Miracle

by Deborah Smith

  No wonder the kicking was rough. They had a coed chorus line. The obstetrician continued talking, telling her that bleeding wasn’t uncommon with twins, that although there were many more complications and risks to consider, everything looked fine.

  “Risks?” She froze on the word. “What risks?”

  He described the list of potential problems, pausing occasionally to remind her that she could relax, that everything looked fine, except that she needed more rest. By the time he finished talking she was in emotional agony.

  “Ja, I’ll have to call the doctor about this,” Frau Diebler said darkly.

  Amy twisted toward her. “Don’t overreact. There’s nothing wrong.”

  “Twins! Bleeding! Frau Miracle, this time I cannot—”

  “I don’t want Dr. de Savin to worry about me. He’s not going to find out about these twins until I decide to tell him. You can shop all you want, and I’ll pay, as long as you keep my secrets. You talk, and you’ll be out of a job so fast your sauerkraut won’t have time to sour. I’ll make sure of it. Do we have an understanding?”

  “I’m flexible, yes. But … I’m not too flexible. I have my professional pride to think of.”

  “Which means?”

  “You have to stop working. No compromise on that.”

  “I agree. I’m not going to take foolish chances. But you won’t tell Dr. de Savin that I’m having twins. There’s no point. It will only upset him. Are we clear on that? He’s not going to find out that I’m having twins. I’ll tell him myself, when the time is right.”

  Frau Diebler sighed. “I like you, Frau Miracle, I really do. I don’t want to complicate your personal problems with Herr Doctor. All right, I won’t say anything to him about the twins. But you must cooperate with me in every way possible.”

  Amy grasped her hand and shook it vigorously. “It’s a deal.”

  “Would you like for me to go get your husband?” the obstetrician asked, staring from her to Frau Diebler in puzzlement. “I used to watch Mr. Thornton’s show all the time—”

  “He’s not my husband. I’m not married. Would you ask him to come in, please?”

  After the doctor left, she listened distractedly as Frau Diebler muttered about more vitamins and more rest. Keeping this news from Sebastien made her feel disloyal and deceptive. She argued with herself. He’s so afraid that this pregnancy will hurt you. Do you want to put him through more hell by telling him about the twins? All he can do is worry. On the screen, the two babies looked perfect. Amy found herself crying and smiling at them.

  “My God, two for the price of one!” Elliot said, when he was slumped in a chair by her stomach. “They’re incredible! This looks like a National Geographic special on satellite photography! Look, there’s Texas! I see the Alamo! What are you gonna name ’em? Let me name ’em!”

  “Calm down.” She patted his head.

  “You’ve got to call Le Doctor Kildare about this.”

  “No.” Wearily she conceded that she’d made up her mind. She prayed that Sebastien would understand her reasons, after the twins were born safe, healthy, and beautiful. She explained to Elliot.

  He loved being part of a secret, especially one that involved Sebastien. “You can trust me,” he assured her with a solemn nod.

  “I’m gonna quit working and find a quiet place to hole up for the next few months.”

  “Wait a second!” He crabbed her hands. “I know what we can do! We’ll get an apartment! I’ll play male nurse! I’ll take care of you!”

  “Not while I’m still breathing,” Frau Diebler interjected.

  “Elliot, sweetie, right now you have mustard on your neck from lunch. You can’t even take care of yourself.”

  His crestfallen response was no joke. All the defeat of the past year sank into him. He looked at her with troubled, pleading eyes. “I’ll sign up for an outpatient rehab program. If you and I stick together, maybe I can accomplish something. I swear I’ll try, baby. I’ll go to booze school every day, and then I’ll play nurse for you and the bambinos.”

  “Elliot, I can’t let you do that—”

  “Please. If you need me, instead of me needing you, it gives me inspiration to go straight. Crazy, huh?”

  “Crazy enough to make sense, I guess.” But she wasn’t going to take chances with Elliot and his erratic moods. She didn’t know when he might go off the deep end again, and what might happen if he did. She took his hand and squeezed it. “I can’t take you up on the offer. I need my privacy, Elliot.”

  “Ja,” Frau Diebler added, glaring at him.

  “But, baby—”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “What if I move into an apartment nearby? Like maybe we find two places in the same complex. Please. Please.”

  His desperation tore at her. She wanted to help him. Despite every demeaning, selfish thing he’d done to her over the years there had also been times when he was thoughtful and giving. He had always been loyal, in his insecure way, and she owed him for the help he’d given her career, even if he hadn’t always been magnanimous about it. “All right. Being neighbors might work. If you go into an outpatient program and stay sober.”

  “Let’s do it.” He looked happier than she’d seen him in months. “Who knows, baby, when I get respectable again you might decide to give me another chance.”

  Frau Diebler snorted in dismay. Amy said something lighthearted, trying to keep the peace, but felt a wave of claustrophobia. The next three months would be a crucible, and she had a panicky need to keep her escape routes open.

  “How are you feeling?” Even when hampered by poor phone connections, Sebastien’s voice was compelling. Loneliness and doubt washed over her. She glanced around her hotel room, feeling isolated. “I miss you,” she answered.

  “I miss you, too. That’s an understatement. Believe me.”

  “But I’m glad that you can’t get away to visit me. I look like I swallowed a beach ball.”

  “Frau Diebler says you’re healthy. That’s all that matters. Is it true?”

  “Yeah, sure. No problems out of the ordinary.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked quickly.

  She laughed. “My feet hurt, my ankles swell, and I have giant hooters that are gonna smother me if they get any bigger.”

  “Ah. Send me a picture of those.” Relief and amusement were evident in his voice. “But otherwise, you feel good?”

  “Yes.” It saddened her that he never asked about the baby, as if by ignoring it, it didn’t exist. But now that there were two babies—her secret—she was almost grateful for his attitude.

  She wound the phone cord around her fingers so tightly that they began to go numb. “I feel good, but I’m a bloated cow, and audiences are beginning to moo at me when I’m onstage, and I stay tired all the time, so … so I’m gonna stop working and sit out the next three months in an apartment. With Frau Diebler, of course. We’re looking at some places in the suburbs. With nice San Fernando Valley views of highways and other overpriced apartment buildings.”

  “If you’re not working anymore, you should come here.”

  “I can’t, not unless I take a boat. My obstetrician just grounded me. No flying. Standard rule, he said.”

  “I’ll charter you a special flight. With a private doctor. You’ll be fine.”

  “No, I can’t do that. It’d probably be safe, but … I think it’s better for me to be here.”

  “Better for you not to be around me, you mean.” He said it without rebuke, sounding tired. “I wouldn’t try to upset you, love. I’d keep my opinions to myself.”

  “Doc, you and I are two strings on the same violin. Even if you vibrate without making a sound, I feel it. I always have.”

  After a moment of silent thought, he said grimly, “For once, I wish you and I weren’t so close. It would make this easier.”

  She forced a chuckle. “You know that I’m not very good at being helpless around you. I’d just waddle around in a dither
, trying to take care of you, and you’d worry about me, and we’d drive each other crazy.”

  “That’s not a good reason.”

  “Please, Doc, try to understand. I’ll let you know the second I decide on an apartment. This’ll only be until February, you know. I’m due then.”

  “I’ll be there during your last two weeks. I don’t care what I have to arrange here in order to get away.”

  “I’m glad. I want you to be with me. Would you like to go into the delivery room and coach me? I know some men don’t get a kick out of—”

  “Dear Miracle. I’ll not only be in the delivery room, I’ll be supervising every hand that touches you. You might as well warn your obstetrician about me now. I want to be with you at every moment.”

  He’s going to be all right, she thought happily. He’s excited about this. I can hear it in his voice. “I’ll tell him,” she promised.

  “I might not be able to change one mistake, but I’ll certainly prevent any others.”

  Her pleasure faded. Softly, trying to hold back her anger and disappointment, she told him good night and hung up the phone.

  She had never seen Elliot sober at Christmas before. He was waiting at her door at nine A.M. with a bottle of apple cider, a smoked ham, and a present. Behind him warm sunshine filled the breezeway along the top floor of the two-story apartment complex, heating the fake adobe and pseudo-hacienda trim. He wore plastic reindeer antlers.

  “Rudolph?” she asked.

  “Bruce, the gay reindeer. Nobody mentions him much.”

  She kissed his cheek. “Come in, Bruce.”

  “Where’s Frau Hitler?”

  “She took an early bus to Beverly Hills. To windowshop.”

  “Means she probably has more blackmail in mind.”

  “As long as she keeps quiet, I don’t care.”

  He helped her lower herself onto a couch near the Christmas tree, then sat down beside her. Elliot grimaced. “What would Sebastien do if he knew that I’d been living downstairs and hanging around for the past six weeks?”

  She rubbed her forehead wearily. “He wouldn’t like it.”

  “Well, a little deception keeps the french fries hot.” Elliot looked smug, then grew disgruntled as he studied her face. “Don’t get mad.”

  “I’m trying to be your friend and help you get straightened out. I’m trying to have two healthy babies. I’m trying not to go crazy wondering if Sebastien really wants children, but can’t admit it, even to himself. I am not going to complicate all this by telling him that you’re back in the picture. But don’t get the idea that I like deceiving him. I hate it.”

  “Okay, okay, calm down.” He patted her stomach. “Just remember, I want these bambinos, even if he doesn’t.”

  “Elliot, don’t—”

  “Merry Christmas, comic mama.” He lunged forward and kissed her gently on the mouth. She caught his antlers and drew back, determined to be firm but diplomatic. “Merry Christmas, Bruce. Remember, you’re gay.”

  “Amy, I love—”

  “Don’t say it. Please, don’t say it.”

  He lounged backward on the couch, removed the reindeer antlers, and handed her the gift box beside him. “Open your present.”

  It was a sterling-silver hand mirror with her monogram engraved on the back. The expense of it troubled her, but she thanked him. “Here, open yours.” He tore into a box filled with a half-dozen new Nintendo games. “Oh, God, this is great! Thank you, baby!” His enthusiasm was sincere. Immediately he went downstairs and got his Nintendo controls, which he then attached to her television set and, like a distracted kid, forgot all about her as he played the new games. She was glad.

  Later he wandered around her apartment with a puzzled expression on his face, as if he’d never been sober enough to notice Christmas decorations and rented furniture in combination before. She had to admit, the place looked like a Howard Johnson’s that had been decorated by a rogue elf.

  Amy stayed in the rambling, Spanish-style kitchen and kept busy by making a huge Christmas lunch—turkey, cornbread dressing, vegetables, and pumpkin pie. She worked slowly, her thoughts on Sebastien, missing him, loneliness causing a dry burn in her throat.

  She envied him the enormous workload that kept his mind off of their separation. To maintain her sanity she spent the days reading novels, writing new comedy routines, and sometimes venturing into the living room to watch one of the half-dozen movies Elliot brought by every morning. He made himself indispensable by running errands, driving her to the doctor, and hosting dinners for their old friends, who viewed his rehabilitation with polite disbelief.

  Mostly she kept Elliot on track, making certain that he went to his therapy sessions each afternoon, listening to him when he was depressed, which was often, and cooking huge meals for him. Overeating was an addiction he could afford, and his doctors encouraged it, for now.

  Frau Diebler dogged her steps with vitamins and protein drinks, recorded her blood pressure, temperature, and weight every morning, and reported every innocent detail to Sebastien. Everything was fine. At seven months Amy felt gargantuan but healthy, and there hadn’t been any other medical problems.

  The doorbell rang. Amy watched Elliot spring up and lope over to the door, then peer through the security peephole. “Looks like a delivery guy, but on Christmas day? I better hide.” He hurried to the back bathroom and shut the door. He had heard that some of the tabloid reporters were going to start pestering him. As much as he craved attention, he didn’t want to go public with his problems right now.

  Amy rolled her eyes and went to the door. A very officious-looking courier handed her two-dozen red roses and a small gold-wrapped box. “From Dr. de Savin,” he said, then departed.

  Elliot came out of the bathroom as she sat down on the couch and opened a jewelry case. She gasped at the emerald earrings inside. A piece of fine writing paper was carefully folded underneath them. Its note was written in Sebastien’s bold, flowing script:

  Missing you, love. Next Christmas you and I will celebrate together, just us, and this year’s sadness will be forgotten.

  It was a tender message, but his casual exclusion of her pregnancy hurt worse than if he’d ignored her today. If he couldn’t deal with one baby, how could he possibly deal with two?

  Elliot was reading over her shoulder before she realized it. “He doesn’t want to play daddy,” Elliot muttered. “Wise up, doll.”

  “Go downstairs and give me a little while alone.”

  “I want the kids, okay? I love you and them—”

  “Stop it!” Her tension and sadness darkened into an overwhelming sense of desperation wrapped in the irony of Christmas sentiments that were just ashes hidden in glitter. “Elliot, I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you. You’re a sweetheart for carin’. But don’t say anything else.” Feeling huge and ugly and alone, she dragged her unwieldy body to her bedroom and locked the door behind her. She lay down and hugged her stomach. Both of you have to be perfect. You have to be. You have to be.

  Early in January Elliot felt strong enough to start working at the clubs around town. Amy had mixed feelings about it. There were too many temptations in the clubs—too many comics living in the fast lane and looking for trouble. Her obstetrician had given her strict orders to rest more; she couldn’t be Elliot’s bodyguard every night. She wanted to send Frau Diebler with him, but she refused, even for bribes. She loathed Elliot.

  Some club owners, such as Mitzi Shore at the Comedy Store, were eager to help comics who wanted to kick drug and alcohol problems. Amy didn’t worry about him when he was at the Store. He couldn’t take much pressure right now, but Mitzi gave him late-night spots so that he could slip in unannounced and work smaller, less demanding crowds.

  And Mitzi watched over him with ferocious maternal care. She wouldn’t let Elliot get into trouble while she was around. But there were too many other club owners who didn’t baby-sit their comics, and some who encouraged a macho party attitude.
Elliot had always been a sucker for a challenge, especially the self-destructive ones.

  Amy tracked him closely but saw no signs that he was meandering from the straight and narrow. He admitted that it wasn’t easy, but his determination was set. He was a Perrier-and-vitamin man, now.

  Then he didn’t come home one night. He was supposed to stop by her apartment when he finished at the clubs, no matter how late, and he always had before. She made some calls and traced him to the Hollywood condominium of a well-known comic with a well-known coke habit.

  “I’m testing myself,” he assured her over the phone. “I swear to God, baby, I’m just sitting here watching everyone else get high.”

  “I’m sending a taxi. Come home.”

  He hung up on her. But he did take the taxi. When he arrived at the apartment she took one look at him and knew that he was flying. He knew that she knew. “One time. No big deal. I’ll confess tomorrow at the shrink session, and it’ll be okay.” He was so wired that he spent the rest of the night playing Nintendo.

  His doctors told him to stop working the clubs until he fortified his willpower again. He dropped out of the rehab program and began spending more time at the clubs.

  Amy watched helplessly. There was no doubt that he was dabbling in drugs and alcohol. He insisted that he was in control, but she knew that he was headed downhill again. And she was terrified that he’d hit bottom this time.

  A hospital seemed so peaceful in the middle of the night. The solitude and quiet made the world feel secure, as if death would have to wait until morning, when more people were awake. It was an illusion.

  Sebastien sat by his father’s side, watching his labored breathing. With each inhalation he made a gurgling sound deep in his lungs. A tank stood at the head of the bed. Sebastien adjusted the clear tube that fed oxygen into his father’s nostrils. His eyes opened halfway, their bold blue power still evident. “You came,” he said, his voice airy, filled with fluid.

  Sebastien smoothed a strand of silver hair back from his father’s forehead. Like Amy’s father, Philippe had always been particular about his hair. It was not a sign of rebellion, as with Zack, but of control. But maybe they were the same things.