Family Affair (4 page)

Stella waved her hand. "They were just silly stories meant to kill a summer's afternoon, but I think I did instill a sense of storytelling into the children. It's a pity someone's talent is not put towards more serious literature."

Chase pursed her lips. Stella was back to being Stella. Once again, she had thrown away the opportunity to remove the barbed wire that surrounded herself and Chase, squandering it like pocket change with complete disregard for its worth.

"Maybe you should write the Binky Land chronicles. Look at that Harry Potter woman. She's horribly rich. Certainly you could do diat instead of wasting your time with these moist mound sagas of yours." Stella threw her arms up in the air like she was at her wit's end with an errant teenager.

"Someone, someone famous," Chase added, "once said that there are two great tragedies in life—not getting what you want or getting what you want."

"Phish. I just think your talents are being wasted." She finished her martini. "Are you staying for dinner?"

"No. We're meeting Lacey to look at baby furniture," Chase said.

"But I thought..." Gitana started to say, but Chase squeezed her arm. "That's right, she's helping us design the nursery."

"We'll grab a bite out," Chase said.

"Off you go then," Stella said. She hooked another martini and walked out with as much dignity as she could muster down the hall toward the kitchen.

Once in the car, Gitana asked, "Why did you do that to her? She's lonely and wanted us to stay for dinner."

Chase started the car. "I'm punishing her."

"Why?"

"I'll never be good enough. It doesn't matter that I've published eleven books when there's a zillion writers who aren't even published. She doesn't like what I write so all my efforts are nothing but a cipher in her opinion."

"You could tell her you branched into mystery novels and it's coming along nicely," Gitana suggested.

Chase shifted the car into reverse. Gitana put on her seat belt and firmly placed her head on the head rest. Chase slammed her foot down on the gas pedal and screamed down the driveway. "It shouldn't matter and besides it would ruin all the fun."

"How long is this feud over your career going to go on?" Gitana glanced at her side view mirror.

"Ever heard of the Hatfields and the McCoys?" Chase steered a hard right and barely cleared the stone pillars of the entrance gate. She checked her skid marks. They were impressive enough. She nodded her satisfaction.

Then her cell phone rang. The ring tone was the Charlie Daniels song, "The Devil Went Down to Georgia."

Gitana frowned. "You told me you were going to change that."

"I did, it used to be "Devil with the Blue Dress On." She clicked on her cell phone.

"Three words, baby-on-board," her mother said.

"Right."

"Bye, bye, Papa." Stella hung up.

"Dammit," Chase said, as she drove carefully down the street.

"Let me guess, no more racing down the driveway backward."

"You got it."

Chapter Four

"What on earth?" Gitana said, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

"I went shopping." Chase was wearing a stethoscope. She pulled at Gitana's arm, rolled up Gitana's pajama sleeve and put the blood pressure band around her bicep and pumped the rubber ball.

"Chase, I'm fine really."

"We're not taking any chances." She put the stethoscope under the armband and inserted the earpieces. She listened intently and watched die dial per the instructions which she'd memorized. "One twenty over eighty. That's outstanding."

"You're crazy, you know that."

"Is that news?" Chase undid the armband and gently wrapped up the device. "Luckily, nature is not at play here, genetically speaking. We'll just have to watch the nurture." She put the stethoscope to Gitana's chest and listened to her heart. "It sounds fine. I couldn't find the thingy-jigger that goes in your ears and up your nose, but I'm sure I can find one on the Internet."

"You scare me. Can I have some coffee?"

"Try being me. At least you can get away. I'm stuck here."

Chase followed her into the bathroom and watched her wash her face and brush her teeth.

"What are you looking at?" Gitana asked.

"I want to see if you're getting fat."

"I'm not. Let's go have some coffee."

They went downstairs. The dogs came flying in the doggie door and jumped at Gitana. "Hey, be careful. Remember there's a baby in there." Chase gave each of them a biscuit. "Now, go play."

"What did you do to the coffee?"

"It's decaf," Chase said lightly.

"What's the point of that?" Gitana peered into her mug with obvious distaste.

"Caffeine isn't good for you or the baby."

"You're going to be a real pain in the ass aren't you?" Gitana poured her coffee down the sink.

"You get used to it." Chase poured herself another cup to make her point. She'd already had four. Usually by now, she'd be having heart palpitations from all the caffeine. "How about we do fifty-fifty?"

"I'm all about compromise." She stuck a Dr. Pepper in her pajama pocket.

"I saw that." Chase tried to grab it.

"I can't function without caffeine. Don't make me go cold turkey," Gitana pleaded.

"All right, but only half a can."

"I promise. Now, what's on your agenda for the day?"

"Shrink's office called yesterday morning. They had a cancellation, so I can go in this afternoon." She watched as Gitana gulped down as much Dr. Pepper as she could. "A lot of sugar isn't good for the baby either."

Gitana ignored her. "I'm really proud of you for going."

"I'm not sure it's starting out right, though. The receptionist asked for my other Social Security number, because they can't find mine in their database." She rolled her eyes. "I told her I'd have to look for it."

Gitana laughed.

"What?"

"That someone who's bipolar would have two Social Security numbers. One for me and one for myself."

"All right, I guess it is kind of funny. But, you know, I'm a little sensitive about this."

"It's going to be fine. Besides, you might run into your other half someday and we could all have coffee."

"That's not even funny. It'd be like having a twin. Do you really want to have two of me?"

"No. I don't think the world is ready for that." Clutching the Dr. Pepper, a now prized possession, she went upstairs to shower and dress.

"Only half of that," Chase called out to her.

"What? I can't hear you, the water's running."

Chase scowled despite knowing no one was around to see it. It was always the conundrum of doing something like burping or farting and saying "excuse me" when you were alone—was it necessary? Maybe it was just good to keep in practice.

Chapter Five

"So you think you're bipolar?" Dr. Robicheck said. She sat cross-legged with a yellow legal notepad on her knee, her pen poised. She looked like a stenographer awaiting testimony.

"That's what they tell me," Chase replied, shifting in the straightback chair. Great for your posture, but far from relaxing. She had considered the couch, but decided it was too Freudian and she wasn't ready for that. The uncomfortable chair seemed indicative of Dr. Robicheck. She was probably a communist from the old days. Chase could tell from her accent she was Slavic. She had sensible short hair, a pinched face and wore a brown polyester business suit with a beige blouse and black square-heeled shoes. Wasn't there a rule about wearing black with brown? She couldn't remember. She'd asked Lacey. Chase wasn't up on fashion faux pas as most of her wardrobe consisted of khaki shorts or trousers and T-shirts.

"I want to ask you some questions. Yes and no answers, only, please."

"You're the doctor."

She nodded. "You have delusions or grandiose ideas?"

"Yes, I guess I do sometimes." Chase quickly ran through her list of mental sins. She harbored a secret desire to win a Pulitzer—that was definitely grandiose considering what she wrote was considered lesbian trash and not high literature. She was convinced that she was entirely responsible for Gitana's happiness and well-being. She desperately wanted to come up with some magical elixir to make her beloved dogs live longer than ten years. Goats, after all, live for twenty-five years. No one loves a goat like they love a dog or a cat. Yes, these were grandiose ideas.

"Excessive drug or alcohol use?" She looked up from her pad and stared at Chase.

"Only on bad days and in moderation."

The doctor frowned.

"Basically, no." She figured that was what the doctor wanted. She must curb her smartass tendencies before she ended up in the psych ward or rehab.

"Have you ever thought you were God?"

"No, well, there was that one time in grade school..." She stopped herself. The doctor didn't have a sense of humor.

"Thoughts of suicide?"

"No." That one she was sure of. She had too much to do—besides it was messy and her mother would bury her in a dress. She just knew it. Her aim was to outlive her mother and bury her in something hideously unfashionable.

The doctor pursed her lips and seemed satisfied. Chase was glad. She hated yes or no answers. Nothing was black and white—except maybe piano keys.

"How'd I do?"

"You have a mild case—most fixable."

"No straightjacket then?"

"That was never a possibility. You're a little crazy. So are a lot of other people. You shouldn't worry. Two pills a day and you'll be normal." She glanced at Chase and amended her statement. "As normal as you can be." She got out her script pad.

Chase kept quiet and busied herself with studying the office decor. You could tell a lot about a person by their surroundings. Being a writer had taught her to look for useful details in the every day. The entire office was a variety of browns—the carpet, the vinyl chairs and table, the print of the copse of trees and, of course, the doctor's outfit. Now, she recalled that Lacey had said brown was the new black. In the doctor's case this propensity toward brown was not about being hip. Chase thought green was supposed to be a soothing color. Maybe brown was the new green. Anyway, she felt she was sitting inside a walnut shell and she couldn't wait to get out. She hoped her dislike of brown, except maybe in potting soil, would not affect the doctor patient relationship. She had a feeling it would.