Sins of the Father (21 page)

“Sure,” Johnny enthused. “So… she’s gonna
start feeling kicks soon?”

Joan applied the probe. Rapid heartbeats
filled the room. I couldn’t stop beaming. I lifted my head and
stared at the monitor expectantly.

“Probably nothing that defined at first,”
Joan said. “Ah, there we are. Aw, look at that little face.”

Johnny and I stared in awe at the 3-D
image.

“Beautiful,” Johnny said. He reached for my
hand, got close enough for heat to brush my skin before he
remembered. We were sharing this because we happened to be in the
same room, nothing more.

“He’s a beauty,” Joan said.

“He? It’s a boy?” The wonder in Johnny’s
voice squeezed the breath out of my lungs.

“Uh-huh,” Joan pointed to an area on the
screen. “Plain as can be. The proof is right here.”

“What about the other one?” I asked.

Joan repositioned the probe. “Oops!”

“Oh my God!” I gasped.

“Felt that?” she chuckled. “This one’s shy.
Trying to get away from me, aren’t you? And …” she froze the screen
in a perfect butt shot. “There he is.”

“Another boy. We’re having sons, Helen.”

This time, when his hand brushed mine, I
grabbed it and squeezed. “And they look healthy? All the
measurements and whatnot are fine?”

“They’re absolutely perfect, Mrs. Orion.
Would you like a 3-D photograph for your collection?”

“Yes,” Johnny said. “Thank you so much.”

“Truly my pleasure,” Joan beamed.

Chapter 19

The cease fire achieved in Dr. Harvey’s
office didn’t last long. Within hours, the sniping started anew,
and I made a decision. Being alone with my misery was preferable to
sharing it by making someone else as miserable as I felt.

Part of the problem, at least from my
perspective which was the only one that mattered to me, was that
Dr. Harvey and Joan were both right. I was quickly running out of
space in my formerly normal sized uterus. Its response was to
naturally expand. That part was exciting, that and the fact that
the tiny fluttering sensation was growing exponentially too.

The aspect I found not so great was that I
had exactly two pairs of pants that I could comfortably wear now.
I’ve never been a fan of the pelvic-bone-baring variety of blue
jeans. Therefore, zipping and buttoning the jeans has evolved into
Mission Impossible. Or at least Mission Uncomfortable.

There’s not a doubt in my mind that Johnny
would take me to a department store to remedy the problem. I’m too
stubborn to ask. So the stretchy knit that seemed too cold in the
damp chilly winter is my only comfortable option. Unless I live in
my jammies (sweats) all the time. While I’ve never been a slave to
fashion, I’m not a Neanderthal either.

Springtime apparently is the equivalent of
summer in Darkwater Bay. I’ve taken to tapping the thermostat,
because it sure feels a hell of a lot hotter than 75 degrees.
Hormones I suppose.

Johnny showed up outside my bedroom door one
morning eight days after my last appointment with Dr. Harvey. He
knocked softly.

I wanted to pull the comforter over my head
and pretend I didn’t hear him. It would only make him knock harder
or worse, barge in to make sure I hadn’t escaped during the
night.

“Come in,” dreary words.

“Helen?”

“No, it’s Paris Hilton.”

He stepped into the room. “I need to talk to
you about something.”

“Now what?” No sense in censoring how I
felt. Neither one of us bothered filtering our thoughts lately.

“I’ve been dreading this conversation for
awhile, but I can’t put it off any longer.”

“Let me guess. Someone from New York is
about to beat down the door and arrest me for liberating Dad from
Attica –”

“Joe is insisting that I go back to
work.”

“Big deal. Go. I’m fine with that.”

“I’m not fine with it. In case you’ve
forgotten, someone broke in here and tried to abduct you a couple
of weeks ago. While I have no doubt that you can defend yourself, I
don’t trust you to stick around afterward.”

“I am not hanging out at OSI while you
conduct business, Johnny.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest it.”

“Then what?” God help me. The paranoia
spiked worse than it ever has.

“It occurred to me that if I knew where you
are all the time, it might alleviate some of my concern.”

I glared at him. “And how do you plan to do
that from OSI?”

“Well, I picked up a device. Ordinarily
they’re used for monitoring people restricted by house arrest to
–”

“You got an ankle monitor for me? Are you
insane?”

“I don’t trust you. That’s a far cry from
insanity, in fact, given your history, I’d say it’s the very
definition of sanity.”

“So say some thugs show up here and
overpower me? What’s to stop them from just cutting the damned
thing off, or me cutting it off for that matter?”

“Same thing as if someone under house arrest
does it. A citywide alarm sounds, the place is crawling with police
in a matter of minutes instead of hours, and we at least know
immediately that something is wrong.”

I pedaled the blankets off the bed and
thrust one leg at him. “Then do it now! Make my prison official and
get the hell out!”

I burst into tears by the time Johnny
finished locking the device around my ankle.

He said softly, “Yeah, I know. I’m a real
bastard, Helen. I hope someday you’ll understand why it has to be
this way.”

Not forever
. It was a silent promise
to myself and my children.

He slammed the door on his way out of the
house, and I cried myself back to sleep. My emotions bounced to a
different extreme when I woke later that morning. I glanced at the
clock on the nightstand. Make that afternoon, shortly after
lunchtime.

My stomach rumbled on cue.

I didn’t bother with the shower, wrapping a
plastic bag around my ankle seemed defeatist. Instead, I simply
readjusted the loose hairpins securing the wig I was too ashamed to
take off even for sleep, slipped into today’s pair of clean
leggings and decided to take advantage of my limited freedom.

So he wanted to keep tabs. Fine with me. Let
him track me all over town. There was no explicit order to stay
home after all. Time would tell if he left me means to leave, even
though I was securely tethered by an electronic device.

The keys to the Expedition were hanging on a
hook in the mudroom. Deadbolts on the doors accessible with keys
hanging from them. Maybe some clouds really do have a silver
lining. I wouldn’t have to ask for clothes that fit me now.

I drove to Bay View’s pricey shopping
district and entered a department store where I shopped frequently
in the past. A personal shopper came to assist me and hurried along
the winding paths through apparel and merchandise when I told her
what I was looking for.

“Here we are. Maternity.” She made a
sweeping gesture to all four racks of clothing.

My heart plummeted. “Where’s the cute
stuff?”

“Oh, these things are sweet,” she said.

I pulled an oversized tee off the rack and
held it up for her inspection. A bright pink arrow pointed
southward. Emblazoned in glitter above it was the word
Baby
.
“This is not cute. Maybe if you live in a trailer park in the
–”

“A lot of women like that shirt, ma’am.”

“And I’m not one of them. Look at this
stuff. These aren’t clothes – they’re
tents
.” I pulled a
pair of jeans off another rack. All hope for clothing evaporated.
Stitched into the denim at the waist, from hip to hip was a navy
blue panel of something flimsier than Lycra. A sticker bisected the
fabric that informed me it was
breathable
. What, did they
think babies required fresh air in the womb?

“What am I gonna do? I can’t wear this…
this… crap. I wouldn’t be caught dead in any of it. Surely you’ve
got to have something more dignified. What do business women
wear?”

She smiled, ten percent patience, ninety
percent condescension. “Well, a lot of women simply choose to
adjust their sizes up a little as the pregnancy progresses and wear
normal clothing instead of maternity styles.”

“No wonder, if this is what you offer.”

“Would you like to look at some of our
misses styles?”

“Please.”

I spent more than an hour trying on blouses.
None of them concealed my burgeoning belly, but the upside was, I
didn’t look like I was wearing camping gear either.

“You know, most women aren’t afraid to show
off the baby bump anymore. You’ve got such a fantastic figure, you
really shouldn’t be reluctant to reveal it,” she said.

“I wear jeans. Used to.”

“Oh, that’s no problem,” she said. “Low
riders will go around your hips, right under the baby.”

“Bab
ies
,” I corrected her. “I’m three
months pregnant. They’re twins, boys on top of that, and their
father is a giant.”

She clapped her hands together. “I thought I
recognized you! The hair’s a little different? Longer. You’re Dr.
Eriksson!”

“Guilty.”

“Congratulations! Let me show you some of
our more active wear designs. They’re classy, but they
move
.”

Apparently word of my retirement hadn’t
spread like everything else did in this city. I was chagrined that
Misty
was right about the active wear. I left the store with
eight bags of clothing, hopefully enough to get me through the next
few weeks before I’d have to upsize again. She was right about the
low rider jeans too. Just the absence of pressure around my low
abdomen was a welcome relief.

Misty was kind enough to send me on my way
wearing one of the new outfits.

I sat in the Expedition with the sun visor
flipped down, surveying the tight three-quarter sleeve blouse that
hugged every curve on my body. It felt more than a little
self-conscious. People would only see marginally more if I walked
around naked.

I caught a glimpse of the wig before I
flipped the visor up. Even Misty noticed my hair looked different.
Why bother hiding it? I should let it all hang out so to speak. My
fingers dug through the synthetic hair and started pulling out
hairpins. I tossed the wig onto the passenger seat and surveyed the
damage.

“Next thing you know, people will start
calling me butch.”

I fluffed and ruffled until the matted hair
looked halfway presentable and glanced at my watch. Two thirty. I
didn’t feel like going home.

Behan’s was across the street down the
block. Maya and I sat there a few weeks ago, me sharing my deepest
fears, she swearing an oath of fealty which she promptly betrayed.
We never did get around to shopping for baby furniture.

“No time like the present.” I navigated my
way through traffic to the store and went inside. Did Behan’s sell
baby furniture? The saleswoman recognized me despite my butch cut,
congratulated me and showed me to their selection of baby
furniture.

The walls of the main level guest room where
white. Unless I had it painted, the white furniture would be too
much for a white room. I liked it best, and both cribs had railings
that would convert to toddler beds.

I started imagining my sons at the age where
they could have their big-boy beds instead of cribs.

“Hmm,” I nodded. “Definitely the white. I’ll
need two of the cribs. Do you think I’ll need more than one
changing table?”

“I suppose that would depend on the size of
the room, Ms. Eriksson. We’ve got a beautiful rocker-glider that
matches the baby set. Would you be interested in seeing that as
well?”

Another image popped into my head. Babies
nestled on each shoulder, rocking gently, humming lullabies. “I’ll
take it. And one changing table. If I need a second table after the
boys are born, I suppose I can order another one.”

She grimaced. “This set is on sale because
the manufacturer is discontinuing the style. We’ve got several in
stock now, but I can’t guarantee they’ll still be here in a few
months. It’s a popular item.”

“I suppose I’ll have to take two in that
case. If I don’t need it, we can put it in our room. What’ve you
got for smaller cradles? We thought initially that we’d have the
babies closer than the nursery.”

The saleswoman beamed. “We’ve got some
beautiful models. Right this way.”

I spent a small fortune, but she was right.
The cradles made me weepy. I apologized and ordered two ornate,
brass cradles that were shipped with the bedding ensembles. I knew
exactly what my bedroom would look like with them nestled into the
sitting area. I would have enough room to keep the chaise, perhaps
situated between the cradles.

“We can deliver the nursery furniture this
week,” promised saleswoman, “but the cradles ship directly from the
manufacturer. They’ll arrive in two to four weeks. Some assembly is
required.”

“That’s fine.”

“Would you prefer they arrive directly at
your residence?”

“Yes, that would be perfect.”

Next stop, the interior paint store. This
place contracted with the painters that had done the exquisite
fresco work in my foyer.

I sat with paint cards fanned out in front
of me. Nothing grabbed my attention.

“I’d suggest something in a lighter color,”
the clerk said when she noticed that I kept returning to the darker
samples. “Think light, airy, baby happy.”

“Something bright,” I nodded. The boys were
due in autumn. I recalled with dread the dreary gray sky that would
invade the city and stubbornly stick around for months. I picked up
the card in the yellow family. Not too bright, not too pale. “This
one. It reminds me of sunshine.”

“Excellent! Will you be using our contractor
again, Ms. Eriksson?”