Exiled (A Madame X Novel) (22 page)

T
wo months after the explosion, our doorbell rings.

I am reading; You are cooking.

You answer the door; I hear murmurs, an unfamiliar male voice.

“All right, come on in, I guess.” I hear Your voice, wary and cautious. “What is this about?”

“I have to speak to Miss de la Vega, Mr. Ryder. I’m sorry, but I cannot divulge anything to anyone except her.”

I am showing now. I have taken to wearing loose dresses and yoga pants with stretchy waistbands. I put my e-reader down, and wait. You appear first, casual and perfect in jeans and a tank top, barefoot. The visitor is tall and thin, slightly hunched, as if expecting a blow any moment. Balding, only a fringe of graying dark hair remaining. Dressed in an expensive three-piece suit, complete with a pocket handkerchief and a matching tie, and carrying a slim brown briefcase.

I stand up. “I’m Isabel de la Vega.”

A hand, extended. “Good afternoon, Miss de la Vega. My name is Michael Yancey Bowen. I’m a senior partner at Bowen, Brown, and Callahan.”

“How can I help you, Mr. Bowen?” I put on what I think of as my Madame X persona, cool, aloof, superior. I have almost forgotten her, I think, and it is a relief to know I can still summon her indifference when I must.

“My firm represents the interests of Caleb Indigo, and by proxy, the entire Indigo spread of companies.”

“And again, how can I help you?”

Michael Yancey Bowen glances at a chair kitty-corner to the coffee table. “May I sit?”

I gesture, imperiously, to cover the nerves I feel. “Please. Would you care for coffee or tea?”

“No, thank you.” Michael takes the chair, sets the briefcase on the coffee table, and opens it with a flick of thumbs against latches. Withdraws a manila folder, turns it to face me, and sets it down in front of me. “As you may be aware, Mr. Indigo was an extraordinary businessman. He was extremely wealthy, and conservative with his wealth, considering the scope of his assets. He owned the high-rise here in Manhattan, a few vehicles, a private jet, and a small estate in the Caribbean. Other than that, there wasn’t much . . . except a startlingly massive amount of liquid assets in banks and tax shelters all over the world.”

“What does this have to do with me, Mr. Bowen?”

Bowen gestures at the manila folder and the small stack of papers therein. “The tower, along with all of his other physical assets, businesses, and subsidiary corporations, have been sold. He had no outstanding debt, so everything sold was at a rather tidy profit, and added to the already significant sum of money he possessed in movable liquid assets.”

“Again, Mr. Bowen, what does this have to do with me? Spit it out. I have no time for wading through legalese.”

Bowen gestures insistently at the folder. Withdraws an expensive pen from an inside suit coat pocket, taps the topmost paper. “Mr. Indigo had a standing will, which I personally drew up for him several years ago, and which he had me update four months ago. The update was simple, but sweeping.”

The line Bowen tapped, near the bottom of the paper, is a number. A large number. Three commas between dollar sign and period.

“One more time, Mr. Bowen; what does this have to do with
me
?”

“The update made four months ago was to make you the sole inheritor to all of his assets upon his death.”

“What?”

“Once the tower, estate, and various businesses and enterprises were sold, the sum total to be distributed upon signature acknowledging receipt, is fourteen billion, eight hundred seventy-seven million, five hundred forty-three thousand, two hundred and thirty-one dollars and twenty-one cents.”

My brain is spinning. “And twenty-one cents?”

Bowen checks the number. “Yes, twenty-one cents.”

“You’re serious?”

“About the twenty-one cents?”

“No, Mr. Bowen, not about the twenty-one cents. About—what did you say? Fourteen billion and what?”

“Fourteen billion, eight hundred seventy-seven million.”

I am, yet again, having trouble breathing. “The fucking bastard left me fourteen billion dollars?”

“So it would appear, Miss de la Vega.” Bowen flips the page over, starts rattling off the procedure for accepting the money.

It’s more complicated than merely signing, apparently. I’m not listening.

I stand up, pace away from Bowen, the table, the will. Bowen keeps talking, and finally I pause, turn, hold up a hand. “Apologies, Mr. Bowen, but please . . . shut up for a moment.”

I find myself going upstairs, out onto the roof terrace. Breathe in, breathe out. Find a seat, stare at the sky, the pale azure dotted with shreds of clouds.

I hear You, feel You sit on the lounge chair behind me, feel Your arms go around my shoulders. You pull me backward so my back is to Your chest. “I told Bowen we’d visit him at his office, that you’d need time to process this.”

“Thank you, Logan.”

“Fourteen billion dollars, Isabel. That’s a fuckload of money. It’d make you one of the wealthiest people in the world.”

“I can’t believe he was worth fourteen billion dollars, Logan. I knew he was rich, but . . .
that
rich? Where did he get it all? Not from escorts and bride services. Not from Madame X.”

“No, obviously not. He had fingers in everything. Real estate, stocks, technology. I think his real money came from the tech side of things, though. He owned a company that owned a patent on a medical device of some kind, something that every hospital, every doctor’s office, every military base all over the world uses. He didn’t invent it, but he bought the company that did, which was floundering in obscurity from lack of marketing and distribution resources. He recognized the value in the patent, and got it out there. Got the accounts one by one, until the owners of some truly sizable hospitals started catching on, and it took off like wildfire. This was while you were in the coma, I think. Before that it was all real estate, stocks, and a bunch of small companies all over the spectrum. After that medical device caught on, he was set.”

“But . . . fourteen billion dollars?”

“It’s a lot of money, Is.”

My heart is twisting. “Too much. And it’s . . .
his
.”

“Think about it, okay? Even coming from him, it’s fourteen
billion
dollars, Isabel. You don’t just turn that kind of money down.”

“I . . . I can’t, Logan. I just can’t.”

“No one could.”

I shake my head. Stand up. Pace furiously. “No, Logan, you don’t understand. I can’t take it. Not a single dime. I can’t. I
won’t
. I can’t take anything of his. He owns enough of me as it is. Even in death, he’s trying to own me, control me. If I take that money, I’ll still belong to Caleb Indigo.”

“You’re serious.”

I turn and look at You. “Money has never really meant anything to me, Logan. Not in any real practical terms. It’s just a number, objectively speaking. A large number, but just a number. I can’t accept anything from Caleb. I can’t have anything to do with him. I have to be done.”

“I get that. I really do. But please, think about it. Just for a day or two, at least.”

I shake my head. “No, Logan. I don’t need to, and I don’t want to. I’m not going to change my mind.”

“You’re absolutely sure that this is what you want to do? Just say, ‘No thanks, keep your fourteen billion dollars’?”

“You make it sound foolish, Logan.” I am irritated. A little mad at You, honestly. “I am taking ownership of myself in turning down this money,
Caleb’s
money. I didn’t win the lottery. I didn’t earn it. It is Caleb trying to manipulate me from beyond the grave. Turning down Caleb’s money is the only thing I
can
do. I cannot and will not be his creation, his creature, his slave, his
possession
any longer. If I accept the money, regardless of how much it is, I would be putting myself back under his thumb. Selling myself to him, yet again. It would be just the same as if I’d never walked away from him at all.
If I want to be free, truly free, of Caleb’s domination of my life, then I have to be free of any and all ties to him. And that includes his fortune, vast as it may be.”

You move to stand in front of me. Take my face in your hands. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like you’re stupid for not taking it. It’s just . . . it’s a fucking lot of money. I don’t think there is another person in the world capable of saying no to fourteen billion dollars.”

“Saying the number isn’t going to make it any more real to me, Logan. I am incapable of comprehending the reality of that much money. I don’t think anyone really is, but me least of all. My life thus far has not afforded me the kind of experience necessary to understand the value of money.” I grasp Your wrists in my hands. “And what’s more, I do not need to. You are not poor, by any measure. You will provide for my every need or want, and more besides. I have total faith in that, and in you. I do not
need
Caleb’s money, because I have you. And hopefully, someday, I will earn money of my own.”

“I’m with you, babe. I support you.”

“But do you understand?”

“Yes, I do. I have a different view of money, because I’ve worked so hard for so long, because I came from nothing. I don’t pursue wealth as a goal in and of itself; I pursue success. I enjoy what I do and want to be the best at it, and fortunately, being the best means I make a lot of money in the process. Having the money I do means I’m better able to fathom the reality of what fourteen billion dollars looks and feels like, what it can do for you. It means I can better understand what you’re refusing. But it’s not my choice.”

“If it were your choice, if it were you making this decision, would you keep it?”

You take a moment, think about it. “I’d be a lot more tempted to rationalize why I should keep it, let’s just say that.”

“Let’s go, then. I want to be done with this once and for all.”

You are thinking again, and do not immediately respond. You look at me. “Can I make one small suggestion?”

“What?”

“Don’t just refuse it outright. It’ll get . . . I don’t even know, really, parceled out. Wasted, gobbled up by whoever can get their hands on it.”

“So what should I do with it?”

“Donate it. You know how many charities you could fund with that money? There’s an endless amount you could do with it. With even the tiniest percentage, you could fund an entire school district for
years
. You could put an entire city full of kids through college. You could feed thousands of people. Put in wells in Africa. Build shelters for homeless people. My point is, don’t just walk away from it. You don’t have to keep it for yourself, but don’t just . . . leave it sitting on the table. Take it, but use it for others. You could form a nonprofit, fund it with Caleb’s money, and literally spend the rest of your life putting that money to use helping people. That’s—fourteen billion dollars, Isabel?—that’s world-changing money. Use it to change the world.”

“You’ll help me?”

“Of course.”

“Then let’s do it.” I feel a fever coming over me, ideas spinning through my head one after another too fast to pluck any single one. “When you talked about the charities you donated to, I got this—rush, from hearing you talk about it. And just thinking about it now, I’m getting excited. What better way to use Caleb’s money than to make the world a better place with it?”

“So you want to run a nonprofit? It’s a lot of work, babe.”

“But it’s making a difference. Toward the end of things with Caleb, when the status quo started changing—because of you, you
know—I was growing increasingly discontent with the fact of Madame X, of what I—what
she
—was doing. Questioning the value in it. We talked about it, I think. How I felt as if I were wasting my time, wasting my
self
trying to turn spoiled brats into half-decent men, especially as it became obvious I never really changed them, just showed them how to hide their inner bastards. This? You said it yourself, this is a chance to do something powerful and life-changing. I don’t just want to distribute the money, though. I want to . . .
do
things. Dig the wells. See what the money does.”

You are glowing. “This is going to be so cool, watching you do this.”

“You’re helping, Logan.
We
are going to do this.”

“I’ll help form the nonprofit, sort out the tax exemptions and all that, get you staffed and whatever else, the nuts and bolts of it, the mechanics of a corporation. That’s what I do, after all. But this is you, Isabel. I’ll support you, go anywhere with you. If you’re digging wells in Africa, so am I. If you’re rescuing girls out of prostitution in Thailand, so am I. But honey, this is going to be your project.”

I do not argue. He’s right.

For the first time in my life, I have a purpose, something I’ve chosen. And, oddly, I have you to thank, Caleb.

Again.

But this time it’s a positive debt.

I wonder what you would think, if you could see what I’m going to do with your fortune?

I
am in the ultrasound room of my doctor’s office, and You are in a chair to my left, hands both around one of mine. With my other I keep my shirt tucked up into my bra, so it doesn’t get smeared with the ultrasound jelly.

The ultrasound technician, a woman named Lisa, has one hand on the wand, swiveling and sliding it all around my belly, angling it this way and that, tapping at the keyboard, sliding a ball that I think acts as a kind of computer mouse. Taking measurements, Lisa says—we’ll get to the good stuff in a minute.

I peer at the TV screen opposite the bed/table I’m on, trying to decipher what I’m seeing. But it’s all a mystery, nothing but blobs and shadows and black and white, and sometimes ribbons of pulsating, shifting color.

You glance at me, brows drawn down in a pinched expression of concentration. Maybe you see something I don’t?

And then Lisa taps a key and the room is filled with a rushing, rhythmic sound. A heartbeat. But there’s an echo to it, or an
overlap—
thumpthump-THUMPTHUMP-thumpthump-THUMPTHUMP
, a sound too fast to even be a fetal heartbeat.

“Is that echoing sound normal?” I ask.

“Let me just . . .” Lisa doesn’t finish the sentence, though, but rather shifts the wand around, does something to narrow and zoom the focus, and captures the heartbeat again.

Swivels, shifts, angles, utterly focused. But frowning, brow furrowed.

“Is there something wrong?” I ask.

“Not wrong, no. But I just want to verify what I think I’m seeing with another tech, okay? Just sit tight.” And then Lisa leaves, comes back a moment later with another woman whom she introduces as Megan, an ultrasonographer.

Megan introduces me to the less-than-wonderful experience of a vaginal ultrasound, doing much the same as Lisa did, only inside me. What fun.

And I’m worried, because Lisa isn’t telling me anything, and neither is Megan, and I’m starting to panic.

“Can you please tell me what’s going on?” I ask, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

You squeeze my hand, smile at me—
it’s okay
, You’re telling me, without needing words.

“Okay,” Megan says, zooming the perspective in, bringing up the strange, overlapping heartbeat, then holding the wand steady at a specific angle, so that within the black oval of my uterus there are two small white blobs visible. Megan points at the screen with an index finger. “So what we have here, Mom and Dad, is two babies.”

“What?” I sound as breathless as I truly am.

“You’re having twins.”

“Are you sure?” I ask.

Megan laughs, not unkindly. “Yes, I’m sure. There’s no way to mistake it, not from this angle.” An index finger, stabbing the screen. “One, two. And yes, there are
only
two.”

Twins.

Not just one unexpected child, but
two
.

We go home, and I think we are both in a daze. Once through the front door, I slump, stunned, to the couch.

It is overwhelming. How does one prepare for motherhood? I don’t remember my mother, aside from a few minor glimpses. I haven’t remembered anything else, and I don’t think I will. Nothing major, at least. I don’t remember my mother. I don’t remember my father. I don’t remember my childhood aside from a couple of insignificant memories. With no examples, how will I know whether I’m doing it right or wrong?

I am not worried about loving them; I already do, fiercely, wildly. I think of them, whisper their names, and I feel this virulent, surging wash of throat-constricting emotion, a willingness to do whatever it takes. I have read so many books on parenting, read a thousand blogs on the subject, browsed through countless online chat forums. I go to the park and watch mothers with their children. Try to picture myself, a baby on each hip. Try to imagine waking up at midnight or three in the morning to feed them. Try to imagine buckling a little life into a car seat.

The visions are easy.

But I imagine the reality is always different. No one can ever be ready for parenthood, I think. You can’t ever truly comprehend the truth of an entire life being solely dependent on you for survival, for guidance, for love.

Thinking about the lives inside me, more than anything, makes me miss my parents. Or, rather, the idea of knowing them. It is difficult to put into words, even for myself. I cannot miss them, because
I remember very little of them. I miss . . . the idea of them. I wish I remembered them. I wish I had them around to ask for guidance and advice. I wish . . .

So many things.

Too many things.

“Isabel?” You, on the floor in front of me, looking up at me. Searching me with Your one vivid blue eye.

“Twins, Logan.” I speak the truth out loud, and I am no less afraid for saying it.

“Twins, Isabel.” You seem calm. Too calm.

I look down at You. “You seem unaffected, Logan.”

A shrug. “It’s two babies rather than one. More diapers, more bottles, more everything. More love.”

“I wasn’t ready for
one
baby. Now we’re having
two
?” I try not to cry, but it is futile. The tears leak.

You slide up onto the couch, shift me onto you, and now I am lying on top of you, hearing your heartbeat, slow, steady, reassuring. “It’s going to be okay, babe. We’ve got this.”

“We do?” I am not so sure, and I sound it.

“Of course we do. I’ve got love to spare, sweetness.” You kiss me. Make me look at you so I understand, so I do not just listen, but truly
hear
. “If I have enough love for you and one baby, I’ve got enough for you and two babies. And Isabel? So do you.”

“But I don’t know how to have a baby. I don’t know how to be a mother, Logan.”

“Yes, you do.”

I shake my head. “I barely remember my mother. All I have are a few random memories. How will I know what to do?”

“The memories you do have, what are they like?”

I breathe in, and then out, thinking. “I have the impression that
she was a wonderful mother. She took care of me. She loved me. And she took care of and loved my father.”

“That’s all you need to know, Isabel. She loved you, she took care of you. And these babies inside you”—Your palm goes to my belly—“You will love them,
both
of them. You will take care of them. The how? The mechanics of being a parent? I don’t think anyone is really ready for that, babe. But you do it. You learn, you figure it out. We’ll figure it out together, okay? We’ll love them,
together
. We’ll take care of them,
together
.”

I nod. I feel somewhat reassured, but still scared.

And it dawns on me that You found a way, once again, to tell me it would be okay without saying so.

*   *   *

T
he next several months are spent becoming increasingly big with pregnancy, and getting the nonprofit corporation set up.

I’ve decided on a name—for the corporation, not the babies: The Indigo Foundation. It’s your money, Caleb. You earned it. You worked for it. It will be your legacy, carried out by Logan and me.

I couldn’t begin to explain or understand the complexities of setting up something of this scale, so I am thankful every single day for You, Logan, for how easily You facilitate the process, creating accounts and interviewing staff and moving the money around and a thousand other things, on top of running Your own business. For my part, I have been researching charities, looking into the laws and regulations regarding donations and funding, deciding what I’m going to do once the whole thing is set up.

It is a lengthy process.

This will not be a small undertaking. It will be, as You said, a lifelong project. It is a gobsmacking amount of money, and there
are an unlimited number of causes in need of funding and support. I am overwhelmed just thinking about it, compiling the lists. There is so much to know, so many causes that are worthy and in need. Which do I pick first?

You are in the chair beside me, working as well; You work from home almost exclusively now, having made some promotions in the office and rearranged things in order to be with me as much as possible. I am nearing my due date—
any day now
, our doctor tells us—and You don’t want to be away from me for even a moment. You have attended every doctor visit. You personally painted the nursery—green, a neutral color, because, as we discovered at the gender-reveal ultrasound, we are having a girl and a boy.

Camila, for my mother, and Luis, for my father.

You put together bassinets and cribs and bouncers, picked out onesies and bibs—blue ones for Luis, and pink for Camila—stocked up on diapers and wipes and ointments from the Honest Company. If I feel them kicking, you put your palm to my belly. And what a belly it is. I feel mammoth, so enormous I can barely move. Everything hurts. Being pregnant is definitely real now. Too real. Camila and Luis are there, inside me, ready to come out. I need them out, I need to be done being pregnant. It is exhausting, taxing, draining. I am in a fog, and merely walking down the stairs from the bedroom to the kitchen takes an eternity, and I have to rest halfway down, and then again once I reach the bottom.

I try to picture doing this alone, being a mother, having an unexpected child. No Logan to comfort and provide for and protect and love. I try to picture a woman, large with child, making her way down the streets of New York, on aching feet, exhausted from working to keep the roof over her head, food in the kitchen.

And I know what The Indigo Foundation’s first project will be: a resource center for single mothers, a chain of them across the
country, even. Bills paid. Pantries stocked. Nurseries prepared. Childcare provided. Postpartum depression therapy. Regular get-togethers of other single moms in the area, for mutual support and willing ears who understand the hardship.

I draft an e-mail outlining my idea and send it to You. Within fifteen minutes, You have returned the email with practical next steps: find a location for the first center, begin interviewing staff, set up the charter and structure, find additional donors, locate resources to tie in, food pantries and daycares and patient advocates and babysitting services. The list is massive, and daunting. But it provides me with additional steps to begin working on.

I decide the first center will be in Queens, an area that seems, in my limited estimation, in need of such a service. I make a list of potential available locations based on a quick real estate search, send it to You, and You in turn send it to one of the assistants You hired for the foundation, who then immediately heads to Queens with an itinerary and a list of needs from a potential location.

The day is consumed with this work, and the hours fly by quickly. Karen, the assistant, reports three likely locations for me to choose from. Merely from a few e-mails You send to former clients, we secure several donors for the project, and I come up with a long list of resource providers that are interested in partnering with the center.

I need a name, though.

I decide, temporarily at least, on MiN: Mothers in Need.

Realizing I’ve been working for several hours without a break, and that my bladder is screaming at me, I decide to take a break. I’ve also been feeling occasional contractions for the last few hours, what I assume are Braxton-Hicks contractions, and usually getting and walking around helps them go away.

So I stand up, and I’m immediately gripped by a sharp, painful contraction.

Pop
; warmth and wetness on my thighs, streaming down my legs.

“Logan?” I keep my voice quiet, calm.

You glance up. I’m wearing a loose, ankle-length dress, so there’s no visible evidence of what’s going on. “Yeah, babe.”

“My water just broke.”

You blink at me for the space of ten seconds, and then You’re up, grabbing my laptop and Yours. You say nothing. We’ve discussed this. You take my arm, guide me inside. Grab the overnight bag You’ve had prepped for the last two months. I stop in the bathroom to put on a pad and grab a couple extra, and then we’re in the car, and You’re driving with barely restrained frustration through the typical Manhattan traffic. It’s a Friday, six in the evening, which means traffic is a snarled nightmare.

You’re holding my hand and driving with the other. Your jaw is tensing.

“Logan?” You shoot me a look. “Take a breath. It’s okay. We’ll get there.”

“In this traffic, you could be having the babies in the car.”

I gesture out the window. “Well, good thing there’s an ambulance right there.”

And there is, too, trundling along two lanes over, lights off, siren off, the driver’s arm hanging out the open window.

You laugh, finally. “Why are you calmer than I am?”

I shrug. “Probably because the contractions haven’t really started yet. Give me time, I’m sure I’ll start panicking soon.”

And, oh, how right I am. The contractions haven’t even really begun in earnest yet, from what I’ve read. They’re still several minutes apart, and yes, painful, but not as bad as what I’ve read has led me to expect. What has me panicking is the knowledge that—again, according to everything I’ve read—once my water has broken, the
only options are to have the babies naturally or to have a C-section. What if I can’t have them naturally? I don’t want a C-section. I don’t want to be cut open. But what if something is wrong that I don’t know about? What if we take too long getting to the hospital and the babies go into distress? I
really
don’t want to have the babies on the side of the road, for all that I joked about it with You. That was to calm You down; I need You calm, in control. Because I am panicking now.

And a contraction has me in its grip.

Sharp, fierce, aching, clamping, so sudden and crushing I can’t breathe. So painful it makes me whimper.

“Breathe, honey, breathe through it. Remember? Like at the class.” You went to the Lamaze classes with me.

I try to breathe. Just like a panic attack, I have to force the oxygen into my lungs, force them to expand and suck in air, and then I have to force them to contract, expel the air. And again. God, it hurts.