Someday Soon

by Janelle Taylor

  “Uh—yes,” he lied.

  “We need you to fill out the forms. Please…” She touched his arm, tried to guide him away from Cammie, who was currently being awakened with some very strong ammonia-type smelling salts. She groaned and turned her head away from the noxious odor.

  “Please, Mr. Stovall.”

  Her use of his name brought him back to earth. She’d recognized him, of course. He realized, belatedly, that causing a scene would only make things a hundred times worse. With a feeling of being chastised and useless and completely at fault all at the same time, Ty retraced his steps, his brain sluggish and full of apprehension.

  Faces. Blobs of pink color. All turning his way, recognition dawning. He felt claustrophobic, physically sick.

  Drawing out his cell phone, he was ordered by another testy member of hospital personnel to take it outside. The hospital was a “cell free” zone.

  The night was cool, a blessing. With a whispery breeze feathering his skin, Ty first phoned Susannah. Her answering machine listened carefully to his toneless recitation of the facts. Acting, Cammie had accused him. Well, acting would get him through now, when all he wanted to do was sink down in a huddle and cry.

  His next call was to Nanette, who told him calmly and clearly that there was nothing he could do but just stand by and be supportive. She would be right there.

  Then, staring at the cell phone as if it were an unfamiliar object, he punched out another number without being able to rightly explain why. When his father answered on the first ring, Ty slammed shut the receiver, shocked and horrified at himself. The phone rang right back.

  “Caller ID,” Samuel bit out before Ty could say more than hello.

  “On my cell?” he questioned.

  “Just the number, not the caller name. I recognized your number.”

  Ty suddenly felt like laughing hysterically. “Are you kidding? How did you know it? Did Orren Wesson get you the information, or your buddy, Renquist? You’ve got all kinds of henchmen, don’t you?”

  “Why did you call?” Samuel demanded, cutting to the chase. “You sound funny. Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Where are you?”

  “Nowhere, Dad,” Ty said, and he hung up and turned the cellular phone off.

  Cammie slowly swam up from the depths of unconsciousness. A terrible smell stung her nose. She grimaced and tried to talk. Her tongue refused. It filled her mouth.

  The baby.

  She jerked awake, tried to sit up, was gently pushed back down by the shoulders. Two strangers in hospital garb smiled at her, one a woman, one a man. “Lie back, please, Ms. Merrill. Wait.”

  “I’m at a hospital,” she realized aloud. “Where’s Dr. Crawley?” Her words were a slur, her scared brain recognized dully. Panic filled her eyes.

  “I’m Dr. Lenders,” the man soothed. “You were unconscious, bleeding. We’re checking things out.”

  “I’m pregnant. How—how do you know my name?”

  “Mr. Stovall brought you in. He’s filling out the admitting papers.”

  “Ty brought me?” Vaguely she remembered being in the empty house. His accusations. A spasm of pain crossed her face and she started to cry.

  “Everything’s going to be fine,” Dr. Lenders assured her, but Cammie knew it wasn’t true.

  “No,” she whispered bitterly, her hands clenching into impotent fists. “No, it’s not.”

  “When Mr. Stovall returns—”

  “Don’t let him in!” she cried, but it was a bare whisper. She had no strength to scream the feelings rushing through her. “I can’t see him. Ever.”

  Dr. Lenders and the nurse exchanged a glance. With a nod, Dr. Lenders agreed, and Cammie turned her face to the green curtain, locked in her own hellish misery from which there was no escape.

  Ty sat in the waiting room, head bent, hands hanging loosely between his knees. Out of his peripheral vision he saw a pair of cowboy boots coming his way. Small feet, slim legs. Nanette.

  He lifted his head, the effort almost more than he could bear. Nanette sank down beside him and clasped his left hand, patting it gently. His lips trembled. His nose burned inside. With a tremendous effort he kept himself from turning to the comfort of his mother’s arms.

  Silence was their companion. Silence apart from the familiar sounds of the hospital: phones buzzing, rubbersoled shoes squeaking, gurneys’ wheels jingling as they passed. Finally, Nanette sighed and said, “You’re on the news.”

  Ty groaned. It was the last straw. “How bad is it?” He glanced at her in time to see the end of a grimace. “Tell me,” he said to her hesitation.

  “Gayle’s suicide was rehashed again. They’re saying you’re unlucky in the fatherhood department. Your first child was killed in the suicide; the second to a miscarriage.”

  Misery ate at him. And guilt. “I ran away last time,” he said. “I’m not leaving now.”

  “I know.”

  “Reporters will be here soon,” he realized with a start.

  “The hospital staff will keep them back. Don’t worry.”

  “Mom…?”

  She gazed at him tenderly. It wasn’t often her son addressed her directly by anything but her name.

  “I called my father. I don’t know why.”

  “Did you tell him where you were?”

  He shook his head. “I couldn’t.”

  “Well, he probably knows now, so don’t be surprised if he shows up here, too.”

  “I’ve got to see Cammie.”

  His plea got to her. Telling him she would see what could be done, Nanette took matters into her own hands. She walked in the direction of the curtained emergencyroom bays, encountering no one who opposed her right to be there. Maybe it was her sex, or her age, or her overall sense of serenity, but she discovered Cammie’s cubicle just as her gurney was being pulled into the hallway.

  “Where are you taking her?” Nanette asked the orderly.

  “To another room. This place is too busy. She’ll be all right.”

  “Nanette?” Cammie whispered, hearing her voice. She reached a hand out to her as she passed by. Nanette clasped it, following after the moving gurney.

  “Dr. Crawley? My doctor? Is she here yet?”

  “I—don’t know.”

  “They’ve called her. I need her. I’m losing the baby.” Her face was white as the sheet covering her, her eyes stretched wide with fear.

  “It’s going to be all right,” Nanette murmured.

  “Everyone keeps saying that. It’s a lie,” Cammie choked. Tears filled her voice as she said, “I’m losing the baby. I’m losing the baby.”

  “Shhh…” Nanette’s heart ached. She held on to Cammie’s hand and waited until she was settled in bed. “I’ll get Ty.”

  “NO!”

  Nanette was shocked by Cammie’s vehemence.

  “He doesn’t want this baby,” Cammie said bitterly, a spasm crossed her forehead. “He never wanted it.”

  “Are you in pain?” Nanette asked, concerned.

  “Some. Oh, Nanette…” she moaned.

  At that moment, a large woman strode in with authority. She wore street clothes, but Cammie’s cry of relief alerted Nanette that this must be her doctor.

  “They paged me,” the woman said.

  “Dr. Crawley,” Cammie implored. “I’m miscarrying.” She was openly crying now and Nanette wanted to cry herself.

  The doctor nodded gravely and kindly.

  “I think Tyler should know,” Nanette murmured.

  “Don’t bring him here. I can’t see him now.”

  “But, Cammie—”

  “No. Please. Please!”

  “Could you just inform him of the possibility of a miscarriage?” the doctor suggested. “When Cammie’s ready, she’ll see him.”

  Nanette nodded and slowly retraced her steps to the waiting room. From Dr. Crawley’s demeanor it was clear there was little chance the baby would survive. Cammie was miscarrying.

  On leaden feet she r
eturned to the waiting room. She would be the bearer of some very bad news. Only now, the quiet haven was alive with noise and people. Samuel and Cammie’s agent—Susannah—and a host of others. Ty stood to one side, looking for all the world like he might take a swing at one of them if they didn’t leave him alone. Nanette marched forward, but several burly men in hospital whites reached the crowd first and taut words were exchanged. Seizing the moment, Nanette sidled up to her unhappy son.

  “You okay?” she asked, clasping Ty’s hand as she came up beside him.

  “Where’s Cammie?”

  “They’ve—taken her to a room.”

  “I want to see her.”

  “Not now.”

  Ty’s eyes searched his mother’s worried face. “What’s wrong? Is she all right? The baby?”

  “Tyler…” Nanette pulled him to one side, conscious of the sea of faces turned their way, straining to hear her. “She may have already lost the baby. She doesn’t want to see you just yet.”

  Ty hadn’t believed he could feel worse. But now pain exploded inside him. He strode from the mob in the waiting room, moving sightlessly through the emergency room, deaf to all calls in his direction. An automaton, he walked away from the hubbub to a quiet corner where a bench sat in front of a window that looked out on a courtyard where palm trees were up-lit amidst hedges of bougainvillea. He pressed his forehead to the panes and closed his eyes.

  Cammie, oh, Cammie, forgive me.

  It was all his fault. He’d done it. He’d ruined it. He’d thrown away their one chance at happiness because of his own stupid, self-destructive fears. It killed him to think that he might have lost her forever; he’d already lost their child.

  Time passed. Lost in his self-recriminations, Ty paid no attention to how long he sat alone. When a hand suddenly dropped on his shoulder, he jerked to attention. Silently wishing the intruder would just go away, he stayed frozen in position.

  “Son?” Samuel said softly.

  Ty inwardly groaned. His father was all he needed! “I don’t want company,” Ty muttered between clenched teeth.

  “I know that. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I would have liked a child—for you. I know you think I’m an awful father; I probably am. All those years ago I was jealous of your success when I should have embraced it. That’s why I fooled around with Gayle. I never dreamed the consequences would be so great.”

  Uncertain whether to believe this surprising admission, Ty didn’t move. He’d lost trust in Samuel years before; he wasn’t fool enough to believe his father now, just because he was at a low ebb.

  Samuel said into the quiet, “I’ve taken care of the news hounds for now, but there’s someone you might want to talk to.”

  “No,” he clipped out.

  “It’s Camilla’s doctor. Dr. Crawley.”

  That slowly penetrated. Dimly, Ty realized his parents, both Nanette and Samuel, were doing their best to help. He should feel grateful, he thought, but for now, all he felt was numb.

  When Samuel touched his arm, indicating the way back, Ty rose on legs that seemed detached from the rest of his body. He walked beside his father, two men who, but for the separation of a generation, were nearly identical. Surreptitious glances slid their way as they passed, from hospital staff and patients alike. The sight of Tyler and Samuel Stovall walking side by side was remarkable.

  True to his word, Samuel had scattered the reporters until only Susannah, Nanette, and now Karen Walthers remained. A large woman in street clothes and wire-rimmed glasses stood up and offered Ty her hand. She introduced herself as Dr. Crawley, and suggested Ty follow her to a small office where they could share a modicum of privacy.

  “Cammie?” Ty asked as soon as Dr. Crawley shut the door behind her. His voice was hoarse, unrecognizable as his own.

  “She’s resting comfortably. However, I’m afraid there’s no sign of the baby,” she said gently.

  Ty sank down into a chair, dropping his head into his hands.

  “We’ve put Cammie on an IV and given her a sedative,” the doctor explained. “It might be best if she stays the night.”

  She miscarried.

  “Does she—does she know yet?” he asked unevenly.

  “Yes.”

  “May I see her?”

  The good doctor’s hesitation said it all. Lips twisting, Ty said, “She doesn’t want to see me, does she? She blames me.”

  “She doesn’t blame you,” Dr. Crawley assured him. “Miscarriage is one of the risks with endometriosis. She knew the chance of carrying full term was slight.”

  “Endometriosis?” Ty repeated blankly.

  The doctor peered at him over the tops of her glasses. “She hasn’t talked to you about her condition?” At the slow shake of his head, Dr. Crawley said briskly, “Then let me bring you up to speed, Mr. Stovall. It might help you understand why she feels the way she does…”

  Blurry outlines. Colors muted by dim light. Cammie lifted one eyelid though it felt held down by weights. Where am I? she thought, sensing an unformed ache deep inside herself. Her mind searched for the answer, but even brushing against that truth felt too sore, too raw, so she shied away from digging too hard. Instead, she focused on the room and came to realize she must be in a hospital.

  The baby! Memory jolted back sharply.

  It’s gone.

  Whimpering, Cammie wriggled further under the covers, squeezing her eyes shut, slamming the door of her brain on those unpleasant thoughts. She couldn’t cope. Not now. Later. Much, much later she would think about her future and what would happen next. With that, she slipped back to welcome oblivion.

  Ty wandered the rooms of the house he’d purchased for him and Cammie, wondering if he would ever actually live here. He’d made the purchase the day after Cammie miscarried, the day she left the hospital and returned to her apartment. She hadn’t contacted him, and any attempt he’d made in that direction had been met with no response. Once again he’d left messages on her answering machine and with Susannah, but Cammie was unwilling to respond to him.

  He bought the house anyway. He liked it. When he realized Cammie wouldn’t talk to him and that their life together was very possibly on hold forever, he bought a hefty bottle of scotch and drank himself into a stupor, waking sometime in the depths of the night to feel carpet beneath his fingers as he was stretched out on the floor.

  He rolled over and stared through the dimness, feeling wretched. Alcohol hadn’t helped. When had it ever? But age and experience had, apparently, since he felt no need to run away and hide this time. Instead, he threw out the extra bottles of liquor and began planning what to do with the rest of his life. He didn’t believe it would not include Cammie; he couldn’t face a future without her. But he did know that her sadness and loss of belief in him would make for a long, slow recovery.

  He just hoped it would be a full one. With his self-destructive days behind him, Ty used this time of solitude productively. He read through scripts and made plans with his agent Susannah, who was very circumspect about any questions he posed regarding Cammie.

  So now, here he was. Ten days into his new life without the woman he loved, miserable to the extreme, unable to do anything to correct the wrongs he’d inadvertently heaped on the woman he loved. He’d heard, by default, since Susannah told him nothing about Cammie, that she’d accepted the role on Cherry Blossom Lane after all.

  The doorbell rang and Ty whipped around, frowning. No one knew he was here, did they?

  Cammie!

  He ran to the door, flung it open, then nearly slammed it shut again when he encountered Paul Merrill on his porch. “You again!” he spat in disgust.

  “Don’t slam the door.” He held up a hand and a manuscript. “I’ve got a proposition for you.”

  “No more manuscripts. No more talk.”

  “Wait! Wait!” The little weasel actually stuck a foot in the door. “I’ve tried to talk to Susannah, but she’s been completely irrational. If I were you, I’d get a
nother agent! She won’t even consider the idea, but I thought you might, given your relationship with Cammie.”

  Ty thrust his weight on the door, not enough to crush Paul’s foot, just enough to give him the idea that he was serious about evicting the man. “How did you know where I was?” he demanded.

  “I knew you bought the place. I was going to wait around and see if you showed up, or leave this on your doorstep if I had to. But voilà! You were already here.”

  Ty held tight to the door until Paul’s foot began to feel the pinch. With a muffled exclamation, Paul shoved the manuscript through the closing crack, shaking it in front of Ty’s nose. Ty read the title and he stopped pushing, more out of bafflement than real interest. It was a teleplay. For Cherry Blossom Lane.

  “What is this?” he asked suspiciously.

  “How about a guest-shot role?” Paul suggested eagerly, his voice muffled behind the heavy planks of the door. “Four episodes. Playing opposite Cammie, as, I think you’ll appreciate the irony here, her brother!”

  “Get lost!”

  “Ratings would soar! Don’t you see? And from what I gather, you could use an entree into seeing my lovely, stubborn ex again. Think about it. Seriously. And make that agent of yours pay attention to a legitimate offer!”

  Paul dropped the manuscript on the foyer floor, his arm disappearing through the crack. Instead of slamming it closed, Ty opened the door wider and watched Paul jump into his car and wave blithely before driving away.

  Opportunist. Ty shut the door in disgust. Picking up the script, he warned himself not to read one word. It was a ploy, just another way that Cammie’s obnoxious ex had contrived in order to keep himself playing with the big boys.

  Ignoring his own advice, Ty folded back the first page and started reading from FADE IN…

  This dressing room was a bit larger than her previous one. Placing a bright print of a fat ebony cat peering through a spray of huge red flowers on the wall, Cammie stepped back and examined her handiwork. These cubbyholes had no outside view, so one had to make do with whatever they could come up with to brighten the place. The picture was good. It lifted the room’s overall mood, and Cammie’s in the process.