Once Upon a Pregnancy

by Judy Duarte

  He felt a bit funny drinking alone, but he didn’t want the wine to go to waste. “I’ll pour myself a glass, then. Do you want ice in your water?”

  “Yes, please.”

  When he returned to the table, she seemed pensive, introspective. She bit down on her bottom lip, furrowed her brow and stared at her plate. He watched her for a while, intent upon keeping his mouth shut. But as they ate in silence, curiosity finally got the better of him.

  “Who hurt you, Simone?”

  She glanced up, her gaze snagging his. “What do you mean?”

  “Who broke your heart? I get this feeling that a man did a real number on you, and you’re not about to put yourself in that same position again.”

  She studied him for a moment, as though pondering what to say, what to reveal.

  About the time he’d decided that she wasn’t going to tell him, she said, “I dated this guy in college. I can’t say that he did any real number on me. But he certainly made me aware of my deficiencies in a relationship.”

  Mike couldn’t think of any flaws that she might have, other than refusing to let her feelings go and give love a chance. “The guy was a fool.”

  “No, Tom might have been brash and insensitive. But he pretty much got it right. He called me an ice queen, and it hurt—a lot. But I knew what he meant, and there wasn’t anything I could do to change that.”

  “You weren’t cold or unfeeling the night you and I slept together.”

  Her voice softened, even if her resolve didn’t. “How about the next morning?”

  Yeah. There was that.

  She blotted her lips with a napkin, then pushed her plate aside. “I don’t connect very well with people, Mike. I always hold back. And while I care about you—far more than is in my best interests—I can’t give you and me the chance you want us to have.”

  “Why?” he asked, wanting to understand.

  “Because my mother hated my father. Because she never wanted me in the first place. Because she decided to be noble and carry me to term, which I appreciate, but she was hell-bent on keeping me when she should have given me to someone who would have loved me.” Simone stood, picked up her plate, glass and silverware, then carried them into the kitchen, leaving Mike to second-guess what she’d just told him and to wonder what, if anything, she might have held back.

  He, too, got to his feet and made his way to the kitchen with his own place setting.

  “Hey,” he said, sidling up to her as she filled the sink with hot, soapy water. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  She turned to face him. “I know. But it’s best that you understand something. I didn’t have the love that you had growing up. I’m not sure if you put any merit in child psychology, but I never bonded with my mom. I didn’t learn to trust. Whenever I was hurt, no one gave a damn. So on the outside, I might look okay and act professionally. But on the inside, I’m scared and not so sure about things. And for that reason, I’m happier being alone.”

  Mike gently gripped her shoulders, the silky strands of her hair brushing against his knuckles. “You’re a queen, but you’re not made of ice. And I’ll give you the time you need. Just don’t shut me out because you have some wild-ass notion that you’re looking out for my best interests.”

  Then he kissed her, long and hard and thorough.

  Their tongues mated, their breaths mingled. Their hearts pounded out in need.

  And when he was done, when there was a flush of arousal along her neck and chest, when her lips parted and her eyes widened, he excused himself for the evening and left her alone.

  To think.

  And, hopefully, to yearn for all that they could be together.

  Chapter Eight

  On Monday, Simone was asked to work an early shift to cover for Maureen Wiggins, an E.R. nurse who’d called in sick because of food poisoning.

  So far, the morning had been relatively quiet, so while she took a lunch break, she carried a fantasy novel into the solarium, where she planned to spend some quiet time reading.

  The solarium was a convenient place to take a break—and a cheerful one. An abundance of windows provided sunlight, as well as a view of the garden and the various elms, oaks and maples that had been growing on the hospital grounds for nearly forty years.

  For the first time since the winter months had stripped the bushes bare, the roses had begun to bloom in a colorful array of buds and blossoms.

  Because of the solitude and the view, the solarium had become Simone’s favorite place to steal a little reading time and escape into another world. Once inside, she planned to find a little alcove of cushiony chairs and make herself comfortable for the next twenty minutes or so. She’d even set the alarm on her watch so that she’d know when to end her break.

  As she’d hoped, the solarium was nearly empty, other than a man talking on his cell phone in the corner.

  She’d no more than glanced his way when she recognized Dr. Peter Wilder. Now that he was back in private practice, she didn’t see him as often.

  At first, she planned to ignore him and go about her business. But when she sensed he was having what appeared to be a serious, personal conversation with someone, Simone decided that it might be best if she left the room and let him speak in private.

  “You’re wrong, Anna,” he said.

  Simone easily surmised he was talking to his adopted sister.

  Years ago, when Anna was an infant, she’d been left at the hospital by an unknown woman and adopted by Peter’s parents. According to what Simone had gathered over the years by comments made to her by both Ella and Peter, their father, the late James Wilder, spent years trying to prove the family’s love to Anna, which only created a strain between her and his other children.

  To make matters worse, Anna had taken a position with NHC, and her family loyalty was in question.

  Simone supposed, in some instances, adoptions might not work out the way everyone intended them to. And she’d have to keep that in mind.

  For the first time since learning she was pregnant, she realized that giving up the baby might not be the slam-dunk solution she’d been hoping for. That there were a lot of factors to consider.

  But she supposed parenting, in general, was a difficult job—and not one to be taken lightly.

  Peter glanced up, and when their gazes connected, Simone whispered, “Sorry.” She motioned that she would leave him in private, but he shook his head, indicating that she didn’t need to go.

  Unfortunately, she felt uncomfortable either way.

  “All right, I’ll let you go. But do me a favor. Just try to see the family’s side in this situation.” Peter’s lips tensed, then he slowly folded up his cell phone, ending the call without saying goodbye.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Simone said.

  “You didn’t. We were hanging up anyway. Anna had a meeting to attend, so she said she’d talk to me later.” Peter blew out a heavy sigh. “But I’m not so sure she’ll call back. I’m afraid my sister is so removed from my life that she doesn’t understand why I’m against the NHC takeover.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Simone thought highly of all the Wilders, and she sensed that the rift between Anna and her siblings was becoming more and more serious.

  “If you had walked in a few minutes sooner, you would have heard a few heated words. I tried to explain how my dad felt about this hospital, how Ella, David and I feel, but Anna… Well, she just doesn’t get it. I’m afraid that conversation we just had might have made things worse.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Simone didn’t usually open up to her coworkers about her personal concerns and issues, but sometimes they found it easy to share with her. She suspected that was because she never took part in gossip or betrayed a confidence.

  “There’s really nothing to say.” Peter got to his feet. “We’ve got some upcoming family weddings on the horizon, including my own. But I’m not even sure if Anna plans to attend any of them.”

&
nbsp; “It’s tough when there’s a rift in a family.” Even when it was only a family of two, like Simone and her mother.

  “You’re right.” As Peter approached Simone and headed for the door, he said, “The solarium is all yours now.”

  “Thanks.”

  As he left the sunlit room, Simone no longer felt like reading. Instead, she strode toward one of the windows and peered into the garden, noting the colorful signs of spring and renewal, the shoots of new growth and colorful blooms.

  Peter’s trouble with Anna only reminded her of the relationship she had with her mother.

  It had been nearly a week, and her mom still hadn’t returned her last call. But what else was new?

  If the two of them had a normal relationship—she let the fantasy briefly play out in her mind—Simone would have called her mother to tell her about the baby. And if things had been different between them, she might have even looked forward to being a mother herself.

  And perhaps she wouldn’t be the least bit apprehensive about creating a family with Mike.

  That night when she got home from work, Simone picked up the telephone and dialed her mother’s number one last time. It wasn’t all that unusual to be playing telephone tag with the woman.

  But this time, Susan Garner answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Mom. It’s me.”

  “Hi, Simone. You finally caught me at home. I’m afraid that I’ve been in and out a lot. I meant to return your call.”

  That was questionable.

  “How are you doing?” Simone asked, disregarding the excuse given. “Cynthia called last week and told me you’d discovered a lump in your breast. I…I’ve been worried. And I wondered if there was anything I could do. If there were any questions you had.”

  “It was a bit scary for a while, but they did a biopsy and it came back benign.”

  “Well, good. That’s great. And I imagine it’s a big relief for you.”

  “Yes, it was.” Susan blew out a sigh. “I’m really sorry Cynthia called you and bothered you with that. If it would have been…more serious…I would have called myself.”

  Would she have?

  Somehow, Simone didn’t think so. It was almost as if the two had never lived together, as if once Simone turned eighteen and could legally fly the coop, Susan’s maternal responsibilities—what few she’d actually assumed—had ended.

  “Well, I’m glad it all turned out okay,” Simone said.

  “Yes, everything is fine.”

  But it really wasn’t. Not this conversation, not their relationship.

  “I guess I’d better let you go, Mom. Be sure to tell Cynthia hello for me.”

  “I will. Good night, Simone.”

  The line disconnected.

  Simone supposed the news should have been comforting, but she wanted to scream in frustration.

  Why couldn’t her relationship with her mother have been…normal? Or even just moderately dysfunctional?

  In spite of the years Simone had spent building up a durable, Teflon hide and telling herself it really didn’t matter, the disappointment and pain she’d experienced as a child and had locked away as an adolescent began to flood her heart with regret, and tears welled in her eyes.

  Damn those pregnancy hormones.

  And damn the past.

  Woofer barked, then headed for the door, just moments before the bell sounded.

  Oh, great. Now what? Simone hated to bother answering, especially all weepy-eyed and splotchy-faced. But neither did she want to hole up inside the house and pretend she wasn’t home.

  So she answered, albeit reluctantly, and found Mike on her porch. She could have sworn he’d told her he had an O’Rourke-family birthday party to attend. He must have decided to stop by on his way.

  “Oh, honey,” he said, reaching for the knob of the screen door without waiting to be invited inside.

  She supposed he’d gotten used to making himself comfortable at her house. And she must have gotten used to having him around, too, because she grabbed Woofer’s collar and used her foot to keep Wags from dashing outside. Then she stepped out of the way to let Mike in.

  He gave each dog a detached greeting while focusing his attention on her. “What’s the matter?”

  Oh, God. She hated to spill her guts. But maybe, if she did, it would eventually make him realize why she wasn’t the motherly type. Why the whole idea of home and family scared the heck out of her.

  When Simone admitted that she’d finally talked to her mother about the lump she’d found, Mike wrapped his arms around her, probably assuming her tears were caused by bad news. “I’m so sorry.”

  Instead of immediately correcting him, she accepted his embrace and allowed herself a moment to savor his musky scent, his warmth, his compassion.

  “Actually,” she finally said, slowing drawing away from his arms, “the lump was benign.”

  “So you’re crying from relief?”

  “Yes and no. It’s kind of complicated. It also hurts that my mother refused to return my calls, saying she didn’t want to bother me with her problem.”

  “Maybe she was trying to protect you.”

  “If it were anyone else’s mom, I might accept that. But not when it’s mine.”

  He took her by the hand and led her to the sofa. “Why don’t you sit down and talk to me about it.”

  It didn’t feel right having the ugliness out in the open, but maybe it would be therapeutic in a sense. So she took a seat and waited for him to join her.

  “I told you some of it already,” she said. “About how my mom was cold and unloving.”

  He nodded. “I figured you’d held something back. You always do. But you don’t need to do that with me.”

  She hoped he was right. “I knew that other kids had parents who played games with them. Moms and dads who asked how their day at school went, who tucked them in at night and listened to their prayers. But I never experienced anything like that. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to connect on any level with my mother.”

  He didn’t comment; he just continued to listen as she vented—something she wasn’t used to doing.

  “When I was a kid, I would have to change the channel whenever The Wonderful World of Disney was on television. It was too sad. I’d see commercials about Disneyland or Walt Disney World, with happy, loving families having the time of their lives. But I never even went to an amusement park. No visits to the petting zoo, no pony rides. None of the usual family experiences.”

  “I’m sorry that your childhood was so lousy.”

  “Me, too,” she said. “But don’t get me wrong. I never went without the material things. There was plenty of food. And I had regular health checkups. But sometimes my mom would glare at me. Or strike me for no reason.”

  “You were physically abused, too?” he asked.

  “It’s not like I was beaten. But I learned to stay out of my mom’s reach.”

  While Mike continued to hold her hand, he brushed his thumb across her skin, soothing her, comforting her with the simplest touch. And she couldn’t help but accept all he offered.

  “I have a great mom,” he said. “And I can’t even imagine what I would have done or who I would have become without her.”

  He still didn’t know the worst of it, Simone realized. He didn’t know why her relationship with her mother had been so bad. Or why it still was. And so she decided to tell him what she hadn’t told anyone else.

  “When I was in the seventh grade, my mom told me to clean out the garage. And while I was moving some things around, I found a box of old photos and a diary. I knew her journal contained her private thoughts and that I shouldn’t read it. But I’d always wanted to know my mom better, to understand what made her tick.”

  “And did you?”

  “Yes. The early pages revealed a much different person than the one I’d known. She’d grown up in the sixties and had been happy and carefree. She used to write poetry. I gues
s you could say that she was… normal.”

  “When did that change?”

  “When she was seventeen. By the time I got to the end of the diary, to the place where she’d finally quit writing, it all fell into place.” Simone’s fingers tightened around Mike’s hands, then she slowly loosened them. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to cling to his touch or pull away.

  His grip tightened, making the decision easier for her.

  “My mom was raped, and I was the result.”

  Mike didn’t respond, and she struggled not to peer at his face, not to try and read something in his expression. She’d just revealed the fact that she’d been the product of a violent act, not a loving one.

  “My mom actually knew the guy and had gone out with him,” she added. “So it would be classified as a date rape now. But back in the late sixties, when it happened, she felt that it was all her fault. And because I look like my father…”

  “Did you know him?” Mike asked.

  “No.” She paused, thinking it best to explain. “Well, my mom never said that I resembled him, and I never asked. But I don’t look at all like her, so I can’t help believing that each time she looked at me she was reminded of him, of what he’d done to her. And for that reason, she inadvertently—and subconsciously—took her anger and resentment out on me.”

  “You have no idea how sorry I am. For you, of course. But for her, too.”

  “Needless to say, this isn’t something I’m proud of. But it’s had an adverse effect on any relationship I’ve had. And that’s why having a husband and children scares me to death. I don’t want to hurt the people who depend upon me the most.”

  He seemed to ponder her words and her concern for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “No, that’s not going to happen. For the past couple of years, I’ve watched you with your patients, young and old. And I’ve even seen you interact with the dogs, even when they’re misbehaving. You’d never hurt anyone, intentionally or otherwise.”