Layers (28 page)

“Ouch! What the hell?”

“How did that feel?”

For hell! “It hurt. What’s up with you?”

“Let me see a tit.”

“What the fuck?”

“Alexia, I don’t appreciate the attitude.”

“Attitude.”
Are you fuckin’ kidding me.
“You handled my breast then asked to see my tit.”

“So?”

“Really? Stewart, make a stop at the hospital. Gram needs her head examined.”

“Stewart, stop by Boots, my granddaughter needs to pick up a pregnancy test.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You’re pregnant.”

“ No freakin’ way.”

“Afraid so.”

“I can’t be pregnant, it’s not possible.”

“You’ve been living at the Ryan estate and I believe that you and Jaxson Ryan are more than casual friends. So, tell me why it’s not possible.”

“You…what…you knew?”

“Alexia, really? I said I wouldn’t interfere in your life, but I never said I wouldn’t be watching after you. I know everything about you and Jaxson. I’m going to have a long talk with Mr. Ryan.”

“If you knew this whole time…then you were the front man in my investigation of Will Harris.”

“Did you really think it was Zane? You know I love Zane because he’s like a grandson but he’s not the ripest tomato in the garden.”

Ripest tomato?
Gram has these funny little vegetable and fruit… sayings that make like zero sense. “If you mean he’s an idiot, I agree.”

“It’s the only time in almost four years that I’ve intervened. It hasn’t been easy but I’ve been very restrained. Wouldn’t you agree, Stewart?”

“Yes, Lady Grant.”

I laugh. “What’s with the Lady Grant crap?” I ask either or both of them.

Gram’s not into the whole title thing—fucking hates it. If you call her Lady Grant her textbook response is; “That’s a matter of opinion, and I don’t care about your opinion.” Yeah, I get it. It does and doesn’t make sense. I never said Gram’s little…sayings only involved fruit and vegetables.

“Stewart is being an ass. He doesn’t like my latest. Can’t fucking stand him—is what he said.”

“Stewart, you never like any of Grams…lovers.
Boy-toys.
So what’s up, my friend?”

“I think you should ask your grandmother.”

Okay this is interesting. I’ll get the dirt out of him.

Gram sighs. “Let’s just drop it. We have more important things to deal with at present. So, why do you insist that you’re not pregnant? Accidents happen, you know.”

Okay, let’s all take a deep breathe, because Gram isn’t going to be happy with this development. It’s all about the heir, the legacy, with her. “Jaxson’s sterile. He can’t have kids… pass on the old DNA, procreate, breed, impregnate.

“I know what sterile means, smart ass. So who else did you shag? Because you’re pregnant.”

“I haven’t shagged anyone other than Jax. I’m not pregnant.”

“Well then, it must be immaculate conception, because you’re pregnant.”

“Gram, I’m not…so please, let’s just drop it.”

“Stewart, the druggist first, then home.”

“Frankly I don’t know how you did it.”

“Did what?”

“Stay away from Jaxson Ryan for so long. I’d be all over that. To bad he doesn’t have a younger brother.”

For hell! A younger brother? Is she fucking kidding me?

“Gram, you’re a piece of work.”

“Well, thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“I can interpret it anyway I want.”

“Whatever.”
Just shoot, slit my wrists, then hang me.

Two hours later I’m in the bathroom at Grant House in central London.

Test number
three.
Wait three minutes. Display will show pregnant or not pregnant.

“Fuck!”

Test number
four
. Wait three minutes. A blue line must be in the control window when you read your results. Control window?
What the?
Pregnant plus sign, not pregnant negative sign.

“Fuck! Fuck!”

“Alexia, the results aren’t going to change. You could take fifty tests and you’ll get the same results.”

“I’m not giving up Gram!” I shout through the bathroom door.

Test number five. Wait five minutes. Okay,
five
minutes—more time—that’s got to be good. Don’t you think? Keep those fingers crossed. Two pink lines in the result window: pregnant—one pink line: not pregnant.

“Fuck! Fucker! Fuckery! Fuck!”

“Alexia. Watch your mouth. I’m this close to washing it out with soap.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” From whom does she think I learned ‘potty mouth’?

“Alexia, come out.”

“No wait! Wait. Wait. It says on the information leaflet, that four out of one hundred women between the ages of forty-five and fifty-five had false positive results.”

“Alexia, you’re twenty-seven.”

“Fuck me!”

I open the door—feeling utterly dejected and confused. “How did this happen?”

“Well, I don’t know the exact position—missionary—doggie?”

“Funny, Gram. You’re fucking hilarious.”

“Couldn’t agree with you more, my dear.”

Pregnant. Knocked up. Inseminated. Bun in the oven. Bean in the slow cooker. Breeding. Baby boarding. Marinating. Incubating. Any way you say it—any way you define it—it’s terrifying shit–crazy.

I’m waiting in a neon white exam room, wearing a fashionable biodegradable plastic-paper exam gown—while sitting on a concrete exam bed. Okay, it only feels like concrete. It’s some kind of plastic crap. It’s probably biodegradable. Whatever.

My head feels like it wants to self–sever; my heart is racing well over the speed limit; and my stomach is renting space in my throat.

And then there is Gram—who is her usual sophisticated, controlling, demanding, crazy-ass self. I hate her. Okay, I don’t hate her; she just bugs the shit out of me. I mean, really—how can anyone be so calm––at a time like this. I’m going to bear a child, pop one out, deliver a bundle of joy—Holy Mother of God.

Gram stands and takes my hand—my sweaty hand.

“Alexia you look like you’re going to pass out.”

“Yeah. I feel like I’m going to spontaneously combust.”

“Well, you better the hell not, because I have a weak stomach.”

I laugh. Okay, so it came out more like a whale song—whatever.

“You have an iron gut. I’ve never seen you ralph, like
ever.”

“Just because you’ve never seen me ralph—if that means puke—doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened. I’ve done many things that you’ve not witnessed.”

“Oh yeah? Name one.”

“You’ve never seen me back down, crawl, shit or fuck.”

Okay, got me with the first three Gram, but that last one…are you fucking kidding me?

“Well, you got me there, Gram.”

For hell, Gram and her lover-boy-toys. Let’s not even go there. It would take up chapters and chapters of my story—no, a whole book, maybe two.

“When I was pregnant with your father—puked my guts out for days. Slept on the bathroom floor for three months.”

She sits back down in her chair.

“This highly-recommended doctor…you said she was from Boston?” I ask.

“Yes. Went to Harvard.”

“Why is she practicing in London?”

“Married a Brit. A cardiologist.”

Gram impatiently looks at her watch. “We have been waiting for sixteen and a half minutes. Highly recommended or not, I don’t tolerate tardiness.”

We hear a soft knock at the door. Best timing.
Ever.

“Hello, hello.” The door opens. In walks a woman about my age and height— short messy red hair, chunky purple glasses, and high tops—geek. I love her.

She extends her hand. “Hello, I’m Katie Warren, and unless I have the wrong exam room, I’m assuming that you are Alexia Grant.”

She shakes my hand then extends it toward Gram.

“And you, Katie Warren, are seventeen minutes late” Gram says with her ‘don’t mess with me or I’ll kick your ass attitude.’

“Lizbet Grant—pleasure. Sorry about the seventeen minutes—shit happens.”

Okay, she had me with the high tops. Now she freakin’ owns me. Any woman who says—‘shit happens’ to my grandmother is a Goddess.

Gram lifts a brow and shakes her hand firmly. “So they say, doctor,” she huffs.

“It’s a genuine pleasure to meet you,” I say.

Dr. Warren gives me a knowing smile. “So, you’re both Americans.”

“Yes. Half anyway,” I answer.

“Thank God—these Brits are driving me insane with their proper English and all their properness.”

I giggle.

Gram rolls her eyes.

“Well, it’s your lucky day,” I spout. “Nothing proper about us.”

Dr. Warren pulls up a computer that’s sitting on a rolling table and types away for a few seconds.

“Okay Alexia. I get to ask the questions and you get to answer them.”

“Okay.”

“When was your last period?”

I think for a minute. “Seven months, four days.”

“Well, you’re not seven months and four days along so I’m assuming your cycle is irregular?”

“Yes, very. Unless I’m on the pill.”

“When did you last take the pill?”

“Eight months, two weeks.”

“No days?”

“Three.”

She smiles. “Okay, I just need an
approximate
date here. How far along could you be?”

“Approximately—twelve weeks.”

“Final question. Can you give us any vital information about the father?”

“I can, but I’d rather he did.”

“So, he’s in the picture then?”

“I hope so.” More than hope so. I’ll get down on my knees and pray so
.

“Okay, looks like the tech got a blood sample and vitals and background so let’s take a look.”

She pushes back the computer then pulls up what I’m assuming is an ultrasound.

She directs me to lie back and put my legs in the stirrups.

“Cowboy up,” she says.

Gram all but has an aneurism.

I laugh.

She probes my vagina and stomach. Nothin’ like being probed by your doctor—
love it
.

“All’s good. I think you’re close to being twelve weeks, Alexia. Let’s take a look.”

She rolls her exam chair over to the ultrasound machine. She then puts some goo on my belly and glides something that looks like a computer mouse over it.

“This is a high resolution ultra sound. It will give us a detailed look. So if you don’t want to know the sex, speak up.”

“I want to know,” I say without hesitation. “I don’t think I can take any more surprises.”

She types something on a keyboard, and then rolls the mouse thingy over my belly.

Then we hear, what can only be, a fast beating heart.

“Heart beat,” she says. “Sounds good.”

Thank God, because it sounds way too fast to me. What the hell do I know? Nothing.
“I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout birthin’ no babies!”

“Oh my,” she says, “very interesting.”

“Interesting good or bad?” I ask while looking at the monitor. All I can see is…not much.

“Good, I hope,” she answers.

Gram leans over me toward the monitor. “You hope?” she asks.

“Okay Alexia, let’s take a closer look,” she says while gliding over my belly. “The head, heart, arms, and legs.”

“Oh my God,” I spout-cry. I can so see it now. Amazing.

She moves the mouse-paddle thing around some more. “Head, heart, arms, legs, and penis.”

“Are you sure that’s a penis?” Gram asks. “It looks like a leg.”

The good doctor smiles. “I’m sure it’s a penis.”

“It’s a boy?” I squeak out.

She smiles and moves the mouse over to the left. “And penis number two.”

Gram grabs my hand in a death grip. “The baby has…two…two penises?”

Doctor Warren laughs. I mean she really laughs. Rolling in the aisle laugh. Tears rolling down your face laugh.

“I don’t think this is a laughing matter,” Gram stammers.