WITCHCRAFT (A Paranormal Romance) (29 page)

3

Charlotte paces back and forth in the doctor's waiting room. It's been days since she threw up at school. Her symptoms haven't gotten better.

“Ms. Spencer? Doctor Jennings will see you now.” The woman behind the desk points toward the door to her right, at a man with a kind face who stands there smiling. Doctor Jennings is the same doctor she's had since she was a child. He cared for her through broken ankles and her first case of mono. He's good friends with her father, but that's no surprise. Almost everyone in the city is good friends with her father.

“Charlotte, it's good to see you! Tell your dad I want to play some golf next Saturday. He beat me last time, so I have to show him who's boss!” His big nose crinkles as he laughs, his white mustache so long that it covers the top of his lips.

Charlotte is too nauseous to laugh with him, but she tries as she hops up onto the examining table.

“Alright, you must be feeling ill,” Doctor Jennings says. “Why don't you tell me what's up?”

“Well, I just feel like I could barf at any moment. Sometimes I do, but most of the time I just have the feeling and it won't go away. I'm always tired, too.”

“Tiredness is normal for someone studying law.”

“Not like this. I feel like I could sleep for 15 hours, wake up for an hour to eat, and then sleep for another 15 hours. Plus, food I used to really like smells and tastes gross, and I just can't seem to catch my breath.”

Doctor Jenning raises his thick eyebrows and gives a short “Hm.” Then he turns and takes a cup from a cupboard above the sink. “Take this, I'm going to need a urine sample to check you out.”

Off to the familiar bathroom, Charlotte feels a dull ache in her lower back and tries her best to ignore it. She does her business then takes the cup back out to the old man.

“This will just be a few minutes. Go ahead and wait here.”

He leaves Charlotte in the room. While he's gone, she pulls out her cell phone and starts to search for her symptoms.

“Lower back pain... injuries, nerve problems... pregnancy.” She does another search. “Scent aversions... food poisoning, panic attack... pregnancy.” Her nausea comes back full force, her heart starting to race. She's about to start another search when Doctor Jennings bursts back into the room.

“Charlotte,” he says, a big smile on his face. “Congratulations! You're pregnant!”

The world goes black.

Mrs. Spencer looks back at her daughter, her black hair cascading against the car door as she leans against it. Tears are streaming down her face, but the older woman doesn't yet know why.

“What's wrong, my love?” Mrs. Spencer is Spanish and Italian by heritage, but she was born in America and raised in India, where she met her husband. The two raised Charlotte with the best of everything, and for their effort were given the perfect daughter. She never slept around, never did drugs or partied uncontrollably. Still, Mrs. Spencer worries that with Max out of the picture, Charlotte may never have children of her own.

“Mama, I...” Charlotte starts, but then she thinks better of it. “I just don't feel well and I'm stressed over school.”

“You know I don't believe that.” Mrs. Spencer pulls up into the wide driveway of their large house and turns to really look at her daughter. “I can tell when something's wrong. You have to tell me or I can't help.”

Charlotte pauses for a long time before she says anything. Mrs. Spencer picked her up when Doctor Jennings called and said she fainted. Charlotte isn't a frail girl and has been sick so rarely that her mother raced out to bring her home, no questions asked.

Charlotte gulps, and then takes a deep breath. She lets that breath go slowly, then takes another one. Her heart is speeding up rather than slowing down like she wanted it to, but she keeps trying.

“Charlotte?”

“Mom, I'm pregnant.” Charlotte covers her face, hunching over and waiting for slaps or screams. Instead there is silence and, when she looks up, a look of surprise.

“And you're sure?” Mrs. Spencer's conflicting emotions display on her face with only a twitch in her left eye.

She nods. “That's why I passed out.”

Mrs. Spencer nods, placing her hands tightly on the steering wheel. “Do you know who the father is?”

Wincing, Charlotte answers. “I do know.”

“And? Who is it?”

Another long pause. Charlotte doesn't want to answer this, she wishes the answer could be anything else. She's certain not knowing the father would be better than knowing who it is. “Mama, it's Max.”

Mrs. Spencer leans back and sucks in a gasp. “I thought you broke up with him!”

“I did, Mama, but things were complicated!”

Mrs. Spencer considers the situation. A baby isn't the end of the world. It certainly didn't stop Mrs. Spencer from having a fulfilling career. Max is wealthy, so Charlotte won't want for anything. “I support you in whatever you choose to do. It was a mistake, but if you take responsibility for it I will do everything I can to make sure you finish school, and get to live out your dreams.”

Charlotte holds her breath until her face turns red, then releases it slowly. How can her mother be this calm and collected after hearing that her only child is pregnant? How can she be supportive after such a huge fuck up? “I don't know what I want to do. I don't want to terminate it. I do know that.”

“Does Max know?”

Charlotte frowns, crossing her arms. “I don't want him to know.”

“You have to tell him!” Mrs. Spencer's voice rises to a shout as she leans over the center console and grabs Charlotte's shoulder. “He has a right to know!”

“He doesn't have any right to anything. Not after cheating on me and then knocking me up.”

Mrs. Spencer considers this, her dark eyes lowering. Her daughter is not usually spiteful. “What are you going to tell your father?”

Charlotte's lip twitches, tears welling in her eyes at the thought of her Daddy imploding over this news. “I don't know, Mama. Will you be there with me when I tell him?”

“Of course I will,” she says, running her hand against Charlotte's soft cheek.

The family dinner. It's a monthly tradition for the Spencers. No one is allowed to invite friends or coworkers, and everyone must be home and ready to enjoy pleasant conversation. Mrs. Spencer will cook something that her daughter and husband will both love, usually a fragrant pot roast cooked for hours and hours until it's just falling apart.

As the maid lays out dinner for the family, Charlotte finds herself torn between being hungry and repulsed by the artichokes on the table next to the meat and potatoes. Her face goes a little green, but she tries to hide it.

“So, honey, how was work?” Mrs. Spencer asks, chipper not in spite of her daughter being pregnant, but because of it. She is worried over how her husband will react, but once everything blows over, all that needs to be done is preparing for the baby.

“Crappy. One of my actresses refuses to come over to America, another one refuses to go to India. I think it will be easier to convince Solange to go to India, though.” He takes a big bite of his meat and looks to his daughter. “What did you do in school today?”

“I had to come home early.” Charlotte says before downing a glass of water. The maid refills it for her.

“Oh? Did you get sick?”

Charlotte takes a deep breath and nods. “I threw up, and then I passed out at the doctor's office.”

Her father looks her in the eyes with that fire he always has when he thinks Charlotte might not be performing to his standard. “Is it something serious? Will you be able to go back tomorrow?”

Mrs. Spencer takes her husbands hand. “Honey, be kind.”

Now or never. Charlotte sets down her utensils and nods. “I can go to school tomorrow. Daddy, I have something to tell you.”

“You can tell me after I ask your mother about her day. It sounds serious. It can wait until after dinner.” He turns to his wife. They discuss their day for the rest of dinner, her father not even looking at Charlotte.

When she was 13 and got her first C, she tried to tell him during dinner and he acted the same way. Somehow he knows when she's got something bad to say, and he'll try to avoid hearing it the rest of the day. Deflated, Charlotte pecks at her food until her father clears his plate twice and kisses his wife on her cheek.

“I have some calls to make,” he says, walking out of the room. Charlotte stands and runs after him.

“Daddy-”

“Charlotte, these are important calls. If I don't make them now I'll lose money. I have to talk to these agents...” He mumbles, walking into his office and shutting the door before locking it.

Charlotte nearly screams and runs away, but settles for a loud sigh before turning around and finding her mother behind her.

“Why does he always do that?” She asks, her whole body rigid with rage.

Mrs. Spencer shrugs and places a hand on her hip. “He's scared of getting mad at you, I think. You're his pride and joy.”

Charlotte plops down onto the bottom step of the stairs that lead up to her room. “He's going to hate me, Mama.”

“Don't say that, dear. Your father will always love you, even if you murder me and bury me in the backyard. He might get mad, but he talks about your future children before bed often. He wants you to have kids, just maybe not this soon.”

“So I'll be a disappointment.” That might be worse than him hating her. Charlotte's world, her future, is crashing all around her and there's nothing she can do. She can't run away from the fact that there is a child growing within her, any more than she can run away from her father's expectations.

A knock on her door wakes Charlotte up. Before she can sit up, her father pokes the door open. “Can I come in, my daughter?”

“Come in, Daddy.” Charlotte says, still groggy from her nap.

“Your mother says I was avoiding you. I'm sorry for that. What did you want to talk about?”

Charlotte checks the clock on her night stand. It's been three hours since he brushed her off at dinner. “Come sit down, Daddy.” He sits on the edge of her bed and takes her hand, a weak smile on his face. She doesn't know it, but his stomach is in knots much tighter than hers. “I have something I have to tell you, and I'm worried you're going to be disappointed in me.”

He only nods.

“I'm pregnant.”

More silence, more nodding. That goes on for what seems like an eternity.

“Dad, you have to say something!”

Mr. Spencer turns his head, and that's when she sees he's holding back tears. His whole face is strained, trying so hard to contain his emotions. With a cracking voice he asks, “What do you plan on doing?”

Charlotte squeezes his hand and thinks. “Mama says it won't be too hard to finish school, and it might be beneficial to hire a nanny. I'll only have to take off one semester, maybe two, and then I'd be back to work. I think having a baby would drive me to work harder than ever, too.” She stops. She feels so much emotion bubbling up and she just has to let some of it go. “Dad, please don't hate me!” She screams, pulling him into a hug.

After a few moments, Mr. Spencer sighs. It's a deep sigh, not sad nor angry. It just is. “I could never hate you. I am proud of you for having the strength to tell me this.” He returns the hug, wrapping his arms over her shoulders. “I support your choice. You know what else? I think you will be a great mother.”

Charlotte pulls back, watching the worry in her father's face play out in his thick eyebrows. “I won't let you down, Dad!”

“I never thought you would.” He thinks for a second. “Who's the father?”

“Dad-”

That anger comes back to his face. He stands up. “Is it Max?”

“Dad, please!”

“I'll murder him, for touching my daughter!” He bellows, his face red with fury.

“It isn't his fault, Dad! I'm the one who continued the relationship!”

Mr. Spencer gives her a sharp look, hatred burning within him. “If he comes close to you, tell me. I'll make him suffer.”

4

“God damn it.” Poppy throws her blanket off of her and scratches her head. She sways, her sleepiness keeping her off balance. The clock says six in the morning, and Poppy's green eyes have dark circles beneath them.

Ambling into her bathroom, she relieves the urgency and then heads to her front door. She slips into some old shoes and throws a big sweater over her body. No time to change out of your pajamas when you've been woken up to a full bladder every hour since you went to bed.

Even though Poppy doesn't want to believe the thoughts in the back of her head, she doesn't want to go mad from insomnia either. The only option is to figure out what the problem is. Such is the predicament that sends the red haired beauty into the chilly streets to walk to the corner pharmacy.

The bell chimes cheerfully as she steps between the sliding glass doors. For some reason, the store has the air on, so it's even colder than it was outside. The cashier is out in the aisles tidying up, glancing up only briefly from his list as she walks past him. His hair is greasy and the skin beneath his eyes is as dark as hers.

Down aisle ten she finds what she's looking for: rows of pregnancy tests, each box a different color, but they all say similar things. Early detection, perfect accuracy, cheap price. Poppy picks up one box and reads the back, then tries another. She picks up a third, then a fourth; she doesn't put any of them down. She has six colorful boxes in her arms before she gets fed up and decides to just buy them all. Better to be safe than sorry, right?

She stands at the counter for a few moments before the young man with the greasy hair and large glasses notices her. He hobbles over from his busy work to ring her up. “Will that be all?” He asks, his eyebrows high after scanning six pregnancy tests.

Poppy would blush, but she's too tired to feel truly embarrassed. She'll save that for the morning. “Yeah, that's it.”

She pays her bill and waits for her tests to be bagged, then she's out onto the street again. The sickening scent of hamburgers hangs heavily in the air from a barbecue the day before. Poppy nearly throws up then and there just from the smell alone. It's so bad that she's thankful to reach the regulated air of her apartment, and her nausea slowly subsides.

Placing the bag on her kitchen counter, she takes a moment to look around her apartment. If these tests give her a positive answer, her whole life is going to change. Probably not for the better.

She pulls a box out and opens it to read the instructions within. “Use only first morning's urine?” She asks, placing a hand on her hip. “Well, fuck.” That's no good. Leaving the rest of the boxes on the counter, she heads to the bedroom and pulls her pants off before crawling back into bed. “I'll just try to sleep a few more hours.” As the sun is coming up, she finally drifts off to sleep again.

Nine in the morning. There are six boxes crushed in the small trashcan between the sink and toilet. The plastic sticks have been thrown into the sink. One cup full of her urine sits on top of the back of her toilet.

Taking a deep breath, Poppy tries to steady herself. Her nerves are on edge and she is so tired, and on top of that she kind of has to pee again. She pulls open the first test, dipping the test stick into the cup and setting it down.

She fidgets with her hands as she watches the test, then pulls open another test and sets that one next to the first. “I'll just... do all of them now,” she says, pulling the last four open and dipping them in the liquid. If her mom lived closer, and if Poppy could know she'd be sober, she might call for advice. Her hands are shaking, her mouth dry.

If she had friends that we more than just party friends, she would call them for support. But really, without Max, Poppy has no one- not even her parents. It's not unusual for her, in fact she's become quite used to it. It's just that this is the first time it's mattered. This is the first time she hasn't known what to do, how to fix the problem.

With all the tests in a line on her sink, she dumps her pee out and sits down on the closed toilet to wait. The tests each have different times before they're ready. The longest one is five minutes.

Biting some dead skin off her bottom lip, Poppy's leg jiggles. She stands up, suddenly remembering something. “I should set an alarm!” Going into her bedroom, Poppy puts and alarm on her phone, but doesn't go back to the bathroom. Her body won't let her.

After picking at dead skin on her finger and braiding half of her hair, the alarm goes off. Poppy stands up, feeling as if her heart has stopped beating. It finally thuds loud against her chest, and Poppy sits back down.

The warning alarm goes off 45 seconds later, forcing Poppy to her feet again to grab her phone. She gets up the courage to walk into the bathroom, but freezes as she looks at the tests all over her sink. These small pieces of plastic hold her future. One small strip of dye, one 'yes' or 'no' on a digital screen, is the single deciding factor between being a single party girl... and a single mom.

She turns and runs back into her bedroom, diving underneath the blankets and covering her head with her pillow. “I'll just check them later!” She shouts, to no one but herself. “I'll check them when I wake up!”

After a few moments, she eases the pillow off of her face. She gets as comfortable as her shaking body can get.
I'm going to be okay. I don't need to worry. I won't be like my mom. I'll be a great mom!

She stares at the wall, wide eyed, for several minutes before closing her eyes and falling into another fitful sleep.

Poppy sits up. Her bedroom is dark, as dark as night. “Did I sleep that long?” She asks, checking her clock. It says six AM.

Something in her kitchen crashes, causing Poppy's whole body to go rigid. She doesn't move for a few moments, listening intently for any other sounds. All is silent.

Dashing to the hallway, she cocks her ear toward the kitchen. She's so busy focusing on that area that she doesn't hear the kitchen door creak and notices too late when something small scurries past her. Something that seems to giggle.

Poppy shrieks and jumps back, hitting her head against the door frame. She nurses what will definitely become a bruise before tip toeing towards her small kitchen.

The kitchen area is slightly lighter, a gray light emanating from the open refrigerator.

“Hello?” No one answers her call. She moves a bit closer, peering over the island. The floor is covered in liquor bottles, all of them full and frosty from the fridge. Something is moving behind the refrigerator door.

She creeps up to the door and pulls it open. There, on the floor, is a tiny infant. It looks up to her, its green eyes full of fear, and her heart cries out for the baby. Her body responds by picking the infant up in her arms. It's heavier than she expects.

The look in the baby's eyes changes suddenly, from fear to hatred. It raises its fist, which is holding a glass bottle of vodka, and slams the bottle against her forehead. Everything goes black.

Poppy jolts awake. She rubs her forehead where the dream infant hit her. No soreness, but her blood is still pumping with adrenaline anyway. There's no way she'll get back to sleep now.

On the table next to her bed, her phone lights up. It's a text from a friend, which she reads and closes out.

Looking up at the ceiling with the cell phone clutched to her chest, she wishes she could text Max. Talk to him about the baby. Figure out what they're going to do, how to fix this. Max will make her feel better, but a part of her feels like she doesn't deserve to feel better.

With a pit in her stomach, she tosses the phone back onto her table and turns over in bed.