by B. C. CHASE
“Are we quite ready to begin?” she inquired impatiently. Receiving nods from around the table, she tapped her hand and said, “Good.” Then she declared, “Let me be abundantly clear: What we have received for our trouble is an utter catastrophe.” Her small lips curved downward into a sneer of disgust, “When my feckless nephew came to me and asked for a considerable investment in this scheme, I didn't have the foresight to cast him from my threshold like the black cat he was. His sales antics were far better than his business acumen proved to be. So, alas, I invested. And when that investment was brought to nothing, he exploited the good faith I had placed in him to bewitch all of you,” she motioned to the men around her, “who invested. And when that was lost, and he had the nerve to come cooing around my doorstep once more, what do you think I did?” She waited expectantly for an answer.
Henry Potter, resting his chin on his hand with one elbow on the table, raised his other hand and offered, “Invested again?”
“No indeed I did not! Merciful heavens,” she scowled at him. “I plucked the toy from the infant's grasp and took up the chairmanship of this miserable board.” Her comment received looks of gloomy agreement from the men.
“Unfortunately, I was far too late,” she continued. “Waste, exorbitance and no plan whatsoever to earn a single farthing back has been our return on investment. This aircraft itself—” she made a sweeping motion to their luxurious surroundings “a corporate jet the size of a commercial airliner—is evidence of my nephew's excesses.
“Now for your part, Mr. Potter,” she fixed her eyes on Henry in a stony glare, “your miraculous history of resurrecting corporate debacles seems too miraculous to be true. But our expensive consultants have told us that you are the man of the hour. So here we are, throwing ourselves upon your mercy.
“We have contributed our largest and, I expect, last infusion of currency to keep the fiasco afloat for now. Please accept my sincerest wishes for your success. So tell us, what is your plan?”
Aubrey watched as Henry sat there for a moment, listlessly gazing out the window. Then, clearing his throat, he straightened his posture and said, “Lady Shrewsbury, you call your nephew feckless, but in fact it was you who was feckless.”
She hardly had a moment to take offense before he continued, “Had he ever done anything positive with money before he came to you for it? My guess is 'no;' otherwise he would have had no need for your patronage. Yet you knowingly shared your considerable wealth with him. Without any logical evidence that his proposition was worthy of the slightest consideration, you invested. This, this was feckless indeed. So do not castigate your nephew for doing what anyone would have done in his shoes. Everyone spends money freely that is freely given. Now you tell me, am I mistaken?”
Lady Shrewsbury looked aghast, “You have stinging words for your new employer. I suppose you've never heard the phrase 'do not bite the hand that feeds you,'” she stared directly at Henry, “lest you be flung from the jetliner.”
Henry appeared fatigued, like a professor with a classroom of unmotivated students, “I ask the question, my feckless Duchess, because in order to be entirely motivated to redressing your mistake, you must, entirely, take the blame for it.
“Time and time again I've seen it. Every person in your situation begins with the same problem: they blame others for their errors. 'My accountant wasn't paying attention, politics got in the way, I had twins, the bank wouldn't give me a loan, my father was abusive, I ran out of cash, my wife divorced me, my partner was an idiot, there was a drought, my parents died . . . .'” He looked the duchess directly in the eye for his next sentence: “‘My nephew was feckless.' These are all wonderful sentiments if one wants to sooth feelings of self-loathing, but they do nothing to fix problems. So I ask you again, do you want to fix your mistake? Were you a feckless duchess?” He swung his finger like a conductor, “Say 'I was a feckless duchess.'”
“I will not soil the honor of Shrewsbury by including my title in the matter. However, I will acknowledge that my actions were unseasonable.”
Henry raised a single eyebrow, unimpressed, “And do you agree that your nephew cannot be blamed?”
She grinned patronizingly at Henry, “I think you will discover, as I have, that my nephew is extraordinarily gifted. Regrettably, his gift is not making people money; it is in making people smile.” She raised herself up in her chair, “So, to the extent that I placed my trust in him for the wrong reason, he cannot be blamed.”
Henry mumbled, “I'll accept that.”
She said, “So, my nephew makes people smile; you make people money. The question is, will combining your gifts produce results we can all smile at. This, Mr. Potter, is my chief concern.”
She leaned back, her nose upturned slightly, a coy grin playing on her lips, “I am placing my good faith in you. And make no mistake: I will be watching, I will be listening, I will take note of every whisper that I hear. For the first time in my very long life I have been made a fool, and if I come under the slightest impression that you could turn once into twice, let there be no doubt:” her eyes grew large, “hell has no fury like an old woman scorned.”
When the meeting adjourned, Aubrey returned to her seat. She had hardly sat down when the cell in her lap buzzed again. The screen said “Henry Potter.” She answered it, “Hello?”
His sharp voice came on the other end, “When I call you, it's not because I want the latest gossip. It's because I need you here, now. In the future, don't bother answering, just get over here. Is that understood?”
“Uh, yes.”
“And I'm certain Maggie would have explained this to you.”
She was silent. Aubrey wasn't sure if this was a question or a statement.
“Didn't she?”
“Yes, she didn't. I mean no, she did. She did.” She waited for a response, feeling foolish.
The response that came from him shocked her:
“Idiot.”
And the call ended.
After she recovered from the surprise, Aubrey was mad. She was just mad. Maggie had manipulated her into this job and now she was trapped on a plane with a new boss who was clearly a British jerk. And, to make things worse, she didn't even know where the plane was going! She decided she would find out. But first, she was going to give this Henry Potter a piece of her mind.
She swung open the door to his office. And immediately all her bravado disappeared. She couldn't explain it, but just something about the man standing there behind his desk disarmed her. It could have been his suit. It could have been the lavishness of his office. It could have been something within her that longed for approval; but whatever it was, she froze.
Henry shook his head impatiently and said, “Okay, here you go again. What does one typically do when entering a room?”
Aubrey's head spun. She couldn't think. What had she done wrong now?
“Merciful heavens. What rock did Maggie find you under? Aubrey: one knocks. So go out and knock on the door.” Henry was rubbing his temple in exasperation.
Aubrey backed out, feeling dismayed, absurd, and angry all at once. After the door was closed, she raised her hand and paused. This was really going to be difficult to do. But she just couldn't deny this inexplicable urge to please him. She knocked.
“Come in.”
She opened the door and entered.
“Let's not have a repeat of this lesson, shall we? Knock next time.”
“Yes.”
“Now, I called you here because I like to personally explain how things should be done. First, we'll go visit the closet so you can familiarize yourself with my mode of dress. Come along.”
As he walked past her, Aubrey couldn't believe what she had just heard. Did he actually say “visit the closet?”
From the hallway he called, “Do you expect me to whistle at you like a bitch? Come along!”
He led her to one of the on-jet suites where there was a queen size bed, armchair, and generously sized closet, all surrounde
d by mahogany walls. He proceeded to elaborate on every facet of his attire, from which suits matched which shirts to what socks he preferred to wear with which shoes (shoes he expected to be polished and at-the-ready all the time). He expected her ironing to produce “creases sharp enough with which to shave.” He had a large collection of ties, each one especially selected for specific outfits.
Her head spinning at the flurry of instructions, Aubrey blurted, “I can't remember all this!”
“No, I suppose you can’t,” Henry said, eyeing her with resignation. “Lucky for you, it's all on a chart in your cell.”
They moved on to his toothpastes, mouthwashes and other toiletries, which he expected her to keep in stock. He had exacting procedures for sanitizing and storing all of his morning accoutrements.
Then it was his phones.
He had three phones, each the same exact model. In the morning, he required the first to be neatly wiped and ready for his use. Mid-day, he anticipated to switch to another polished, print-free phone. And in the late afternoon, another. He demanded that they be wiped, first with Windex and then an isopropyl alcohol solution (to kill any and all microorganisms, he said).
And so it went. Every part of his day spelled out, no detail overlooked. To Aubrey, it was readily apparent that obsessive-compulsive didn't even begin to describe him. In fact, he was practically like a baby in the extent to which he demanded his needs be met. The longer he went on and on, the less intimidating he became until Aubrey concluded that Henry was not a first-class British jerk at all; he was just a moron.
“Aubrey, are you listening?” he said, apparently perturbed by the far-off look in her eyes.
She smiled with the patronizing gaze of a mother and replied, “Yes, of course I'm listening, Henry.”
As he continued, now spelling out the importance of keeping her skirt free of lint and her general appearance tidy, she realized that this was not just a job; this was a higher calling: this man needed to be rescued from himself. He was an imbecile, incapable of doing anything.
That's what she thought, at least, until he dropped the bombshell.
“Of course I'll expect you to undergo gene replacement therapy,” he said.
“Huh?”
“I'll cover the cost, but there are two things with your appearance that don't meet my approval.”
“Oh, really? What are those?” Aubrey said, her eyes narrowing. She had never heard any complaints before. “First, your hair. Either you can have gene replacement if you want a long-term change, or you can simply dye it. I don't give a damn. But it cannot stay blonde.”
“You want me to change my hair color?” Aubrey exclaimed.
Henry explained, “Studies have shown that blondes are not as respected as brunettes. If you're going to be by my side as I do business, I need you to be as respectable-looking as possible. If you want to be more respected for the rest of your life, allow me to pay for a treatment.”
“And what's the second thing?” she inquired suspiciously.
“Bust reduction.”
Aubrey was aghast, “You've got to be kidding me.”
“Not that I need to explain this to you, but countless studies have shown that women with smaller busts are perceived to be more intelligent. As much as my work relies on intellectual prowess, aptitude, and experience, the plain fact of the matter is that I am a brand. You are part of that brand. Maggie is part of that brand. Everything we say and everything we do must convey competence, confidence, and success. I'm offering this change to you charitably, as a treatment that would be to your benefit long-term. You would want to be seen as intelligent as possible, wouldn’t you?
No, he didn't need rescuing after all, Aubrey thought.
He was just a jerk.
Suddenly Maggie interrupted them, “Sorry to intrude, Mr. Potter, but we're almost there.”
“EPU-1350,” Henry said, rising from his desk. “Count on a dozen governments to come up with a name like that. Let's see if it’s worth my exorbitantly valuable time.”
4085 Woodbridge Street
Wesley knew something beyond the miscarriage was happening to his wife, now leaning back against the bath surround. The whites of her eyes had turned sallow. This terrified him, but he went into a total panic when they began sporadically rolling up in her head. Every a few seconds, her head dropped to her chest and he found himself shaking her to wake her. He cried her name to her face, but she was disoriented and breathed, “Our baby . . . .”
Wesley lifted her up and laid her on the bed, the only thing he could think to do. To his relief, the blue and red lights of the police sent shadows across the bedroom walls, and he left her to let them in.
When he returned with them, she was slumped over the side of the bed, her head and arms dangling. She had vomited on the floor, and now she was unconscious.
It was surreal to him, like a nightmare. He felt oddly disconnected from the events around him, as if this just wasn't happening. It couldn't be happening.
But it was.
The paramedics came right behind the police and rushed into the room to transfer Sienna onto a stretcher. He was powerless and lost as he followed them out the door and down the driveway to the ambulance. Then they were in the ambulance, siren blazing down the road.
The paramedics asked him a flurry of questions about her medical history as they worked, and he answered in single words.
Then he was there by the stretcher, his face near hers, and she was awake again, saying “My baby! My baby!” through breaths but in a horrifying world of her own. He touched her cheek, but had to jerk his hand back. She was boiling. She turned her face to him and met his gaze.
“Wes,” she breathed. “I'm sorry . . . our baby . . . .”
“It's not your fault,” he said.
“No, I wanted to make a baby for you,” she strained to speak. A tear formed.
Wesley had no words. He wanted to say something, but he couldn't find a way to say what he felt. All he could do was gaze into her eyes, which were flaming yellow now. She raised her head back up and gasped as if in terrible pain. Her skin was pink. Blood seeped over the white of one of her eyes as her body arched in a convulsion.
He touched her again; she was blazing hot. This was a fever out of control. Wesley was horrified as he saw her arms beginning to tremble and her chest literally, violently pounding with a powerful, rapid heartbeat. The paramedics were a blur of chaos around her feminine form. She was scalding hot; her breaths were coming out as vapor in the cold air, ever more rapidly.
Until they stopped.
“SIENNAAAAAA!” he screamed.
She was in cardiac arrest. All the paramedics' efforts to revive her were meaningless.
She was dead. The baby was gone.
As he stood in the ER watching her body being rolled away on the stretcher, Wesley could not believe that his small family had been taken from him in a single night.
St. Joseph's Medical Center
“You were aware of the fetus's condition,” Doctor Richard Kingsley said, a statement, not a question.
“It was healthy.” Wesley said, his black-ringed eyes belying the lack of sleep and tremendous stress he had endured over the night.
“Yes, but I mean its genetic condition.”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes the mother's body senses that there is a problem, even if it won't show up until later in the child's life. So it expels the fetus. In a way, it's Mother Nature's way of preventing suffering.” Doctor Kingsley sighed, “I am very sorry.”
“But if she had a miscarriage, where did the baby go?”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Peterson, but, from my perspective, there is only one possible explanation. And I know you're grieving now and it's hard. But your wife must have disposed of the fetus,” the doctor placed a hand on Wesley's back.
“But I told you, she didn't know where it was. She thought it was in the bed. She told me to look for it.”
“She was in a state of horrib
le shock.” Doctor Kingsley said quietly, “Most women who endure a miscarriage suffer denial, in the beginning.”
“Well I checked the toilet myself, if that's what your suggesting,” Wesley's voice was testy. “It wasn't there.”
The physician appeared about to say something, but then sealed his lips.
“You think she flushed it, don't you?” Wesley accused.
“I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Peterson.” He looked empathetic, paternal, “It was small enough.”
“She knew what was going on, and she said it was on the bed. She didn't start losing consciousness until later,” Wesley said loudly.
The doctor simply nodded sympathetically. “I am so very sorry. My advice is not to obsess over what happened to the fetus. Seek some counseling. And rest. You need to rest. It would help if you realize that, at fourteen weeks, it’s only a fetus, incapable of surviving outside the womb.”
Wesley was angry. He swore, “Don’t call it a fetus! It was our baby.”
Doctor Kingsley stepped back. “I apologize.”
“I’m going to find out what happened to my son!” he spun around to storm away.
Doctor Kingsley shook his head sadly as he watched Wesley go. He called after, “I'm here if you need anything. Please take care of yourself, Mr. Peterson!”
Doctor John Burwell, pathologist, and his technician, Sarah Rodriguez, had received the latest cadaver with the following notes:
-Miscarried 14 weeks approx. 04:00
-TOD 04:40 en route to St. J's due to miscarriage
-Paramedics report could not perform CPR-high fever
-No success with AED
-Tried to vent via trachea
“Could not perform CPR-high fever?” Doctor Burwell said to Sarah. “That doesn't make sense... Who were the bozos on that ambulance?”
