Miracle (65 page)

She had never seen Elliot sober at Christmas before. He was waiting at her door at nine
A.M
. with a bottle of apple cider, a smoked ham, and a present. Behind him warm sunshine filled the breezeway along the top floor of the two-story apartment complex, heating the fake adobe and pseudo-hacienda trim. He wore plastic reindeer antlers.

“Rudolph?” she asked.

“Bruce, the gay reindeer. Nobody mentions him much.”

She kissed his cheek. “Come in, Bruce.”

“Where’s Frau Hitler?”

“She took an early bus to Beverly Hills. To windowshop.”

“Means she probably has more blackmail in mind.”

“As long as she keeps quiet, I don’t care.”

He helped her lower herself onto a couch near the Christmas tree, then sat down beside her. Elliot grimaced. “What would Sebastien do if he knew that I’d been living downstairs and hanging around for the past six weeks?”

She rubbed her forehead wearily. “He wouldn’t like it.”

“Well, a little deception keeps the french fries hot.” Elliot looked smug, then grew disgruntled as he studied her face. “Don’t get mad.”

“I’m trying to be your friend and help you get straightened out. I’m trying to have two healthy babies. I’m trying not to go crazy wondering if Sebastien really wants children, but can’t admit it, even to himself. I am
not
going to complicate all this by telling him that you’re back in the picture. But don’t get the idea that I like deceiving him. I hate it.”

“Okay, okay, calm down.” He patted her stomach. “Just remember, I want these bambinos, even if he doesn’t.”

“Elliot, don’t—”

“Merry Christmas, comic mama.” He lunged forward and kissed her gently on the mouth. She caught his antlers and drew back, determined to be firm but diplomatic. “Merry Christmas, Bruce. Remember, you’re gay.”

“Amy, I love—”

“Don’t say it. Please, don’t say it.”

He lounged backward on the couch, removed the reindeer
antlers, and handed her the gift box beside him. “Open your present.”

It was a sterling-silver hand mirror with her monogram engraved on the back. The expense of it troubled her, but she thanked him. “Here, open yours.” He tore into a box filled with a half-dozen new Nintendo games. “Oh, God, this is great! Thank you, baby!” His enthusiasm was sincere. Immediately he went downstairs and got his Nintendo controls, which he then attached to her television set and, like a distracted kid, forgot all about her as he played the new games. She was glad.

Later he wandered around her apartment with a puzzled expression on his face, as if he’d never been sober enough to notice Christmas decorations and rented furniture in combination before. She had to admit, the place looked like a Howard Johnson’s that had been decorated by a rogue elf.

Amy stayed in the rambling, Spanish-style kitchen and kept busy by making a huge Christmas lunch—turkey, cornbread dressing, vegetables, and pumpkin pie. She worked slowly, her thoughts on Sebastien, missing him, loneliness causing a dry burn in her throat.

She envied him the enormous workload that kept his mind off of their separation. To maintain her sanity she spent the days reading novels, writing new comedy routines, and sometimes venturing into the living room to watch one of the half-dozen movies Elliot brought by every morning. He made himself indispensable by running errands, driving her to the doctor, and hosting dinners for their old friends, who viewed his rehabilitation with polite disbelief.

Mostly she kept Elliot on track, making certain that he went to his therapy sessions each afternoon, listening to him when he was depressed, which was often, and cooking huge meals for him. Overeating was an addiction he could afford, and his doctors encouraged it, for now.

Frau Diebler dogged her steps with vitamins and protein drinks, recorded her blood pressure, temperature, and weight every morning, and reported every innocent detail to Sebastien. Everything was fine. At seven months Amy felt
gargantuan but healthy, and there hadn’t been any other medical problems.

The doorbell rang. Amy watched Elliot spring up and lope over to the door, then peer through the security peephole. “Looks like a delivery guy, but on Christmas
day
? I better hide.” He hurried to the back bathroom and shut the door. He had heard that some of the tabloid reporters were going to start pestering him. As much as he craved attention, he didn’t want to go public with his problems right now.

Amy rolled her eyes and went to the door. A very officious-looking courier handed her two-dozen red roses and a small gold-wrapped box. “From Dr. de Savin,” he said, then departed.

Elliot came out of the bathroom as she sat down on the couch and opened a jewelry case. She gasped at the emerald earrings inside. A piece of fine writing paper was carefully folded underneath them. Its note was written in Sebastien’s bold, flowing script:

Missing you, love. Next Christmas you and I will celebrate together, just us, and this year’s sadness will be forgotten
.

It was a tender message, but his casual exclusion of her pregnancy hurt worse than if he’d ignored her today. If he couldn’t deal with one baby, how could he possibly deal with
two
?

Elliot was reading over her shoulder before she realized it. “He doesn’t want to play daddy,” Elliot muttered. “Wise up, doll.”

“Go downstairs and give me a little while alone.”

“I
want
the kids, okay? I love you
and
them—”

“Stop it!” Her tension and sadness darkened into an overwhelming sense of desperation wrapped in the irony of Christmas sentiments that were just ashes hidden in glitter. “Elliot, I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you. You’re a sweetheart for carin’. But don’t say anything else.” Feeling huge and ugly and alone, she dragged her unwieldy body to her bedroom and locked the door behind her. She lay down and hugged her stomach.
Both of you have to be perfect. You have to be. You have to be
.

Early in January Elliot felt strong enough to start working at the clubs around town. Amy had mixed feelings about it. There were too many temptations in the clubs—too many comics living in the fast lane and looking for trouble. Her obstetrician had given her strict orders to rest more; she couldn’t be Elliot’s bodyguard every night. She wanted to send Frau Diebler with him, but she refused, even for bribes. She loathed Elliot.

Some club owners, such as Mitzi Shore at the Comedy Store, were eager to help comics who wanted to kick drug and alcohol problems. Amy didn’t worry about him when he was at the Store. He couldn’t take much pressure right now, but Mitzi gave him late-night spots so that he could slip in unannounced and work smaller, less demanding crowds.

And Mitzi watched over him with ferocious maternal care. She wouldn’t let Elliot get into trouble while she was around. But there were too many other club owners who didn’t baby-sit their comics, and some who encouraged a macho party attitude. Elliot had always been a sucker for a challenge, especially the self-destructive ones.

Amy tracked him closely but saw no signs that he was meandering from the straight and narrow. He admitted that it wasn’t easy, but his determination was set. He was a Perrier-and-vitamin man, now.

Then he didn’t come home one night. He was supposed to stop by her apartment when he finished at the clubs, no matter how late, and he always had before. She made some calls and traced him to the Hollywood condominium of a well-known comic with a well-known coke habit.

“I’m testing myself,” he assured her over the phone. “I swear to God, baby, I’m just sitting here watching everyone else get high.”

“I’m sending a taxi. Come home.”

He hung up on her. But he did take the taxi. When he arrived at the apartment she took one look at him and knew that he was flying. He knew that she knew. “One time. No big deal. I’ll confess tomorrow at the shrink
session, and it’ll be okay.” He was so wired that he spent the rest of the night playing Nintendo.

His doctors told him to stop working the clubs until he fortified his willpower again. He dropped out of the rehab program and began spending more time at the clubs.

Amy watched helplessly. There was no doubt that he was dabbling in drugs and alcohol. He insisted that he was in control, but she knew that he was headed downhill again. And she was terrified that he’d hit bottom this time.

A
hospital seemed so peaceful in the middle of the night. The solitude and quiet made the world feel secure, as if death would have to wait until morning, when more people were awake. It was an illusion.

Sebastien sat by his father’s side, watching his labored breathing. With each inhalation he made a gurgling sound deep in his lungs. A tank stood at the head of the bed. Sebastien adjusted the clear tube that fed oxygen into his father’s nostrils. His eyes opened halfway, their bold blue power still evident. “You came,” he said, his voice airy, filled with fluid.

Sebastien smoothed a strand of silver hair back from his father’s forehead. Like Amy’s father, Philippe had always been particular about his hair. It was not a sign of rebellion, as with Zack, but of control. But maybe they were the same things.

Amy
. He needed her tonight, more than ever. His anxiety and frustration over her decision to continue her pregnancy had never made him love her any less, even though he still resented the hopeless clump of cells growing inside her. She was almost eight months along now. Whether she was uncomfortable in his presence or not, he had to be with her in the last two weeks of the pregnancy. No matter what kind of arrangements he had to make here, he would be with her at the end.

At the beginning, he corrected bitterly. The beginning of
the real torture. How he loved that woman … and how terrified he was for her. He flailed himself imagining the delivery. God help him, he knew it was foolish to recall how her mother had died, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it. And when he did, his dislike for the obstinate accident living inside her turned to black hatred. But then he felt sick for despising their child.

She could bear the same kind of pitiful, deformed thing that Marie had borne, a baby that would break Amy’s heart and convince even her that he wasn’t meant to be a father, and that nothing in his upbringing had prepared him to be a good one.

He rubbed a trembling hand over his forehead and looked down at his own father, who had seen him only as a substitute for Antoine, the first son, the one who had been groomed to take charge, who was eager to learn empire building and business maneuvers. The rest of the family, including their mother, had been unimportant to Philippe de Savin. “You came,” his father repeated.

“I’m here, yes,” Sebastien said to him, feeling empty and confused.

His father struggled for enough air to speak. “I told the doctors long ago—no extraordinary measures. Will you make certain?”

“Yes.” Sebastien leaned over him, where they could look at each other more easily. “Annette will be here soon. Her private nurse is bringing her.”

“Good. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to talk, if I waited much longer.” For a moment his father gasped for breath. His eyes burned into Sebastien’s. “I have something to tell her.”

A few minutes later the nurse arrived with Annette, who was seated in a wheelchair. She guided the chair close to the bed. Annette looked at her father with stark grief and grasped one of his limp hands. “This is just another of your bad nights, Papa. Don’t be morbid. You’ll be better in the morning.”

“No. This is different. I can feel it.” Pleasure, hard and proud, glittered in his eyes. “I still … control my own

Annette moaned softly. “I love you, papa.”

“I know.”

Sebastien looked away, old anger renewing itself. I
know
. Annette, at least, deserved better than that.

“Sebastien.” His father’s voice drew him back. He looked into the pale blue eyes, which searched his for a moment than shifted to Annette. “I have already told Sebastien, and now I tell you. I want you to take over the businesses. Sebastien has agreed to relinquish his claims to you.”