New Title 7 (11 page)

"I promise." Brandon settled back in his chair and regained a stoic composure. "I guess we'll see what happens."

"I think everything will be okay," I replied as our fingers threaded.

Why were the words
Fool's Paradise
ringing in my ears?

"Y
ou need benzodiazepine for your panic attacks... but I can't give you a prescription because of the pregnancy." Frowning, Dr. Lyons examined his prescription pad.

My psychiatrist was in his sixties with receding white hair. Brown age spots peppered his hands and face. He narrowed an eye as he observed me.

"When did these panic attacks start?"

"Three weeks ago while I was driving to my new job in Pasadena." I clenched my hands.

"Do you think these panic attacks have anything to do with your break-up with—I'm sorry, what's his name?"

"Brandon."

"Yes, would it have anything to do with Brandon and the thought of being a single mother?"

"It could be a lot of things. My anxiety got worse after I quit my job. My landlord evicted me, so I had to move in with Dad and Tina."
Which really, really sucks.

"You've had a lot going on lately." His stony gaze shifted to the prescription pad.

"I know." I mercilessly twisted my fingers.

"How far along are you with the pregnancy?" he asked.

"Almost three months."

"There's no chance at all of a reconciliation?"

"I don't know. I haven't heard from him since my hospital discharge." This conversation was nauseating me.

"How do you think you'll manage on your own?"

"I'll find out, won't I?"

"I'm sure you will." He gave a slight smile. "I think you'll manage fine. Let me know as soon as you have the baby so I can prescribe this medication."

"Thank you, Dr. Lyons." I got up.

"I'm sorry there wasn't more I could do." He stood from behind his desk and pumped my hand.

I plodded through a parking lot with a view of the Houston skyline. Dad had paid someone to fix my shitty car. I got in, rotated the key and the engine hummed alive.

No problem at all.

As I drove to Dad's house on Willard Drive, I questioned if Brandon still loved me. I missed him and the longer these weeks dragged, the further my feelings intensified.

Our departure was too abrupt, the separation painfully permanent. A dull ache wedged inside my chest. Unbearable how he stalked my daydreams and haunted my nightmares.

Many nights I'd bawled, hating myself because I used to have pride. This experience had altered me into a
weakling
who blubbered at the drop of a hat.

Ultimately I didn't call the abortion clinic. I grew accustomed to the idea of raising my baby. I'd do my best.

I parked the car and headed for the front door.

Inside Dad's home was two bedrooms, a kitchenette and pea-green carpet. Ironically the nicest thing was Dad's television: seventy inches of flat screen monstrosity.

His T.V. probably cost more than the monthly rent.

"I need to talk to you." Tina emerged, her tanned-orange face scrunched in a semi-scowl.

I quietly straightened the junk magazines on the coffee table. Indulging my OCD was more rewarding than acknowledging Tina's existence.

"Mia, did you hear me? I said I need to talk to you." Tina's hands were on her hips and her scowl deepened.

"
What
?"

"Your father's too nice to tell you, but I'm not. You need to get another job. We already have too many damn bills to pay and I'm not the least bit thrilled about having your screaming kid in
my
house. It's an expense you could've prevented, and an expense
you're
going to pay for." Her reddish frown twitched. 

"Who said I wasn't going to get another job? I didn't." I was ready to slap the orange from her face.

She neared. "I want you to start looking for another job tomorrow morning. Is that clear?"

"Where's Dad?"

"Huh?" Tina swiveled her head to and fro. "What does Charlie have to do with this? Will you just answer my damn question?"

"I'll answer
after
you tell me where my dad is."

She huffed. "He's visiting your uncle John. Now answer me because I'm losing patience and fixin' to have a nuclear melt-down."

"I'll look for a job first thing in the morning. Satisfied?"

Tina curtly nodded. "Make sure you do."

"Yes my dearest precious step-mother."

"Don't be fucking condescending." Without a backward glance, she vanished in the kitchen to start supper.

Damn. I don't want to look for a job tomorrow. I can barely drive because of the panic attacks
.

"Well shit! Are you gonna just stand there all night and stare?" Tina's shrill tone made me jump. "You could
help
, you know."

"I'm too tired tonight." I started for my bedroom and right away Tina's voice halted me.

"I've been wondering—how in the blue fuck did you allow yourself to get knocked up? Didn't your mama teach you about the miracles of birth control?"

Oh. My. Fuck. How dare she mention a single word about my mother!
I couldn't bear to turn and face Tina. I'd end up knocking her out.

"Leave me alone," I muttered.

"
Aw
, is Daddy's poor spoiled princess tired?" Tina said. "Well if you'd used a piece of rubber you wouldn't be in this predicament. You wouldn't be getting fat with some loser's squalling brat and have to push it out in six months." She snickered as kitchen utensils clattered. "By the way, giving birth ain't no picnic. It feels like your coochie's ripping clean apart, not to mention your guts."

Jesus Christ. Please shut the fuck up, you ignorant hillbilly twat. 

"Ya hear, Mia? You're gonna wish to god you'd used a rubber."

"I already know this."

"I'm just sayin' you should prepare yourself before your due date. It won't be pretty."

"Goodnight. I'm going to bed."

Her remarks attacked like piercing needles and it took me ages to relax.

Once I succumbed to sleep, my imagination brightened with visions of Brandon. Within a misty ballroom, he and I held each other and danced a romantic waltz.

Brandon. My enigmatic, dangerous lover.

I'd never forget him.

T
wo months slithered by and my fifth month of pregnancy approached. 

Dad and Tina had argued about my getting a job while pregnant. For weeks I wore a satisfied smirk after Dad took my side. Tina hadn't mentioned it since.

In my room, I examined myself in the full-length mirror. My swollen stomach fascinated me and my boobs burst from every bra I had. I constantly adjusted, yanked and stretched the straps to 'improve' the fit.

Didn't work too well. I'd torn the clasp from one bra and broken the shoulder strap on another.

I slid my hands down the dome of my tummy, brushed the puckered navel. Even my belly button had expanded—of all things.

I'd recently went for an eighteen-week ultrasound. Dr. Norison told me a little boy was on the way and his heart was
perfectly
developed. No sign of the congenital defect.

I massaged my tight belly.

"Mia!" Tina wailed through the wall. "You got snail mail."

"
Alright
." I threw on a maternity smock and unlocked the door.

What if it's a letter from him? God I hope so.

Standing in the kitchenette, Tina glared as her fingers clamped an orange envelope that matched her skin tone.

I took the envelope and searched for a return address. There was none.

Disappointed and confused, I opened it and drew out a card.

An invitation:

You're Invited To The Tenth Annual All Hallow's Eve Bash 

Date: October 27 8 p.m.- 1 a.m.

Place:  Jessica's

113 Central Avenue

Houston, TX  77005

Costumes Required!

RSVP by October 15 

Who's Jessica? I don't know of any Jessica.
I studied the invitation and a fat, glittery jack o' lantern stared back. Shaking my head, I started to pitch the invitation in the trash.

I changed my mind.

After taking the invitation to my room, I dropped it in the top dresser drawer.

"What was it? Who sent it?" Tina fired her questions as I entered the living room.

"To be honest, I have no idea. It's a Halloween party invitation from some woman named Jessica."

"Isn't that weird." Tina flashed a bewildered look.

It was decided. I'd go to this bash where I'd meet Jessica. Maybe I'd paint my big belly orange, draw a jack o' lantern's face while my navel doubled as its nose.

What a unique costume
that
would be.

T
he last four weeks had flown and now I was on my way to Jessica's. Dusk transformed the horizon to shades of purple with crimson.

My teensy car poked along the highway while I fought a slight case of jitters.

As planned, I'd saturated my tummy in bright orange make-up to resemble a jack o' lantern. Silly, but whatever. Nobody would recognize me anyway.

I had my dark hair in a cute French twist. It took forever to get it right and a few strands drifted here and there. Also a cheap Venetian/Mardi Gras mask obscured half my face. It was shaped as a butterfly which didn't match my pumpkin belly.

I didn't care.

The rest of my costume consisted of a black T-shirt tied in the center so my 'pumpkin' showed. A knit skirt—tucked below my gut—completed my thrown-together look.

Again, I didn't care.

However I
did
end up arriving an hour late. Central Avenue was located within an elegant gated community in the Houston 'burbs, called
Manoirs Français.
Every mansion had brick siding and rear terraces that were visible from certain angles, all properties with circular driveways paved in stone. I took my time viewing the homes as I searched for the specific house number.

Clusters of costumed children often sprinted past.

I found the right house and pulled up the winding drive to the front, parking behind a line of vehicles. Totally in awe, I gazed at the mansion before getting out... and gazed and gazed.

My jitters worsened as I headed for the massive house with hipped roofs and arched windows. Exquisitely placed lights illuminated the upper and lower exterior.

It was like a palace. Adults in costume passed and disappeared inside. Apparently they'd shown up late as well, so I was glad it wasn't just me who couldn't keep track of time.

I entered a two-story foyer where a stairwell curved with spiraling iron balusters. Guests scattered the aisle and polished floors led to a dining area.

Not one person here looked familiar. Costumes consisted of Playboy bunnies, cheerleaders and guys dressed as monsters and superheroes. One wore a macabre grim reaper outfit complete with realistic, full skull mask. And yes, he clutched a life-sized scythe that appeared positively terrifying.

I avoided the grim reaper as I walked to a big room with a stone fireplace. Party guests flourished here and gathered in groups. Some held wine-filled stemware while others sipped coolers or beer. A few even had shot glasses of rum.

Silk spider webs covered the corners, ceiling globes emitted orange and yellow flashes, giving everything an ethereal quality. So far the music was a mix of country, R &B and classic rock. The beat reverberated loudly enough to feel the vibrations.

"Would you like a drink?" A shapely woman asked, dressed as a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader and offering me a wine cooler.

"No thanks." Couldn't she see I was pregnant? No doubt my orange gut could be seen for miles. Maybe she thought I was overweight. If that were the case, I wouldn't bring attention to it by painting my belly orange.

The pretty cheerleader politely grinned, sashayed to a group of guys who hollered and whistled at her. I stifled an eye-roll.

My son stirred as if reacting to the sights and sounds. When I held my stomach, his movements agitated my fingers.

He entertained me more than the Halloween bash did.

Then an old song by Alabama began.
Love in the First Degree
had such a gritty, masculine, sexy-sounding beat.

And speaking of masculine and sexy—a man lurking near the hallway caught my attention. He was tall, fit and wore a Zorro costume.
A Zorro costume!
Holy shit, he was a hot piece of ass. A half-mask shaded his eyes and he wore a slanted, black Stetson hat. His outfit included a flashy cape.

Hot, hot piece of ass.

He polished off a beer and set it down.

As soon as his eyes met mine, he approached. His slender hips swiveled as he strutted in sync with the song... as if performing a sensual dance.
Damn!
He was beautiful. I couldn't take my eyes off him.

Once he reached me, I glanced somewhere else,
anywhere
else, for he made me nervous like most hot guys. Pregnancy hormones kicked in, causing my face and body to flush with sexual desire.

I stared at his ebony cowboy boots. His—familiar—voice brought me out of my trance.

"I was hoping you'd show up, little Miss Mia."

My gaze flew to his. "Is that
you
, Brandon?"

His mouth lifted to a wicked, handsome grin. "What do you think, my angel?"

Suddenly the room was spinning and I backed away. Zorro/Brandon captured my arm, pulling me to him. My face briefly nuzzled his chest.

His fingers threaded with mine while his other hand settled on my waist. Gently he twirled me in an unsolicited waltz, drew me inward, forcing me to sway with him to the music. In my dizzy, foggy state, I permitted him to take me for a graceful ride across the room, hoping I wouldn't stumble.

In romantic fashion, he waltzed me all the way to the French doors and left me breathless. He braced his hands to the wall behind us, thereby trapping me in his dominant embrace.