“Dr. Baxter, are you okay?” She gave him a slight nudge, trying to pull him back from wherever he was. “Dr. Baxter.” The movement jarred his thoughts loose.
“Yes, I am sorry. That is very . . . umm . . . interesting. Not a very common tattoo.” His voice trailed off as he spoke, and Brianna excused his error. He was obviously distracted.
“Right, did you find anything?”
With her question, Dr. Baxter walked to the counter and grabbed the paperwork from the urine test he had performed.
“You are awfully quiet, Dr. Baxter.” Brianna sat uneasily on the examination table, swinging her legs back and forth, watching Dr. Baxter review her chart.
“Excuse me?” He briefly made eye contact with her before returning his full attention to the tablet in his hand. Hospitals and doctor’s offices alike were converting their systems to the web service that would house all current and future patient medical records. It was part of a green initiative to promote both the patient’s health and the environment. Brianna did not have extensive medical history and could not imagine what had rattled Dr. Baxter.
“This visit turned a corner, and I would like to go back. This street is awkward.”
Placing the tablet in his lap, Dr. Baxter cracked a smile and met her gaze. She had only seen Dr. Baxter once since that night at Javan’s, but they had spoken over the phone on several occasions since then. Dr. Baxter, like Armand, made himself available to her if she needed to unload, but she didn’t feel comfortable disclosing too much to him. Despite all the good he had done for her, he was still a stranger.
“I apologize, Brianna. This is not like myself, I admit.” Clearing his throat, Dr. Baxter stood and walked to the sink behind him. After carefully placing the tablet on the counter, he turned back around to speak with Brianna. Leaning casually against the counter’s edge, arms folded and legs crossed, he sucked his bottom lip pensively.
Brianna’s heart sped up a bit. A few weeks of nausea had prompted this visit, but she hadn’t expected anything serious. What could it be? She had no other symptoms. Squinting her eyes, Brianna looked quizzically at Dr. Baxter.
“What’s wrong? I figured I just had a little stomach bug or something. It’s just nausea, right?”
Shifting positions, Dr. Baxter lightly tapped his hands on the counter. “Brianna how long have you been feeling this nausea?”
“I am not sure, really. That incident changed everything for me. Nothing felt like it did before. Nothing functioned quite the same. I guess a month maybe.”
Dr. Baxter took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and took a seat on the stool. Offering Brianna a reassuring look, he rolled to the examination table where she sat.
Brianna fought the urge to flee the space before he could fill it with whatever he had to say. Nothing about this felt right. She did not know if she could handle any more bad news. What kind of fatal illness starts with nausea? That’s just what she needed—a disease that would kill her.
Dr. Baxter grabbed a hold of her shaking hands. “Brianna, this news may or may not be favorable.”
Now she was really confused. What news could be good or bad?
“I am here, and I will be here in any capacity you see fit. You are not alone here.”
She appreciated the kind words, but she wished he would just come out with it.
“Nausea, exhaustion, fluctuating appetite, and hormonal. . .”
Brianna could see the writing on the wall but hoped he was not going to say what she feared he would.
“You’re pregnant, Brianna.”
Brianna began shaking her head in laughter. “No, this is not happening. I cannot believe this. Wow. I just . . .”
Dr. Baxter waited patiently for Brianna to process the news. “I know this is a lot and may come as a shock. We can take a break before proceeding if you’d like.”
“I don’t need a break.”
“Are you sure?” Dr. Baxter asked, wiping tears from her eyes with the palm of his hand.
Brianna shook her head, pushing his arm away from her face. “I’m sure.” Brianna did not like the physical affection or the dreamy look she saw in his eyes. He was crossing every line in the book, and she was beyond uncomfortable. “Do it before I lose my nerve.”
Dr. Baxter launched himself from the stool, washed his hands, and stood on the side of Brianna where the ultrasound equipment was. She laid down again, trying to prepare her speech for Armand, thinking that Michelle would likely never speak to her again.
How could this happen?
Dr. Baxter rolled her shirt up, exposing the stuffed carry-on that housed most of her internal organs. Applying the warm gel in a circular motion, he wasted no time running the smooth, round surface of the fetal monitor across her stomach.
She stared wide-eyed at the monitor, still in disbelief that the moment was even occurring. Dr. Baxter looked on, made notes, took pictures, arbitrarily identifying parts of the fetus he could easily determine, but Brianna did not hear him. Her mind was running in a thousand directions. She could not believe this was what her life had come to. Sixty hard fought days ago, her life was everything she had designed it to be. The long nights at school and the fun she had sacrificed to ensure that she could set herself up for success were paying dividends. Though her father would gladly bankroll her lifestyle, self-sufficiency was important to her. People assumed that she worked for nothing, and so she had worked hard for everything. She refused to embrace the notion of being a pampered princess, even if it were true to some degree. She wanted to be valued for more than her finances; more for the things she accomplished.
She had a bourgeoning career, decent personal life, and, perhaps most importantly, she had herself. She knew who Brianna was, and she loved her. Who was she now? Somebody’s baby momma? Was she the girl that fucked her sister’s fiancé? Shamefully dependent on others to color her life.
Dr. Baxter finished, passed her a towel to wipe her abdomen clean, and then proceeded to put his equipment away in silence. “Brianna, you are roughly seven weeks, possibly more.”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you know who . . . fathered your child?
Brianna curled into a little ball as the math added up to her very worst fear. This was even worse than she thought initially. Tears streamed from her eyes as her reality swallowed her up whole. She didn’t want it to be true, but she knew it had to be.
“Javan’s. The baby is Javan’s.”
Chapter 27
Boom, boom, boom!
The sound traveled through the large wooden front door, echoing off the walls of her home. Sophie was just down the hall, sitting in the den, nursing her second vodka tonic when the noise interrupted the quiet quell of her buzz.
Boom, boom, boom!
She placed her drink on the stand and slowly rose to her feet.
Boom, boom, boom!
She took her time walking to the door. She was not expecting company, and anyone she cared to see had a key to let themselves in.
Boom, boom, boom!
“I am coming!” Pausing in the door frame to gather herself, Sophie made the right toward the door.
Boom, boom, boom!
“Why are you knocking on my door that way?” she bellowed, fiddling with the locks, trying to get it open.
Boom!
“Stop! I am here. I . . . am . . . here.”
Sophie stared at the Seymore Krelborn imitation standing in her doorway. “What can I do for you?”
“Are you Sophie Lucille Lewis?”
“Who’s asking?”
Suddenly “Seymore” shoved the manila envelope he held in his hands into Sophie’s chest, causing her to stumble backward into the house. Then the Little Shop of Horrors understudy told her, “You have been served. Evening.” With that, he turned and walked brusquely out of the drive. Though she thought it strange that he didn’t have a vehicle, it did explain his ability to remain innocuous before those obnoxious knocks.
Now, with the envelope fi
rmly in hand, Sophie closed the door and ambled back into the den. Taking her seat, she grudgingly opened the package. Much to her dismay, her lawyer had finally gotten something correct. As she read the notice, dread inched its way through her veins, clotting them, filling her with an uneasiness she hadn’t felt in a long time.
This was not possible. No one knew the situation, but, more importantly, no one, at least, that she was aware of, had the authority to do something like this. The funeral was over, and she waited long enough, a respectable amount of time to move on to the next phase: cremation. She had not shared her plans with anyone. Clearly, someone knew, and that someone had hired a lawyer, involving the courts. This stupid little piece of paper could undo everything.
Her life’s reflection was not at all what she had envisioned. She thought she had been careful, planned meticulously. It was flawless. But her plan was now in shambles, and this notice was proof. Michelle was still not speaking with her and, oddly, neither was Brianna. She was even powerless to ease the tension between herself and the one person who wanted to be there for her—Peter. Her nerves were raw with everything going on, and this amplified it all. Sophie did not make these types of mistakes. She rarely made an uncalculated decision to avoid ever feeling like this. Steven Sheffeld, her less-than-inept lawyer, had contacted her earlier to prepare her for this moment. He used some legal jargon to comfort her; she chose to self-medicate with a couple of vodka tonics. Neither approach helped much, but the latter felt better.
Sophie grabbed the cordless, walked to the window, and after several failed tries, managed to dial her lawyer.
“Steeeevvveeennnnn . . .” Her words slurred far more than the drinks would encourage. The slur actually confused her. Her buzz didn’t feel that heavy.
“Sophie?”
“Steven, I received the paperwork. I don’t want it,” she stated very matter-of-factly.
“Don’t worry about this. I’m taking care of it.”
“Steven, I neeeeed this to go away. Time to move on. My girls are ready to move forward and this—”
“This is just a little stumbling block,” Steven interjected.
Snatching the phone from her ear, Sophie stared at it in disbelief, like Steven could see her. “A little stumbling block? This is the . . . Mauna Kea of stumbling blocks! Find some legal, important, legal precedent thingy that overrides this ugly paper!” Sophie screamed, shaking the paper emphatically in her hand. “Twenty-three years I sucked his dick . . . and it was nasty, sometimes. I didn’t always like it, Steven!”
“Sophie, please . . .”
“I didn’t, and I cooked every night, all of the nights, and in exchange, he gave me all of the diseases,” Sophie spewed, laughing at how truly pathetic her existence had been. “That bastard.”
“Sophie, please, stop.”
The setting sun filled the horizon with beautiful layers or orange, violet, and lemon. Sophie admired the view a bit before pulling the curtain closed until only a small slit remained open to the impending night. Thinking of the sun setting, the sky appeared inflamed, triggering Sophie to issue more orders to Steven.
“Tell them that! I want to burn him!”
“Sophie, you don’t mean that.”
A soft voice whispered for her to shut up, harping on the inevitably of her saying something she’d later regret, but she couldn’t stop. Her words leapt from her mouth like vomit.
“Why not? He can’t feel it, Steven! He’s dead! Dead, dead, dead.” Her voice trailed off as her thoughts landed in the base of her empty glass. Her emotional pendulum swung from sadness to hurt as her buzz subsided.
“I am working on taking care of this for you, Sophie,” Steven stated again.
“Steven, now we both know you’re working on something, but that’s not it.”
“I understand your frustration, Sophie, but there is no—”
“Oh, shut up!” Sophie shouted. Steven did not respond. “Just stop talking. Give your lips a rest. Save your factory-made empathy.” Sophie blew air in complete frustration. Having this conversation sober was making her ill. She didn’t want to utter another word to him.
“I am your lawyer. I am on your side. Perhaps I can’t understand exactly what you’re feeling, but I need time to work.”
“Well, Steven, no one can accuse you of being an overachiever, that’s for sure.”
“There is no need to be ugly, Sophie. I am doing everything I can.”
“It is not enough. I am on the brink of losing my family! Everybody is gone! I will never get them back if you don’t fix this!”
Steven was too green for this job. Sophie should have known better, but her friend at the coroner’s office had suggested him. It was a lesson for her: never take advice of people who spend the majority of their time with the deceased.
“If you had told me about the provision, I could have prepared a case for it ahead of time.”
Sophie headed toward the mini bar. She needed another drink to finish this conversation. “It isn’t a provision.” Fucking dumbass. “Lewis, apparently, gave this pain-in-my-ass lawyer power of attorney over his remains. Information that I was not privy to. That is strange in and of itself. I never gave him a reason not to . . . trust me.”
Steven picked up on the hesitation in her voice and jumped at the opening. “What crossed your mind?”
Sophie thought about the pictures she had received from an anonymous friend. She recalled how Lewis had refused to believe her when she told him that she didn’t know where they came from. She rolled her eyes, realizing that that was probably why he had made the change.
“Sophie? Is there something you need to tell me?”
“Nope.” Opening the cabinet, she selected a bottle of Brandy. “Nothing at all.”
“I see.”
“Did you see this coming?”
“No, I did not. But that is what I pay you to do, Steven! To foresee this type of situation. I trusted you, Steven. I trusted that everything was in order.”
“I know, and I will fix it.”
“Stevie Wonder could have seen this!” Slamming the bottle on the bar, she scooped a few cubes of ice from the ice tray and threw them into her glass. Snatching the top off the bottle, she filled the glass. “What is your plan, little Stevie?” Sophie brought the glass to her lips, inhaling the sweet liquor, before emptying the glass down her throat. “What do you plan to do?”
“It has only been a few hours, Sophie. I am working on a way to get around this, but the power of attorney seems pretty iron-clad.”
Sophie quickly poured herself another drink. Then another. This could not be happening. How could a fictitious burial be easier to pull off than a cremation? She had no problems arranging the funeral and did not expect any for this last leg of her run. She was not even sure how the lawyer had found out. The coroner was the only person who had knowledge of her intention, and she doubted he would say anything. It was his brainchild.
“Find something.”
“Why not just leave him buried?”
“I value my life, Steven. I value my life.” Slamming the phone down, Sophie guzzled the fourth glass of bourbon, sixth drink of the evening. Feeling the burn of the bourbon as it escaped her mouth, coating her trachea and disappearing into the part of herself that needed to breathe, Sophie traipsed back over to the window. Veering out the slit into the absence of day, Sophie took a mental picture of the peace she saw there, secretly wishing she could have some it for herself.
“Richard, I guess you were right. I can’t have it all.” Sophie swung around, feeling the effects of the alcohol, nearly falling to the ground. She shook her head, denying the tears that wanted to join her pity party. She was in no crying mood.
Deciding to drag herself to bed, Sophie parted the curtain for one last look. Fear seized her nervous system, paralyzing her for a second, trapped by an impossible reality as she found herself staring into the eyes of Leonard Lewis.
Logic told her that it could not be real;
her own memory of that fateful day prickled her mind, substantiating that truth. But she had to deal with what was in front of her, literally. A dead Leonard Lewis leered at her from the outside. His eyes were like embers in a fireplace, burning a hole into her soul, stripping her of all her sensibility, leaving her naked and afraid.
She must have indulged a little too much in the alcohol. It was the only reasonable explanation. She had seen him before, but not like this, not this close or for this long.
This must be a hallucination. Confusion swept over her as the bourbon sent her further into the clouds, while fear forced her back down. The internal war raged on while those eyes held hers captive. She was projecting, she convinced herself, and that was why she couldn’t move. Her mind kept her there.
As soon as the thought occurred, she felt free to move again, and satisfied with her pathology, no longer felt the urge to run. She chided herself for drinking so much and smiled faintly at the reflection, knowing that he was merely a figment of her overly concerned conscience. Nothing changed, and so she smiled again. Then he returned her smile—an awkward, crooked, knowing smile.
Sophie screamed so loudly that she unwittingly initiated her own movement. With either foot sprinting in two different directions, Sophie plummeted to the ground. She began crawling as fast as she could toward the hallway, mentally moving at the speed of light. In reality, Sophie could still feel the weight of his stare. Too afraid to look back, still holding the drink in her hand, she scooted on her belly toward the door.
The door was a lot farther away than she remembered. She gathered her courage and glanced back. Lewis waved with the tips of his fingers.
Oh, hell no! She tried to stand but kept falling all over herself, stumbling, crawling, skipping, and rolling toward a doorway she couldn’t seem to reach.
* * *
“Luce?”
Hurling her glass in the direction of the voice, Sophie covered her head with her hands, lying with her face buried in the carpet.
Crash!
The glass shattered into pieces as it hit the wall, missing Peter by inches.
Peter ducked, crouching low in the doorway, and spoke in a loud whisper. “Luce? What is going on?”
Virtuous Deception 2 Page 17
