In Your Dreams (19 page)

She
tried to appear angry, but wound up going for admiration instead. “Wow. You
seriously outmaneuvered me.”

“Did
you think we would wait until we found you passed out cold on the tile?” He
turned to leave, then tossed over his shoulder. “And please brush your teeth
before you get close to anybody else. Morning breath is one thing. No one wants
to smell vomit breath—no matter what kind of ailments they’re used to dealing
with.”

She
couldn’t hold back a snort of amusement. “Be grateful I don’t grab you and give
you a big, slobbery kiss right now, binky.”

Within
an hour, she was in a paper gown, sitting on a cold exam table, waiting for
another strange doctor to enter the room. She scanned the counters, ignoring
the pile of old tabloids with splashy covers; the jars of cotton balls, tongue
depressors, and swabs. Every exam room in every doctor’s office was the same:
cold, sterile, and dehumanizing.

A
quick rap on the door ushered in a steely-haired woman with blue-framed cat
glasses on the bridge of her hook nose and a manila folder tucked under her
white-coated arm. “I’m Dr. Moriarty.” She slapped the folder on the counter and
offered her hand to Isabelle.

“Isabelle,”
she said.

With
introductions out of the way, the doctor began the exam with Isabelle’s medical
history. After the usual details about the brain tumor were concluded, the
doctor rambled through standard questions, including, “First day of your last
menstrual period?”

Isabelle
hesitated, thought backwards. “Umm...April, I think. Or March, maybe. Between
the tumor and the radiation, I didn’t really think about it.”

The
woman’s forehead furrowed in lines. “Nearly five months ago. Any chance you’re
pregnant?”

Isabelle
would’ve fallen off the table, laughing, if the woman hadn’t seemed so stern.
“No. Definitely not.”

The
doctor nodded, jotted a few notes on the chart, and segued into current
symptoms. After Isabelle had described the excessive vomiting, the constant
heartburn, and her extreme tiredness, Dr. Moriarty handed her a specimen cup.
“I’d like a urine sample. Bathroom is through that door. And I’m going to send
the nurse in to draw a little blood.”

She
left again, allowing Isabelle some privacy with the plastic cup and her doubts.
What if the tumor had spread? False bravado for Justin’s benefit aside, she was
terrified of her pending death. Of the coming days of memory loss, adult
diapers, and I.V. tubes. Of death.

Looking
up at the ceiling, she murmured, “Sean? Are you there? I sure could use your
soothing voice right now. I’m pretty scared of what they’re going to tell me.”

Silence
answered her plea.

Her
guardian angel had picked a helluva time to pull another disappearing act. This
time around, he hadn’t even left her any dreams to assuage his loss. No
dolphins, no sultry days on the beach.
Nada
. Zilch. Zip. Total radio
silence. Talk about a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. One really wild sex dream, and
he’d floated off into the ether, never to be seen or heard from again.

Placing
her filled specimen cup on the counter, she returned to the white paper-covered
exam table to wait for Act Two. Another knock, and a fifty-something-year-old
nurse popped in, wearing a too-bright smile and Cat in the Hat scrubs. Isabelle
struggled to avoid rolling her eyes. Leave it to Justin—every old woman’s
darling—to have a harem of gray-hairs ready to swear loyalty and secrecy to
him. After five minutes of nonsense conversation about the weather, the nurse
withdrew three vials of blood, took the specimen cup, and left the room. Once
again, Isabelle sat alone, staring at the counters.

Time
ticked by, interminable and formidable until, at last, Dr. Moriarty and the
nurse with the Dr. Seuss scrubs returned. “Well, the news isn’t quite as bad as
you thought, Isabelle. Your recent bouts of illness have nothing to do with
your brain cancer.”

“Really?”
Relief rippled through her, along with a sense of justification. Justin owed
her big time. Turned out she was right. All his fuss for nothing. “So what is
it? The flu?”

“No.”
The doctor offered her an uncertain smile. “But I do want to call the hospital
and have you admitted immediately. You’re suffering from hyperemesis
gravidarum, excessive morning sickness.”

“Oh,
my God, sweetheart!” Justin practically swallowed his tongue. “You’re really
pregnant!”

Lying
in her hospital bed, an intravenous line providing her with fluids to keep her
from becoming dehydrated, she shook her head. “The doctor ran the tests twice.
I’m four months along. Now they want a sonogram to check dates and make sure
all my time on my knees in the bathroom hasn’t adversely affected the baby.”

Justin
and Tony exchanged dreamy looks.

“The
baby
,” Tony cooed. “Our Belle is going to be a mama. And we’re going to
be the best uncles ever. Think about it. Visits to the park, Christmases with
tons of toys, pony rides, first day of school…”

She
held up the unhindered hand. “Slow down, guys. You’re getting way ahead of me
here.”

“Why?”
Justin asked. “You’re going to keep the baby, aren’t you?”

“I
don’t know.” At his gasp, she added, “What I mean is, I’m still trying to
process all this.”

“How
could you not know?” he demanded. “Why wouldn’t you want a baby? A precious new
little bundle for us to spoil with love.” Hugging himself, he swished from side
to side, then stopped and sobered. “Unless…oh, God. The father. Please tell me
Carlo’s not the father.”

His
horror at the idea gave her the instant giggles. “No, he’s not.”

“So,
who is?”

She
clamped her lips shut. That was one of the things she’d yet to fully process.
The father. Good God, how laughable. She hadn’t had sex with anyone in over a
year. Anyone
living
anyway. So apparently, that intense sex dream she’d
had about Sean,
four and a half months ago
, wasn’t a dream after all.

Was
it possible? No. The idea was preposterous. But what other explanation could
there be? She’d been through some major league weird shit in the last year, but
this pregnancy thing was beyond her grasp of the surreal. And no one in the
world would
ever
believe the truth.

“Belle?”
Tony prodded. “Is there something we need to know about the father?”

“You
don’t have to concern yourself about the father,” she said. “He’s dead.”

“Dead?”
Justin sucked in a breath, and tears sprang to his eyes. “Oh, Belle, I’m so
sorry. I had no idea. Is the father that Sean guy?”

She
nodded. How in the hell could she explain to anyone that the father of her
unborn child was a man who died in 1982?

“Did
you love him?”

Love?
She’d started to think so, still wondered if he’d been about to say those words
to her when he disappeared from that ski chalet. When she thought back to that
day in the radiology suite, how he’d calmed her fears, how grateful she’d been
when he appeared, she couldn’t help but think his actions came from love.

Then
again, did love really exist at all? Her mother professed to love her, yet sold
her first to Hollywood, then to her stepfather. Her agent claimed to love her,
then dumped her when she couldn’t find another acting role after “Shipp Shape”
went off the air. Her ex-husband loved her—until a younger version came along.
Only Justin had truly loved her for her. Still did. Still stayed here with her.
She might have eventually loved Sean, if he’d stuck around. But, for whatever
reason, like all the others, Sean had taken all she had to give and then
disappeared.

“We
shared something very special for too short a time,” she said aloud. “Something
pure and magic that I couldn’t possibly explain.”

“Sounds
like love to me,” Tony summed up.

She
didn’t argue. Maybe she
had
loved him. But he hadn’t loved her back.

“Then
why aren’t you sure you’re keeping the baby?”

She
speared Justin with an icicle look: cold and piercing. “You know why.”

He
sat on the edge of the bed and sighed. “The tumor.”

With
her index finger and thumb pointed, pistol-like, at his face, she nodded. “Very
good, binky. I have no idea what’s going to happen in the next five months.
What if the doctor wants to do another bout of radiation? Or chemo? I can’t
undergo any major league treatment if I’m pregnant. And even if I live through
the pregnancy and delivery, what’ll I have? Five years with this baby? Ten, at
best?”

“You
don’t know that for sure.”

“Yeah,
I do. And so do you.” She clutched his hand, then grabbed Tony’s to pull him
down to a seated position next to Justin. “I’ll only go through with this
pregnancy on one condition: I want you two to become this child’s guardians
once I’m...gone.”

Justin’s
jaw fell open. She could almost see his brain pulsing behind his forehead,
struggling to catch up. “Wait. What are you saying?”

“You
know exactly what I’m saying.”

His
frown etched deep half-moons at the corners of his mouth. “Maybe. But, why? If
you’re that unsure, why go through with this? I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m
thrilled you’re having a baby, but if you don’t want to, if you’re feeling
pressured because of us, or…” He shook his head and grabbed her into a fierce
bear hug. “If there’s a chance that taking this pregnancy to term is going to
cut your life even
one second
shorter, please don’t.”

She
dropped a kiss on his shoulder, then pulled out of his embrace. “That’s why I
love you so much. You always know the right thing to say. Sean did, too. Once,
when he and I were talking about my suicide attempt, he said that every life is
put on this earth for a purpose. And if I didn’t know my purpose yet, I
couldn’t take my life and ruin the chance to find out. I think I know now what
my purpose is. My purpose is to give you two the family you’ve always wanted.”

The
tears hovering in Justin’s eyes fell. “Oh, sweetie.”

“You
saved my life, Justin. It can’t be coincidence that you guys have spent so much
time, money, and effort to adopt a baby and suddenly, I’m pregnant. Everything
happens for a reason.” She ran a hand over her abdomen. “This was the reason.
We’ll make it all legal once I’m discharged from here, I promise. So?”

“No.”
Justin pulled away, and a shadow passed over his eyes. “No, Belle. This isn’t
right. If it comes down to a choice between you and this baby—”

“I’m
dying, Justin!” After the initial outburst, she lowered her voice to a more
somber tone. “I’ve
been
dying, and we all know it. Whether or not I have
this baby, I’ll be dead within a year or two. I want this baby to live on after
me. You and Tony want a family. A family I can provide. Don’t deny a dying
woman’s last wish because of sentimentality.”

Sniffling,
Justin turned to Tony, who wiped his own wet eyes before murmuring a heartfelt,
“Yes. God, yes. Justin?”

Justin
sighed in defeat. “If you’re sure, Belle…”

“I’m
sure. And one more thing,” she said, drawing their sentimental focus back to
her. “Not a demand, a request. If you guys are okay with it, I want to move in
with you permanently. I’ll pay rent. I’ll sub-let my house as soon as I’m outta
here. I’m thinking the baby and I can live with you until…” She swallowed a
lump in her throat. “…the end. This way, once I’m gone, there’ll be no
traumatic, ‘Now you get to live with Uncle Tony and Uncle Justin’ for him.”

“Or
her
,” Justin amended.

“Or
her,” she agreed. “Promise me you’ll love him—”

“Or
her
.” At her sharp look, he responded with a sheepish grin. “Sorry. I’ve
just always pictured Tony and me with a little girl. But, boy or girl, I swear
to you, your baby’s going to have the very best of everything.”

She
grabbed each of their hands. “He
or she
already has the best parents.
I’ve seen to that. You guys wanna come with me to see the sonogram?”

Tony
sat up, eyes wide. “Really?”

“Really.
And I’m probably gonna need a birthing partner. Any volunteers?”

“Tony’s
better with that stuff than me,” Justin replied with a quick head jerk. “I
usually fall apart in emergency situations.”

She
turned to Tony to gauge his reaction. “You okay with that?”

His
brows drew down, and he frowned in obvious suspicion. “Do you promise not to
curse me out or punch me in the delivery room?”

A
snort of laughter escaped her lips. What a wuss. “I’ll do my very best.”

“Then
so will I.”

She
squeezed their hands, brushed kisses across their knuckles. “Thank you. Thank
you both.”

“No,
Belle,” Justin said, leaning to kiss her cheek. “Thank
you
.”

~~~~

When
Sean left the auditorium, he spotted the kid again. Xavia’s son. What’d she
call him?
Noah
. Noah was loitering, leaning against the far wall, arms
folded over his chest. Good-looking kid. His skin gleamed the color of maple
syrup, his eyes a vivid gold. he had razor-sharp cheekbones, a broad nose, and
a dimple in one cheek. Around him, his aura gleamed like a majestic purple
robe. As Sean got closer, the kid nodded. “Hey.”

Sean
gave a single nod in reply. “Hey.”

The
kid pushed off the wall and strode forward to walk alongside him. “The old dude
said I should talk to you.”

Sean
stopped. “The old dude?” He stared at the kid’s eyes, gauging for mockery or,
worse, rage.

“Yeah.
Sherman.”

Oh.
That
old dude. Fists tight at his sides, he braced for any possible
conflict. “Okay. What about?”

“Why
I keep seeing you here and think I know you. And since you always seem to be
staring at me, I’m guessing
you
know
me
. So, what’s the deal?”

Terrific.
Thanks a lot, Sherman
.
He had to tread carefully if he didn’t want a replay of Xavia’s overreaction.
“I’m not sure. What’s your name?”
          “Contel. Contel Morgan.”

“Nice
to meet you, Contel. I’m Sean Martino. You’re a bounty hunter now?”
          “Yeah. So what?”

“I
used to be a hunter.”

“So.
What.” He repeated each syllable, laced with animosity. “Is that supposed to
make us friends or something?”

“No.”
Sean shrugged. “Just making conversation.”

“Fuck
conversation and answer the question. How do you know me?”

“Wow,”
he retorted, his lips twisted in a sneer. “I see a lot of your mother in you.”

The
kid’s eyes rounded, and Sean wished he could take the words back. Dragging
Xavia into this mess was probably not the best idea he’d ever had.

“You
know my mother? How?”

“Sort
of. I mean, I don’t know
Contel’s
mother. I know Noah’s mother.”

“Who
the fuck is Noah?”

“You.
A few lifetimes back.”

“Naw,
man. That ain’t me. I didn’t see any friggin’ lifetimes where I was someone
named Noah.”

Sean
snorted. “Yeah, I’m not surprised. The Elders probably thought this kind of
meeting would be so much more beneficial for both of us. Trust me. You were a
kid named Noah who grew up in the Bedford-Stuyvesant area of Brooklyn around
the late seventies, early eighties.”

“And
you knew my mother back then?”

“No.
I know her here.” Christ,
his
head was spinning, and he
understood
what he was trying to say. The kid was probably totally lost. He glanced around
at the crowds, seeking a private spot. “Let’s take a walk. You ever play
handball?”

“Yeah.
Why?”

“Come
on. I got a game for you. We can talk while we play.”

Contel
displayed his clipboard. “What happens if this thing buzzes again?”

“Bring
it with you. I’m sure your EC told you to never leave it behind.”  Sean
reached into his pocket and cradled his board in his palm. He snickered,
recalling Xavia’s reaction when he first showed up in her department without
his board. “Some people go nuts if you don’t carry it with you at all times.
But at that size, it’s a pain in the ass. Spend some time with me, and I’ll
show you how to get it small enough that you won’t even realize you’re carrying
it ‘til it goes off.”

“No
shit?”

“No
shit. Come on.” He led Contel to the storage room and introduced him to the
fine art of orb ball by starting with easy lobs, both in the game and in his
interrogation. “How’d you wind up here?”

Contel
volleyed back.
Thwap!
“You first.”

He
would’ve argued, but sensed the kid would shut down at the slightest
provocation. That didn’t mean he had to bare his soul right out of the gate,
though. “I shot myself.”
Ka-thwap!
“Your turn.”

“I
went suicide by cop.”
Zzzip!

“Suicide
by cop? What’s that?”

“It’s
where you purposely disobey a cop’s orders to show your hands, or get out of
the car, or whatever, in the hopes he’ll shoot you and kill you.”