minutes later, nodding, a
chart in
her arms.
“This way, Ms. Marazek—“
We both rise; follow her down the hall to one of the little exam rooms.
Jim
moves to one corner, big and quiet. The nurse eyes him a moment, then
turns to
me. She takes my blood pressure, my temperature, noting it all down on
the
chart. I shift restlessly, because even though all this little normal
processing is necessary, I just want to get ON with it.
“The doctor will be with you shortly.” She assures
me.
More waiting. Jim comes over and lays a hand on my shoulder. I draw in
a deep
breath. I say it.
“I’m frightened.”
The hand tightens on my shoulder. A kiss lands on my temple and I feel
the warm
support flowing from him to me in that lovely wordless connection we
have.
The door opens, and Doctor Phal walks in. He’s a long lean
Asian man with a
thick mustache and round glasses, and I’ve been seeing him
for almost six
years. He blinks up at me, his eyes wide, kind.
“Heather. Thank you for coming in so promptly.” He
looks at Jim, and for a
moment he pauses, sizing him up and then extends a hand. Jim shakes it.
“Jim Brass.” No title, no explanation. Ooh, I
can’t help but grin at that
little macho-ism. Jim is such a . . . presence at times. Doctor Phal
nods politely
and scoops up my chart from the counter.
“Pleased to meet you. Let’s go into my office,
shall we?”
This is unusual. I follow Doctor Phal down the hall to his corner
office, Jim
close behind me. We enter, and take the chairs in front of the desk
while Phal
slips into his seat behind it. I’m tense now, because
he’s closed the door.
That’s for privacy of course, but also a hint that things
are—serious.
Phal lays open the chart. I can’t help but notice he has
several other charts
out as well, and one of them is from Desert Palms. He clears his
throat.
“Heather, I got the test results back from your physical last
week. Most of
them were just fine. You’re doing well with your diabetes
management, and your
liver panel and white cell count is great. In fact, I wish more of my
patients
took care of themselves the way you do. It would certainly make my job
easier,”
he begins. I sense a build up and grip the arms of my chair.
“Thank you.”
“That being said, I needed to talk to you about your pelvic
exam.” He smiles a
little ruefully and I wait.
“I know we’ve been trying to figure out why you
were bleeding, so as you know
we did put you through the battery. The Pap test came back negative, as
did the
screenings for any STDs of course. No bladder infections, we ruled out
any
kidney problems. Your hormone levels were within normal
range—but, we did find
an anomaly with your HCG levels.”
I look at him. He blinks back at me. “Human chorionic
gonadotropin.”
Still clueless here. Jim is leaning forward though.
“Heather, there’s no other way to put this.
You’re pregnant,” Doctor Phal tells
me gently.
Right.
Of course.
Makes sense except for the whole tied tubes issue.
“Pregnant?” Jim echoes in a deep, slow wondering
voice, “Um Doc, are you sure you
have the right test results?”
He nods, a small amazed smile, and flips a chart around so that Jim and
I can
look to where he points one finger. A line of numbers that mean nothing
to me,
personally.
“Absolutely. It’s all here, run three times for
verification. Of course,
knowing Heather’s physical history, I was highly skeptical
myself, but we ran
another test on the urine sample and came up with the same positive
results. So
I requested the files on your tubal ligation, Heather, and looked it
over.”
He clears his throat. “You had your operation after the birth
of your daughter
nineteen years ago at Desert Palms, which meant the standard procedure
at that
time was a simple cut and suture. No cauterizing, no capping which is
what we
do NOW to further prevent what I see has happened here.”
“Pregnant?” I finally mutter weakly. Doctor Phal
nods again, and continues.
”Clearly one of your Fallopian tubes has managed fuse
together again, with an
unobstructed flow. Once that happened, your cycle started up again and
THAT was
your unexpected bleeding. You reported that you had what you thought
was
breakthrough bleeding three times, and then it stopped. So you had
three cycles
and then became . . .”
“—Pregnant,” Jim finishes softly. For a
moment the office is utterly silent. I
can feel my pulse moving in fast throbs through me, circulating,
nourishing a
little life in me—
Oh.
Oh.
Jim’s baby.
My baby.
Doctor Phal clears his throat and folds his hands on the desk.
“Exactly. And
although this sort of situation is rare, I’m afraid it does
happen. Out of
every ten thousand women with tubal ligations, one hundred and forty
three a
year DO become pregnant again. By our best estimation, you’re
about six weeks
along at the moment.”
I can’t speak, I can’t think, all I can do is sit
and stare at the reports on
the desk, the papers and clips and highlighted lines and try to breathe
but
it’s hard to do.
Oh God. Zoë. What will my baby think?
My MOTHER!
Ababyababyababy-
“If you want to terminate the pregnancy we can arrange to do
that too, Heather.
I know this is all a shock to you, but I wanted you to know the facts
as soon
as possible,” Phal tries to soothe me. Instead I turn blindly
to Jim.
“Doc, if we could have a minute—“ I hear
him croak. Phal nods and slips out.
God the
“Shhhhhh, it’s going to be all right, Heather, it
is, trust me . . .” I finally
hear part of his soothing litany and turn to look up at him. I know
I’m a
blotchy mess; some women can cry and look gorgeous, but I’m
definitely not one
of them. My eye look like boiled onions and my nose goes deep red when
I’m in
the throes of tears. He flashes me a crooked little smile as I wind
down a
little, fading into hiccups.
“You’re beautiful, you know that, right?”
“Jim!” I laugh a little, impatiently wiping my face
with the heel of my palm. I
feel the tug of new tension between us now and I don’t know
what to say. A rush
of fear washes through me as I look up at him.
“What . . . are we going to . . . DO?” I manage to
choke out over my fear. His
arms tighten around me, and his voice in my ear is low and slow.
“It’s up to you, hon. But if I had MY way . .
.” he hesitates, and I give him a
squeeze to make him go on. Jim clears his throat noisily and continues
in the
same soft voice. “ . . . If I had my way, I’d go
get us registered at Babies R
Us.”
I sob anew, and Jim tenses, but between my little gulps I manage to
blurt out,
“ LOVE . . . you!” and he hugs me again. I feel my
hair getting wet where his
cheek is pressing against it and for a long, long moment it’s
a perfect world
right here.
Jim
Heather takes the night off. I take the night off. We never do this.
Both of us
are such creatures of habit and solid work ethics that although
we’ve been
tempted, we haven’t actually played hooky to be with each
other before.
Now seems the right time. Oh boy. We have things to discuss, and heaven
knows
neither of us would really be able to concentrate at our respective
jobs
anyway, so as she finishes giving Pauline instructions, I hang up my
call to
the office to find her nodding at me. We stand in the lobby of the
doctor’s
office for a moment, and Heather finally sighs. I reach for her chin,
tilt it
and kiss her, then rumble, “I still vote for doing the pizza
thing. I’ll meet
you at your place in about an hour, say, with a medium. Any
requests?”
“No anchovies.”
“Coulda guessed that one. You going to be okay to
drive?” that slips out before
I can stop myself, but she nods, clutching her purse, her eyes still a
little
red. I debate with myself on letting her go, but kiss her again, and
watch her
cross the parking lot to get into her Miata. It pulls out into traffic
and I
make my way to my own car, climbing in, moving on autopilot as I work
hard at
not thinking for the moment.
Tuscany Pizza is open, and I put in my order, nodding at Vinnie while I
stare
at the posters on the wall:
“Here ya go, fifteen twenty,” Vinnie rumbles at me,
breaking into my thoughts.
I pick up the box and head out, finally giving in to my inner musings
because
it’s the only way I’m going to be able to keep my
sanity.
Heather’s pregnant and I got her that way.
That sounds so . . . weird. And good, actually. I won’t lie
and say I’ve been a
saint in the sexual responsibility department all my life, but
I’ve been pretty
careful. Karen and I were careful—well, up to a point. After
Ellie it was
emotionally moot, but I kept up the belief that I had accountability in
the
marriage—
My stomach hurts and I feel a heat rising up in me. I need to pull
over, so I
do, into the parking lot of a tax return place. Just as I park I can
feel my
hands trembling as the hot truth hits me and let it wash over me.
It’s hitting
hard, and I’m so glad Heather isn’t seeing this
right now, not when she’s got
enough of her own to cope with.
Oh jeez, this one’s MY baby.
Not that Ellie wasn’t, but—damn it. I’m
losing it, feeling my face get wet,
feeling torn between the pain of the one who’s no longer here
and the one yet
to come.
Both mine, but differently. I’m facing fatherhood again, and
the reality of it
is broadsiding me right now; all the memories tangling up with hopes
and fears.
So DAMN much to think about. To consider. Heather’s health.
My age. The big
changes this is going to make in our lives. And intersprinkled in that
little
bubbles of amazingly good things too—Two PM feedings, and
first steps and piggyback
rides, and somewhere in the middle of all THAT a little face I hope to
God gets
Heather’s looks instead of mine . . .
Yeah, yeah grown man crying his eyes out here—move along,
nothing to see-
After a while I rub one big hand over my face and check my watch,
annoyed that
I’ve been sitting here almost half an hour, so I start the
car and head over to
Heather’s trying to pull it together. I’m not
usually this strung out, but most
guys would have to admit that hearing you’re going to be a
father at 52 with a
woman fifteen years younger and supposedly infertile to boot—
I pull up, park and carry the box up to the porch. The door swings open
and
Heather stands there. She’s been crying again, and when she
sees me with my own
reddened eyes she manages one of those little wet chuckles that makes
me feel
suddenly that much more connected to her. She steps back and I come in,
moving
to set the pizza down on the kitchen table then turn to take her in my
arms
again.
She’s a good fit. Perfect. This hug is all about reconciling
ourselves beyond
the separate crying jags we’ve both just gone through. I
don’t cry often; like
a lotta guys it takes a helluva lot of emotion for me to do it, but I
feel
better for it when it happens. Karen saw me do it maybe twice in our
whole
marriage. Heather’s seen it three times in less than a year,
and that right
there says it all in terms of truth and trust, I guess.
Suddenly I don’t want to sit at the kitchen table, so I look
at Heather and
herd her into the living room.
“We’re camping out right here. I’ll get
the pillows and blankets and you get
the pizza,” I tell her, getting that arch look I’ve
come to love so much.
Heather glances around and softens a little; she nods, and we start
getting it
set up.
A nest of pillows, a fluff of blankets, and within a few minutes
we’re settled
in. I have my back against the sofa, Heather in my lap, a blanket over
us and a
slice of pizza in my spare hand. Talk about all your creature comforts
in one
compact bundle, eh? She reaches for her own slice, munching it
delicately, and
the feel of her against me is very soothing. For a while in mutual
unspoken
consent, we simply dine.
I like to watch Heather eat—she has got to be one of the
daintiest eaters I’ve
ever seen. My mother would have adored her for that alone: little even
mouthfuls, slow chews, graceful sips—all those table manners
I fought against
during my formative years. It’s like watching a doe graze,
and I suppose part
of it is all the work she puts in controlling her diabetes.
But mostly it’s just her— unselfconsciously
feminine and graceful. Brings out
the protective side of me more than I admit, and makes me feel
very—strong,
which is something I definitely need at the moment. So I nuzzle her and
breathe
in her scent, now supplemented by pizza and sigh.
“Ready for some serious talk?” I rumble. She nods,
finishing a little section
of crust and turning her face up to me. I look at her for a long moment
while
she decides.
“Almost. Blood sugar’s about right and
I’m feeling much better being RIGHT
here—“ her cheek drops to the hollow of my throat,
and I like that and I sigh a
little.
“Okay. We have a timeline before us, Heather, of
approximately thirty two
weeks, give or take the odd fortnight, before the arrival of the
world’s most
cunningly conceived child. I have a few thoughts on what constitutes a
priority.”
“Cunningly conceived child?” she murmurs in a soft
tone half of wonder, half of
barely repressed amusement, and I nod.
“Come on, honey, think about it—what did that
doctor of yours say—only 194
women out of 10,000? Sounds pretty miraculous to
“Agreed,” she nods after a moment, her hair
brushing my shirt. “And yes, I can
think of a few priorities myself. Obviously I need to find an
obstetrician,
preferably one who specializes in diabetic pregnancies. Phal can
probably
recommend someone.”
“Good first main concern,” I tell her, glad she and
I are on the same
wavelength there. I heard about her pregnancy with Zoë and
their complications
back in the early days of our relationship, and how lucky Heather was
that
time. Nevertheless, I don’t intend on being foolish and
assuming everything
will be okay. She snuggles into me and I let a hand slide down from
around her
shoulder to gently stroke her waist; she laughs a little at my unsubtle
attempt
to feel her tummy.
“Jim, you know I’m not going to start showing for
about three months.”
“So I need a baseline for comparison—“ I
tell her, gently sliding my hand until
it rests just under her navel. The warm skin there; I remember kissing
it only
a day ago.
“This sort of pushes a timetable I had in mind for a while,
Heather, and I need
you to start thinking about what the two of us are going to do before
the
tadpole gets here. We have two households . . . “ I trail
off, feeling her
stiffen a little. She cautiously makes a little affirmation sound then
blurts
out,
“Darling, you don’t HAVE to marry me you
know.”
God I love this woman! I frown a little, feeling a compassionate rush
at her
nobility, her independent nature.
“Not unless your mother takes a shotgun to me, and given her
height that might
mean our baby will be an only child.”
“James Brass!” she tries to look angry, but giggles
instead. I shake my head
and take her hand, kissing the ring finger. Corny, but I feel a little
emotional today, what the hell.
“Heather, I WANT to marry you. I have for a pretty long time
now. This should
not be news to you.”
Now it’s her turn to blink hard. She dips her dark head,
resting it on my
collarbone and the weight of it feels just right.
“I’ve had . . . suspicions,” she admits.
“You detective you—a regular Agatha Christie in
leather.” I tease. She snorts a
little.
“All I’m saying is we don’t have to rush,
Jim.”
“That’s right. We have a whole nine months for me
to wear you down and drag you
off to the nearest chapel. I have this coupon Nick gave
me—how do you feel
about intergalactic love, Heather?”
I feel her laugh against me again, and my arms around her feel so good.
The
universe is unfolding just the way it’s supposed to right
now. I have the woman
I love, I have a child from our love, and suddenly I duck my head,
sending a
prayer of thanks up for this particular moment.
“I have this urge to get married by Elvis, Jim. And
I’ll wear my work gear, how
about that?” Heather teases. I just kiss her temple.
“Keep that up and I’ll book us into the
Perfection.
“First things first—and that means a long nap.
Then, we have a doctor to find,
and nuptials to consider and I’ll start getting my paperwork
redone.” I list.
Heather nods.
“Fair enough. And you’re right about that first
one, dear heart—nap time.”
We clean up, drag the blanket and pillows back, and tumble into bed,
curling
ourselves into the cuddle of sleep that’s so familiar, so
needed to me now. I
wrap around Heather as we settle in, feeling the warmth of sleep
stealing over
us. So many changes coming our way. But one thing I’m
absolutely certain of,
come hell or high water.
This kid’s going to be a hockey fan.
