“Okay, honey, that’s enough!” Lizbeth calls out to Em while gathering the children off the floor as if snatching them from a mad woman.
“Here.” I take Beau Geste from her. “Hey—what’s up, little guy?” I whisper as we watch Em with awe and trepidation.
Drake and Bree walk in, and they both let out a riotous caw.
“What the fuck?” Drake shouts, partial amusement in his tone. “Dude, she is batshit.”
Em spears them with a look. “I need lipstick, stat!”
“I’m on it!” Brielle cries, digging through her purse while Skyla bolts to the bathroom down the hall. Both offer up a bright red tube at the very same time, and Emily swiftly snatches them away, continuing her hostile makeover of the Landon living room. The wall darkens with an entire body of movement. Squiggles, lines, shapes of people, of things emerge. An entire forest of ideas takes over the wall from floor to ceiling.
Holy shit. I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed an event quite like this. The walls fill with color, black intermarried with blood red. Emily’s body zips back and forth so fast, I swear, she’s becoming a blur, the diagram itself still too crude to decipher.
“So—um—what color do you think we should paint it?” Lizbeth asks while keeping her gaze morbidly dialed into Em’s psychotic drawing.
“I’m thinking padded walls will work best.” Tad frees himself from Ethan’s grip and storms out of the room. “Call me when the nightmare is over!”
The slam of the front door signifies his departure, and Skyla shudders as if she’s the next to bolt out the door.
“There.” Em staggers back, her face dripping with sweat, her hair perfectly round like a pompom. “It’s yours, Messenger.” She takes Ember from Lizbeth without an apology.
“I think you do good work.” Skyla’s mother seems only vaguely irritated. “Say—do you think you can hit a few walls in my bedroom? Tad hasn’t painted since we bought the house, and it’s the most God awful shade of green.”
“Sure. How about a PB and J sammy, and I’ll get it done for you this afternoon?”
“One PB and J sammy coming up!” Lizbeth sings her way to the kitchen. “And I’ll cut the crusts off, too!”
“What the hell is this?” Skyla and I take a step back, and then it appears at once like some bad optical illusion painting—a foreground background mindfuck that you stare at until it comes into focus, and we both react to it at the same time.
“Oh my God.” Skyla buries her head in my chest.
Staining the wall before us is a hideous beast, a snake of some sort with wings that sits under a deep well of dark clouds with its talons perched over the globe of the Earth.
“It’s a three-headed serpent,” I whisper. And behind it are enormous wings with detailed images in each and every feather where a million other pictures emerge.
“It’s a dragon with three heads,” Brielle says it plain. “The first head is breathing fire.” She traces just shy of it with her finger. “The second head is asleep.” She pretends to pat it. “Aw, sleep tight, you little bugger! And the third one looks as if it’s screaming bloody murder.”
“It looks like it’s in agony.” Skyla pulls out her phone and begins a paparazzi-worthy snapping session. “Em, what is this?”
“I couldn’t care less,” Drake announces, plucking Ethan to the side. “Dude, I’ve got an opening in the company. A real shitload of money to be made, you in?”
My stomach pinches. I wouldn’t have minded if Drake asked me to join him in making “a shitload of money.” Right about now, both Skyla and I could use a serious infusion to our bank account. I believe our account total is running in the negatives.
“Is this my future?” Skyla asks breathlessly while trying to make sense of the disaster-piece.
“Yup,” Em says matter-of-factly. “I’m not an interpreter or anything, but I think it’s pretty obvious.”
Skyla’s eyes enlarge with rage. Right now it looks as if the only thing stopping her from clocking Em is that baby she’s holding.
“What’s obvious, Em? I’m a fucking blonde. Spill!”
Skyla did mention she’s been moody—a testament to the fact her hormones are all over the place.
“Okay, geez, I might be wrong, but I kept getting a family vibe. Like maybe these are the kids you’ll have one day with Gage.” She shrugs as if it were no big deal, as if they were looking at the menu at the bowling alley trying to decide between hot dogs or pizza.
“My kids?” Skyla takes a wobbly step forward. “Three kids.” Her chest huffs with a dull laugh, and I wrap my arms around her. “We’re going to have three kids, Gage,” she whispers, burying a quick kiss of relief on my neck. “That means I’m going to have you with me for a very long time.”
“Yes, you will.” I want to add I promise, but I know better.
My eyes drift back to that demonic image, our frightening family portrait that has brought my sweet wife to tears. Our three-headed child who looks as if it belongs right up there with Cerberus, the fire-breathing dragon, the sleeping serpent, the anguished one. They sit on the world as if it is their own dominion, and knowing my father, it most certainly is.
“Look at the wings!” Bree marvels.
The charcoal veining bleeds out, spanning the girth of those enormous, powerful wings turning them a—
“Celestra blue.” Skyla swallows hard. “They’re butterfly wings.”
“A serpentine butterfly.” My gut sinks. Skyla and I have created a new breed of species.
Great. Just great.
“They’re going to be beautiful.” She buries her head in my chest, and tears soak my T-shirt.
“Yes.” I kiss the top of her head. “They will be.”
* * *
“Three kids,” Skyla marvels as we drive out to the West Side Medical Building adjacent to Paragon’s only hospital. It’s almost go time at the doctor’s office, and my heart is racing at the prospect of it. This appointment makes it real, official. Truth is, I’m dying to get inside. “This is the type of knowledge we can use to our advantage.” Her eyes grow big and wild. I’ve seen this look before—she’s determined. “We’ll space them out. We won’t have the last one for a good long while. That way—” She sinks in her seat, pulling her flannel over her lips. Her eyes close as she gives a soft moan.
“Is it bad?” I park under the shade of an oak that’s lifting concrete with its roots and roll down the windows. I know what Skyla was going to say before her nausea cut in. That way we can keep me around for years to come by putting off our final child. It’s very sweet that she’s fixated on holding off my expiration date. I’ve always known that my time would be cut short on this planet. I guess you could say I’ve come to terms with the idea a while ago, but now that Skyla is my wife, that the baby is on the way, I want to do anything I can to keep my exit from sneaking up on me. I want to stay. It’s simple math. I want to be where Skyla and the baby are.
Skyla groans twice as hard, writhing from side to side as I unhitch her seatbelt.
“Here.” I hand her a water bottle, and she pushes it away.
“I can’t do this, Gage. I don’t know how I’m going to walk into that building. Do you think it’s safe to teleport us?”
“Sorry.” I give a brief glance around. “Too many witnesses.”
She lets out another hard groan.
“Let me carry you.” I open the door, and an anguished cry comes from her.
“No—I’ll pull it together. Just give me a minute.”
It takes twenty minutes to get to the elevator—that’s with us stopping under every tree just praying the nausea lets up a bit.
“I can’t believe anyone would voluntarily do this to themselves on a repeated basis,” she whimpers into my shoulder as we finally make our way into the office.
“I think once the baby comes, they forget all about the pain. At least that’s what I hear.”
“It sounds like a bunch of BS.” We share a simple laugh before filling o
ut a mountain of paperwork. Skyla leans against me in the waiting room, eyeing the distended bellies of each of the dozens of women around us. Most are young with their tight-fitted shirts and yoga pants, their contouring dresses proudly displaying their baby bumps. Others are middle-aged, the Lizbeth sect, happy to have a baby in their body at their mature stage in life. I know Lizbeth had to go to medical extremes to have her latest child, Misty. And, apparently when those didn’t work, Skyla is certain she went to alarming extremes by calling on my father to save the day. It’s one of the topics of conversation I plan on bringing up to him the next time we meet. That and the party, along with about six million questions all pertaining to the fact I was dead and now I’m alive. Yes, you can say that the questions are piling up for my demonic father. Never was I looking forward to speaking with him more.
“Skyla Oliver?” the nurse calls out, and we follow her to a back room where Skyla is asked to pee in a cup, then disrobe and put on a paper gown. I sit patiently by her side as we wait for the doctor to come in.
She pokes her feet into the stirrups and lies back, spread eagle, biting her lip at me. It looks degrading, uncomfortable, and I can’t believe in this day and age that is the position all women assume when waiting for an exam.
“I take it you’re feeling better.”
“Only enough to flirt with you.” She wrinkles her nose. “I’m really nervous about this. Rumor has it this doctor is drop-dead gorgeous—and by rumor, I mean Bree.” Skyla looks as if she’s about to be sick, literally this time.
“What?” I pull a couple of paper towels out of the dispenser and hand them to her in the event this isn’t a drill.
“You heard me.” She sits up on her elbows as the gown splits open in the front, and I can see her beautiful tits peeking out at me.
“Well, I’ll try not to flirt with her.” I give a quick wink.
“Excuse me?” She gives a light smack to my arm. Her mouth fills with laughter, and something in me loosens. I needed to see her smile, hear her beautiful laugh. This is all too serious. She’s been way too sick. I need us to feel in control again, even if it’s over something as ridiculous as a laugh.
“She is a he, Gage. And he is rumored to be divine.” She shrugs a little and mouths the word sorry.
A dude? “Oh shit.”
“Yes, oh shit. And he’s going to stick his head and his hand in my—”
The door swings open, and, swear to God, I feel like I might pass out and simultaneously punch the guy who’s about to walk into the room. My blood pressure spikes, and I’m blind with rage. For a split second, I think Skyla might be messing with me, trying to get me worked up, and meanwhile in will walk a beautiful woman or a sickly, hairy man sporting a bad spray tan.
But he’s not a gorgeous woman or a sickly orange man.
“Skyla Oliver?” Shit. “Hello!” In walks an over-cheery, white teeth gleaming, fake bake, roid rage muscles bulging from his dress shirt, stethoscope swinging questionable MD. He can’t be serious. “Nice to meet you both. I’m Dr. Baxter!”
He extends his hand to me first, his teeth moving in one solid marble clump. Plastic is the best way to describe him—from his sunburnt smile to his over-dyed hair. I can see the gray roots coming in at the temples. He’s not fooling anyone.
Where the hell did they dig up this guy? The Hollywood extras discard pile?
“Skyla, how are you feeling?” He sits down, eye level with her parted knees, and now I’m sorry she ever put her legs in those stirrups.
“Not so good. I’ve been really sick.”
“I’ll have Janice give you a list of natural remedies. I like to see if we can settle things the homeopathic way before delving into anything too serious. The baby’s best interest always comes first.”
A nurse walks in and quietly hands him a tray. He sits back and gloves up like he’s about to perform surgery. His chair glides between Skyla’s feet, and he scoots in so close her gown sheaths half of his face.
Shit. I think I’d rather be anywhere but here right about now—not entirely true for obvious reasons, but a serious thought nonetheless.
Skyla reaches over and takes my hand, and I stand up next to her.
There’s a gleam in his eyes as he hand selects from a tray of torturous looking instruments that look like they belong to Ezrina.
“This might feel uncomfortable.” He chooses a metal speculum from the tray and pulls it down toward her body, past the curtain her paper gown is inadvertently creating. “I’m going to enter you now.” Just fuck. “This might feel cold.” My stomach clenches. Every muscle in my body demands I rip his head off. Only I can’t see his head because he buried it between my wife’s fucking legs. “I’m opening you now.”
I’m going to open his skull in about five seconds!
“Ouch.” Skyla flinches and gives me a tight squeeze.
“Careful down there.” I try to sound light, but it comes out like a threat.
He doesn’t take his eyes off the area he’s spent his entire medical education specializing in. It makes me sick that my wife’s vagina is on full display for this pervert.
“I’m pulling out now.” He holds up the metal speculum for me to view, a shallow grin blooming on his sick-as-fuck face. Okay, so I’m getting a little heated, but I don’t appreciate another dude touching my wife, and the fact I’m witness to it isn’t helping. I don’t care how many scholastic degrees this guy has after his name. I don’t want his filthy hands on my wife—or in her. “Okay, Skyla.” He gives her thigh a quick rub while looking deep into her eyes, and my body starts to shake. “Now I’m going to put my hand inside you.” He spreads his fingers wide in the air for show.
Shitfuckshitfuck.
Sure enough, his entire damn arm disappears under her gown, leaving Skyla wincing and squirming. I glance to the nurse who looks away uncomfortably, but Dr. Baxter’s lids hood over. His eyes oscillate as if he were at the height of pleasure, and I want to decapitate the son of a bitch.
Shit. I’m about to throw this dude out the fucking window. Shove my arm down his ass. He is not getting away with this crap. I’m calling the authorities and turning his ass in. He’s a fucking pervert. This is just a cover to feel up hot girls.
“Now”—he rises from beneath her gown, his eyes glossy as if he were suddenly stoned—“I’m going to insert my finger into your rectum.”
“Oh my God,” I huff under my breath. My entire body goes rigid.
His torso disappears under her gown. Where the fuck is his body?
“There we go.” His voice sounds far away and hollow like he’s speaking from the inside of a vagina bowl.
Is this guy serious? Is this the sodomy that goes on in places like this, or is this dude getting off by way of hand fucking my wife?
“Relax, Gage,” Skyla whispers, her face still slightly strained. “I can hear you,” she practically mouths the words.
“Right.” Crap.
The not-so good doctor emerges, red-faced, gasping for air as if he were momentarily submerged.
“Beautiful,” he purrs. “Everything is perfect.”
Steam—I’ve got fucking steam coming from my ears.
“Now for the fun part!” He flicks off his gloves and replaces them with a clean set. “Janice, dim the lights. It’s time to set the mood.” He waggles his brows, and I’m about to lose my ever-loving shit. If that crude molestation is his cold-call, I’d hate to see his warm-up.
He hums a little ditty.
Great. Now he gets romantic.
The room darkens to pitch-black, and he turns a computer monitor toward us.
“We’re going to see and listen to the baby.”
“Oh my God!” Skyla shrieks, and for a second, I’m about to play defense because I’m half-afraid he’s penetrating my wife again. “I can’t believe this! Am I going to get one of those cute black and white pictures to take home, too? My mom has dozens of them plastered all over the fridge.”
“Anything yo
ur pretty little heart desires.” His teeth glow in the dark as he says it. But all I heard was Anything your pretty little pussy desires!
Knew it. He’s fucking flirting with her.
Skyla gives my hand a yank that suggests I behave.
He gives a pleasurable growl. I’m betting he cut the lights so he could toss off to the memory of dipping into my wife. And I can’t see shit to quantify this.
“What’s going on down there?” Again trying to sound light, again failing miserably.
“I need to make sure I see everything as clear as possible,” he assures.
Shit. I bet he’s recording all of this on his phone. Skyla’s privates will go viral by midnight.
“Gage,” Skyla sings my name, and, surprisingly, sounds just like her mother in the process. “Gage!” she hisses it out so fast, both the demented doctor and his silent sidekick bless her.
I apologize. You do not sound like your mother.
Dr. Dick gives a deep moan. If I see him shake off to completion, he’ll soon be Dr. Dickless.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to use the internal wand.” He feigns a look of disappointment.
Why do I get the feeling this guy is going to pull the “internal wand” from his boxers?
“I prefer a transvaginal view at this early stage of the game,” he continues. If he dons a pair of goggles and says he’s going in, I’ll pummel him. “Although, according to the chart, your last period was March eighth. You’ll soon be exiting your first trimester. We do encourage women to come in as soon as they think they might be expecting.” He turns to his nurse while adjusting his belt. “I’ll be needing a condom for the internal.”
Knew it. “Wait one fucking minute!” I bark.
The whites of every eye in the room glint in my direction as the pervert breaks out into a slow laugh.
“Oh my. You first-time fathers are a barrel full of monkeys, aren’t you?” He tears open the condom and rolls it onto a long, plastic—for lack of a better word, wand. “This is all different to you. I can’t blame you one bit in the least. Everything is so new the first time around.” He shakes the wand in my direction with a cajoling laugh. “Behave this way again, and I’ll make sure security finds you.”
The Serpentine Butterfly Page 19
