Slow Moon Rising (13 page)

“That Enrique,” Eliana said, speaking of her grandson. Rosa's baby boy, born three years before. “He's the cutest thing.”

“Tell me,” Dad said, his voice encouraging.

“He can say all his ABCs, he can count to a hundred, and he knows his colors. The other day he says to me, ‘Abby'—which you know he calls me—”

Dad chuckled. “Yeah, yeah.”

“I want to die every time he says it, Ross. He says, ‘Abby, when you were three years old like me, did you like to play on the computer?'”

I smiled. Cute.

Dad laughed too. “What did you tell him?”

“I said, ‘Rique, when Abby was three years old, there was no such thing as a computer. At least, not like what you have at your house.'”

“And what did he say?”

“He said”—she giggled like a girl—“he said, ‘Then, Abby, you must have been a kid a
long
,
long
time ago.'”

They laughed together. They sobered.

Get serious, Ami, I chided myself. This is just two adults talking about a precocious little boy. Two adults who have known each other for over thirty years. Why shouldn't they have a cup of coffee together? Why shouldn't they talk about their children? Their grandchildren?

But then Dad cleared his throat. Spoke. Said the words I'd hoped to never hear.

So it's true.

It was all horrifically true.

Jayme-Leigh
February 2005

The bleeding had started again. The third time in a month.

I walked out of the marble and walnut master bathroom of the home I shared with my husband, Isaac, and into our bedroom. The sleigh bed was thick with rumpled covers, topped by a cream-colored down duvet. I stepped onto the upholstered stepstool on my side of the bed, slid my body between the chocolate-brown sheets, pulled the duvet over my shoulders, and curled into a ball.

The pain grew deep in my abdomen, sent chills scurrying from my toes to my shoulders. I admonished myself; I should have taken something before returning to bed. I opened my eyes to peer across the empty side where my husband slept. When he was home. Lately, his work had kept him so busy, I'd hardly seen him.

The clock with the large digital numbers revealed the late hour. Nearly ten o'clock. Why, I wondered, did the house
grow larger when the sun went down? And why did pain always increase?

I winced against the ache, wrapped my feet one on top of the other, grateful for the fuzzy socks . . . when was it . . . three hours ago I'd put them on?

The bleeding explained why I'd been so tired. Too exhausted to stay awake, even to read—my favorite thing to do at the end of the day. Stack of goose down pillows at my back. My husband at my side, doing the same.

I tried to snuggle further into the comfort of our bed only to have the pain shoot through me, pushing its way out from between my legs. “Ohhhhhh . . .” I groaned. I rolled over to the bed's matching end table. The moon cast enough light into the room for me to find my cell phone and press a two-digit speed dial code.

Isaac answered on the first ring. “Hey, honey . . . I was just about to lock up and come on home.”

I sighed at the sound of his voice. Typically, it soothed me to the point of casting out any demon within my body, but not this time. “Isaac,” I said, my voice strained.

“What's wrong?”

“I need you to come home now.”

I heard a door close, a lock flip, keys rattle. “Are you bleeding again?”

“Mmm.”

Footsteps quickened down the corridor leading to the laboratory where Isaac spent most of his days. And, lately, his nights. “That's it, J.L. I mean it this time. You're going to the doctor.”

“Don't lecture me . . . just come home.”

“I'm not kidding. If you don't make an appointment and keep it, I'm going to your father. I'm serious; do you hear me?”

Nature told me I had to get out of the bed. Return to the bathroom. “Isaac, it's pretty bad this time.” I crawled from under the warm covers to the chill of the room. Even the heater wasn't making a dent in the recent, usual cold front that had washed over Central Florida. As soon as my feet touched the floor, I doubled over.

“It's been pretty bad every time, hon. Do you hear me?”

I made it to the bathroom. “I hear you.” I gritted my teeth as I reached under the marble countertop for the box of sanitary napkins and retrieved what I needed. I hurried as best I could to the toilet. “Just come home,” I managed to say. “I'm on my second pad in a half hour.”

“You're going to the hospital. Tonight.”

“I'll be all right if you'll just come home, Isaac.”

The sound of his car starting caused my shoulders to sag in relief. “I'm calling your father.”

I tensed again. “No.”

“He can be there before I can, Jayme-Leigh. And he's a doctor.”

“I know he's a doctor, Isaac. But he's also my father and he'll worry.”

“That's his job, to worry.”

From the looks of things in front of me, I knew he was right. Not about the worrying—though that was true too—but that I needed to get to the hospital. “All right, Isaac. Tell him. I mean, call him. And meet us at the hospital.”

“That's my girl.”

I finished with what I had to do, went to the medicine cabinet, and took out a bottle of oxycontin I'd been prescribed six months before after a severely sprained ankle. For several seconds I contemplated taking one before opting for simple over-the-counter naproxen. The last thing I needed was to tell a doctor I'd taken a narcotic prescribed for an ankle injury for menstrual cramping. No matter how relentless the pain had become.

I ran water into the glass-bowl sink, dropped two of the oval blue pills onto my tongue, allowed the water to pool in my cupped hand, and practically inhaled the water and swallowed. The pills crept down my esophagus. I cupped both hands under the running water and drank again. I pressed my face into a nearby hanging hand towel, all the while asking myself why I didn't just get a bottled water from the under-the-counter mini-fridge.

I must really be sick.

The wall clock—kept ten minutes fast—told me I'd been off the phone with Isaac for seven minutes already. Dad would arrive soon. I sat at the vanity, brushed my hair, and secured it with a scrunchie. I walked doubled over into my closet, found a pair of jeans, a tee, and a sweatshirt, and sat on the floor to dress. I pulled a small leather bag from the shelf, threw in a carry-on bag of toiletries I kept for when Isaac and I traveled, two pairs of underwear, and a clean nightgown. I knew better than to go with a pajama set.

I frowned as I looked at the ones I'd been wearing just moments before; they were soiled to the point of my having to throw them into a wastebasket.

“Rats,” I said aloud. “I really loved those pjs.”

Mom had given them to me. I'd wanted to wear them until they became threadbare, but nature had chosen differently.

I pushed my feet into a pair of fur-lined boots just as the doorbell rang.

Dad had made it in record time. Anise would be at his side, I was certain. Since they'd married five years ago, seeing Dad without his new wife meant that he and I were either at the office or the hospital.

I left my closet and walked through the house as the doorbell rang again. I could have called out, but it wouldn't have mattered. For one, I was too far from the front door and, for the other, I was too weak.

By the time I made it to the entryway, I had doubled over again. I opened the front door and slid to my knees, dropping the small bag next to me.

“Anise, start the car.”

“Of course.” I saw her gloved hand clasp the handle of the bag.

Dad's arm came around my hunched shoulders; the smell of his favorite cologne made me nauseous. I gagged, pressed my hand over my mouth, and gagged again.

“Sweetheart,” Dad cooed. “I'm here now. Can you stand?”

I inhaled deeply through my mouth, an old remedy to quash nausea. I blinked several times. “I think so.”

For his age, Dad's strength was remarkable. I believe—if necessary—he could have scooped me into his arms and carried me to the car. “Tell me what's going on,” he said, closing the front door behind us. The night air was crisp, filled with the scent of dying fires from the neighbors' fireplaces.

“I'm hemorrhaging. Third time this month.”

“When did it start?”

“Tonight.”

“First time you've experienced this?”

I shivered. “No. Dad, I'm freezing.”

“It's no wonder. You're running a low-grade temp.”

I laid my head against his shoulder as we continued toward the car. Dad called, “Anise!”

She returned to us so fast I wondered if she'd been beside us all along.

“Baby, go back inside and get a coat for Jayme-Leigh.”

Anise's hand came to rest on my arm, a momentary demonstration of comfort. “I'll be right back.”

Dad helped me into the back of his Mercedes. The heater blew full blast and the leather seats felt warm. Still, I shivered. Dad closed my door, opened his. The car shifted under the weight of his getting behind the wheel. “Jayme-Leigh, when was the first time you had bleeding like this?”

“Six, seven months ago.”

I heard the swish of his coat against the leather of the front seat. My eyes were closed, but I knew he had turned to gaze at me. “Have you seen anyone?”

I shook my head.

“Has Isaac known?”

I nodded.

“I'll talk with him later,” he muttered.

“Dad . . . no . . .”

The front passenger door opened. I blinked to see Anise leaning toward me from her seat. She first laid my wool Burberry coat over me followed by a throw she'd found over
the swan fainting couch in our bedroom. “I thought you'd like this too.”

Dad backed out of the driveway before Anise could turn and buckle up.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he said.

“No, no. I understand.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. The woman was nothing short of amazing. I'm not one to make a fuss over people, and I was as shocked as everyone else when, nearly five years ago, Dad brought her home (okay, maybe not as shocked as Heather). But I admit, she is a very special lady.

“Tell me if you need anything, Jayme-Leigh,” she said.

I nodded. In spite of her special attentions, my teeth began to chatter. I balled my hands and shoved them under my jaw in an effort to keep them from rattling. The uterine pain lessened; the only good news on this night. Slowly, slowly, with the gentle rocking of the car . . . the stopping and starting . . . I felt myself ease into much-needed sleep.

“Sweetheart . . .”

My father's voice pulled me from someplace deep. I opened my eyes. A tan leather car seat faced me, a couple of feet from my nose. I felt both lost and snuggled into someplace comfortable. Drool had pooled under my chin; I wiped it away as I mumbled, “Hmm?”

“We're here.”

“Where?”

“We're at the hospital.”

I lifted my head. “Oh. Yeah.” I cut my eyes upward to see Dad's face leaning into the car. “Where's Isaac?”

“I saw his car as we pulled in. Anise has already gone to find him. We're in the ER drive, sweetheart. Come on. I've got a wheelchair right here for you.”

I moved to sit up, felt the reason for my being there rush to reality. “Dad,” I whispered. “I'm hemorrhaging pretty badly.”

“Right now?”

I nodded. “I'm scared to move.”

“Well, you have to, Jayme-Leigh. Come on, now. You can do this.”

I allowed him to help me out, horrified to realize my jeans were—like my favorite pajamas—ruined. Two hundred dollars. Trashed. And in front of Dad, no less.

True, he was a doctor. First and foremost, he was my father.

A broad-shouldered nursing assistant stood behind the wheelchair Dad helped me into. “Get her inside,” Dad said. “Honey, I'm going to park the car and I'll be right there.”

I nodded as I placed an elbow on the armrest, leaned my head into the palm of my hand, and felt the chair surge forward. Glass doors slid open followed by another set as we approached them. Hearing footsteps, I looked up. Isaac ran toward me. “I'm here,” he said, taking my hand in his, walking beside us. “I've called Dr. Young. He'll be here in a few minutes.” Isaac looked at his watch as though it would verify his declaration. He looked at the assistant. “You're to take Dr. Claybourne straight back,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” the young man said. “I know.”

I squeezed my husband's hand. “I'm so glad you're here.”

He smiled at me; my heart melted as it did each time he did so. Even in the midst of crisis, the man had such a way with me. But it had always been that way, from the moment we'd
met as freshmen in medical school. My adorable histology lab partner, Isaac Levy.

I was all gone from the first flash of that smile, in spite of my resolve to
not
get involved with a man until after I'd gotten through my residency. I had worked too hard to let anyone—let alone a man—interfere with my life's goal. Or so I thought.

In high school I'd only dated one guy, and he felt the same as I: if we managed to get through school and we were still available, we'd revisit our relationship. And I pretty much thought that would be the direction of my life. I'd get my bachelor's in record time, spend four years in medical school, three years for my residency, and then see where life had taken Simon. If he were still available . . . well then.