Sleeping Beauty (51 page)

Brendan tries to touch my arm, but I jerk it away, my eyes welling up.

“I just–I just can’t believe you’d do this to me!”

“Claire…” This from West. “C’mon, be reasonable.”

I turn on him, furious. “You’re telling me that you agree with him? You think I should be out-cold for the birth of my baby?”

“If it’s safer, then yeah,” says West. “I think you should listen to the doctors.” He grabs my shoulders to prevent me from taking another lap of my much-reduced circle. “Claire-Bo, look at me.”

I do it, but I make sure to do it as slowly and sulkily as possible.

“You’re my favorite sister, you know,” he says quietly.

My response is toneless: “I’m your only sis, tool.”

“Never said you were a sis.”

“Never said you were a bro.”

“Never wanted to be friends anyways.”

“You’re not being my friend, or my brother, if you let them do this to me.”

“Uh…” he says, looking from me to Brendan. “When did your husband become ‘them?’”

“Claire…” Brendan moves between us, sounding exasperated.

West slouches over to the armchair in the corner, crossing his arms over his chest like he’s ready to order popcorn and watch the night’s entertainment.

I turn back to Brendan. “I already took those same drugs during my last episode, and the baby is fine!”

“Not fine,” he says.

“So she’s a little on the small side! Have you taken a look at me lately?” I say, wiping away an angry tear. “Bill says she’s developing normally.”

“There’s a lot you can’t see from an ultrasound,” says Brendan. “There’re a lot of things that could go wrong during labor and delivery. There’s no predicting how carbamazepine and lithium would affect you or the baby.”

I sit on the edge of the bed, covering my face with my hands, pissed that I can’t seem to stop myself from bawling–when I’m angry, when I’m sad, when I’m happy.

Brendan sinks down next to me, but doesn’t say a word.

“You know I won’t make it, right?” I sob into my hands. “You know I won’t.”

He rubs my back, running his open hand from my neck to my waist and back again. “I don’t know that. Neither do you.”

“I do know!” I hiss at him. “You act like I haven’t been through this three times before.” I snatch a tissue from a box on the ridiculous “luxury” nightstand. “I’m not going to make it more than one day, maybe two, before the episode starts.”

It’s been a little over four weeks since I keeled over right before my own wedding started. Someone overreacted and called nine-one-one, which caused full-fledged panic for our families and guests, and had every other celebrity-stalking internet site reporting my sudden death.

Of course, I came out of it twenty minutes later, but it took an hour to convince Brendan and everyone else that I was just fine. I’d put my foot down, refusing to postpone the wedding. I’d finally threatened to divorce him, a warning Brendan took to heart since we weren’t even married yet; we were out on the lawn within ten minutes.

Since then, my cataplexy fainting spells have gotten closer together. With my due date so close, Bill Brady elected to admit me to the hospital as a precaution. I’m not even allowed to walk to the bathroom without someone shadowing me.

I blow my nose and stare at the floor. “Seven weeks,” I murmur.

“Hmm?”

I know Brendan’s purposely saying as little as possible, aware that I’m a ticking time bomb ready to blow.

“Seven weeks,” I say, louder this time.

“Seven weeks until what?”

“Seven weeks: that’s how long my last episode lasted.”

Silence.

“You said the carbamazepine and lithium could shorten the next one if we started them before the episode starts.”

“We’ve already talked about this.”

“Do you know what you’re saying?”

“Yes.”

“So, what–you’re fine with me missing the first month and a half of our baby’s life?”

“You won’t miss it, babe. You’ll be there every second, I promise.”

I snort. “Yeah, and then it’ll be erased as soon as I snap out of it,” I say, waving my hand in front of me like I’m clearing a whiteboard. “I won’t remember a thing.”

“You will. I’ll make sure you do.”

I start crying again. “Can’t we start the meds once she’s born? Can we just try that?”

He starts rubbing my back again, small circles beginning in the middle, gradually growing bigger. “Only if we use formula.”

“I don’t want to do that!” I say, smacking the bed with my hand.

“There’s no way to know the concentrations of lithium or carbamazepine that end up in breast milk, and there’s no way to measure toxicity–”

“Stop talking like that!”

“Like what?”

I wipe my nose. “Like–like a doctor!” I know how ridiculous this sounds even as I say it, but I let it fly anyway. “This isn’t a science experiment!”

West mutters a “
Ho boy
” from the corner.

“No, it’s not,” says Brendan. “It’s a helluva lot more important than that. And I’d expect that you of all people would understand sacrifice.”

After so many people have sacrificed for you
, is what he wants to add, I know it. And he doesn’t even know the half of it. I think of how I just spoke to my brother and feel waves of shame spin through my core.

The door opens a crack. Jonathan Varner sticks his head in. My eyes light up, my smile a little too big, but he doesn’t notice; he’s looking for West. He gives him a knowing look before backing out again, like a turtle withdrawing into a shell.

Jonathan Varner
, I remind myself.
Jonathan Varner loves West
. My humiliation level goes down one notch, but all the Jonathan Varners in the world will never fully erase it. Nothing can, and it doesn’t matter that West will never find out.

“What was that all about?” I say to West.

“I’m gonna wait outside, man,” says West, jumping up from the chair and exchanging glances with Brendan as he breezes past us.

Brendan gives me a quick peck on the cheek and stands up. “I’ll be right back.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Hey!” I say to his back. “What’s going on?” The door closes. “Well, okay then, don’t answer me…” Feeling abandoned, I turn away from the door and stare out the window.

My left hand rests on the spot on my belly where the baby is repeatedly and determinedly trying to reenact Irish step routines from
River Dance
. I shift around in the bed, trying to get her to stop. “At least kick something else!” I say.

“Why? It’s so much more fun kicking
you
.”

“
Davin
?” I try rolling back to my other side, but even in my excitement I know it’s best not to rush it. “I can’t believe you’re here! Hold on,” I say, grunting from the effort of turning my hulking mass one hundred and eighty degrees. It’s pretty slow going. “I didn’t even hear you come in!”

“Handicap button on the wall outside.” After a few more seconds of watching me struggle to reposition myself he says, “The second hand on my watch has more torque than you do, Claire-Bo. You want me to get a front-loader or something?”

Once I make it all the way back around, I see why he was able to sneak up on me like a ninja. “Rev said you were on crutches,” I say, eyeing the wheelchair, the full nylon cast wrapped in black tape jutting forward from a stainless steel leg rest. “What’s up with the chair?”

He tilts his head to one side and jabs his thumb over his shoulder at the rubber caps of a set of crutches. “Can’t go more than a hundred feet on them or they rub your armpits raw.” He maneuvers the wheels until he’s pulled the chair up flush with the bed.

We reach for each other’s hands at the same time. He gives mine a gentle squeeze.

“You look good,” I say. “Cast come off soon?”

He looks down the length of it. “Another two weeks and then they switch it out for a boot.”

“I’m so glad to see you. Really glad.”

He clears his throat and looks around at the room at the built-in flat screen TV, the inlaid “wood” on the back wall, the contemporary, kidney-shaped sofa with a print on it that looks snarled barbed wire, and the Martha Stewart color palette at work on everything from the curtains to the IV pole. He nods in approval. “Pretty posh digs, Claire-Bo. Earl says you have a chef and a concierge too. You having a baby or throwing a cocktail party?”

I roll my eyes in embarrassment. “Blame Brendan and Andy Gordon.” I stretch out and rap my knuckles on the gold spirals etched on the white cylinder that is my nightstand. “See this? Genuine Kenneth Cobonpue.”

He looks at me, uncomprehending. “Who?”

“Exactly what I said. It probably cost a million dollars, and the best part is that it’s still made of plastic. It’s just high-end plastic.” I sweep my hand around the room. “Everything in here is plastic.”

He rolls closer to the nightstand. “Really?”

“Brendan told me everything in the hospital has to be made of stuff that’s easy to sterilize. Wood is a big germ incubator.” I look over my head at the frame on the wall. “I tried to tell them the baby will probably be willing to be born even if there isn’t a numbered, limited edition Genevieve Voss print above the bed.”

“Well, at least it’s nice. You deserve nice.”

I sigh. “I wish I was home. I hate it here.” I glance at the door. “Speaking of here,” I say, lowering my voice as if someone might be eavesdropping, “I don’t know how long you were planning on staying, but Brendan and West will be coming back–” I stop. “Wait a minute…how did you get in here?”

He looks down at his wheelchair like he doesn’t understand the question. “Did you donate half your brain cells to the fetus, gidget?”

There are about six checkpoints between the outside air and the high-security suite where I’m staying, all designed to prevent photographers from rappelling from the roof and snapping pictures of the newborns of the stars. I give him a knowing look. “C’mon, Davin. You didn’t just wheel your way in here.”

“Oh,
that
. Brendan got me through, how else?”

“Brendan?”

“Yeah, you know…your husband? He said you wanted to see me, so I rolled on down.”

“Wait, Brendan
called
you?”

“No, he sent a message by pack mule two months ago. I just got it today.”

Now this
is
a puzzle. I haven’t really talked much about Davin since the trial except to Rev when I see him, which is rarely. I knew for sure that West didn’t want to hear his name mentioned. Brendan tried bringing up his name a few times, but I’d shut him down immediately; honestly, for three weeks after I saw Davin in the hospital,
I
didn’t want to hear his name either.

I shake my head several times, trying to make sense of it. “Well, I’m glad you’re here.”

“What’s the latest and greatest, gidget?”

I groan. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“You can just update me on the last twenty-four hours. I already know everything else.”

“You do?”

“Your little bro’s been giving me regular updates.”

I raise one eyebrow. “West? You guys talking?”

He shrugs. “Since your wedding.”

I sink back onto my pillow, stunned. “How come he never told me?”

“I think he figured you didn’t care if I was dead or alive,” he says.

“Yeah, that’s why I almost got myself killed hauling your sorry ass out of a bomb crater.” I shake my head. “Wow. I guess that kid’s more forgiving than I thought.” I glance at him. “I still feel terrible about how, you know, you wouldn’t tell him the whole truth.”

Davin snorts. “Why? He ended up with Jonathan Varner. I’m pretty sure he feels like he left the party with the door prize, Claire-Bo. There was no reason to ruin your relationship with him too.”

I give him a sharp look. “You know that no one knows about that, right–West and Jonathan?”

He holds up his hands. “I know, I know. That little bit of info’s more classified than the U.S. nuclear codes.”

“It’s just because–”

“Poor, gay Reb won’t get any more movie gigs if girls aren’t still using his face as wallpaper on their MySpace pages. I get it.”

I crinkle my brown. “‘Reb?’”

“Johnny Reb,” he says. “Did you really think the boy was going to be able to go much longer in our crew without a nickname?”

I pat my hand around the edge of the bed until I find the handset that adjusts the bed. “What about you?” I say, as the back rises up. “You seeing anyone?”

He snorts. “Yeah, I’m meeting all sorts of people in physical therapy. Nothing top-shelf, but it’s an open bar after five o’clock, and the bartender will hook you up if you treat him right.” His expression grows serious. “The only up-side is that most of the people in PT are even more jacked up than me, so it’s turned out to be a real morale booster.”

“Well, when you’re back doing dawn patrol your luck’ll change. West says that every gay dude on the beach is eagerly awaiting your return. They’ll probably throw you a big, gay party and everything.”

“Hope they make it a bi-party. No need to leave out the girls now, I guess.”

“That’s right!” I say, sitting up a little straighter. “See? Your odds are twice as good now. Everyone should be so lucky.” I sink back on to the pillow. “You still at Earl’s?”

He nods. “For another few weeks, then I’m back in my own place and back to work.”

“Good. I’m glad you have people to help you since I’m obviously of no use.” I point to a glass of water sitting on one of those rolling trays that slide over your bed. “Can you hand me that? My mouth is–”

“Whoa, you okay?”

I lock eyes with Davin, trying to answer him, but I feel like my mouth has been packed full of sawdust. He snatches the controller out of my hand and jabs a button. I hear the bed groan as the back inches backwards.

“See you on the flip side, gidget,” he says as everything fades to black.

Chapter Forty-One

When I come to, I hear Brendan’s voice, muted at first, gradually growing louder as more of my addled brain comes back online.