“Hmm, there’s the bottom.” She traced her hands across Sasha’s abdomen and felt around. “There’s the head. So our heartbeat is around here somewhere.”
She pressed the horn against Sasha’s skin and then rested her forehead against the pad. She closed her eyes and listened. Sasha and Connelly stared at each other wordlessly. After several moments that seemed to stretch into hours, she opened her eyes and smiled up at Sasha.
“Nice strong heartbeat,” she said. She turned toward Connelly. “Leo, would you like to listen? I’d ask Sasha, too, but it would require some rather gymnastic contortions on her part.”
Connelly sprang off the table. “Yes.”
The midwife placed the fetoscope around his neck and guided the horn to the correct spot. Connelly placed his head on the headrest and listened. His eyes crinkled with delight.
“You hear it?” Sasha asked.
“Yeah.”
“What’s it sound like?”
He thought for a moment. “Like a ticking watch under a pillow.” He removed the fetoscope and handed it back to Katrina.
“That’s an apt description,” she said. “I want to just check on the placement of the placenta, then we’ll be done.” She resumed her position over Sasha’s belly. This time, she looked up with a puzzled frown. “Did the baby flip while Leo and I were switching places?”
“No.”
“Hmm.” She bent her head back over the pad and moved the horn around for several minutes, pressing it down in different spots.
“Katrina?” Connelly finally ventured.
She stood up straight and looped the device around her neck again. “Sasha and the baby are both healthy. Remind me, did you guys decide to do the twenty-week ultrasound?”
Connelly’s eyes widened. Sasha shook her head. “No. We talked about it, but the bloodwork was all good. And I’m perfectly healthy. We didn’t think it was worth the small risk of miscarriage. Why?”
“I’d like you to consider having one done tomorrow morning. I can write you a referral to the imaging center. If you feel strongly, I won’t insist. I’m just having a hard time visualizing what’s going on in there.”
Sasha threw Connelly a helpless look. She didn’t make decisions on the fly. She made decisions after exhaustive research. “Um … if you think we should—”
Katrina shook her head. “You don’t have to decide now. I’m on call tonight. Talk about it over dinner. Give me a ring after you’ve had a chance to discuss it.”
Connelly cleared his throat. “That sounds like a good course of action.”
Sasha exhaled. “I think so, too. So are we done?”
Katrina was flipping through the chart. “We are. If you decide against the ultrasound, I’ll see you a week from today—or when the baby decides to make his or her debut. Whichever comes first.” She smiled. “Oh, wait. It looks like Leo didn’t completely fill out his family health history.” She held up a mostly blank sheet of paper.
It was Connelly’s turn to give the helpless look.
“He doesn’t know his paternal health history,” Sasha explained. “His mother met a man in Vietnam when she was an Army nurse. She came home pregnant and raised Connelly alone. All she had was a name and village.”
“I tried to track him down when I was a teenager but didn’t get anywhere.”
Katrina pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I imagine the government tried to find your father as part of your background check?”
He laughed with no humor. “They did, and they didn’t have any more luck than I did. Trust me, if Homeland Security can’t find you, you’re either dead or unfindable.”
“I see. Well, there are a number of hereditary conditions that are specific to Asians. It would be really good to know if those run in your family.”
Connelly raised his palms as if to say ‘there’s nothing I can do about it.’
Katrina pulled open a filing cabinet drawer and rummaged around. She retrieved a pamphlet. “There are organizations out there that specialize in reconnecting Vietnamese war orphans and adoptees with their blood relatives. You might want to check those out, notwithstanding the all-knowing powers of the federal government. I think you would just need to provide a DNA swab from your cheek to participate. Here, this brochure has more information.”
She handed it over to Connelly, who stared down at it.
“How do you just happen to have that?” Sasha asked.
Katrina laughed and turned a shade of light pink. “I’m an amateur genealogist. And a terrible packrat. I picked up a fistful of pamphlets at a conference, and even though they had no relevance to my life, I hung onto them. I figured one of them might just prove useful to a client some day.”
“I guess we have two topics to discuss tonight,” Sasha said.
Connelly said nothing.
7
It was just after five o’clock by the time Sasha and Connelly fought the early rush of Friday cross-town traffic from the birthing center to Shadyside. Sasha had nearly made several wrong turns, distracted and coasting along on an autopilot route to the condo rather than the new house. Beside her, Connelly was unusually fidgety but didn’t mention her driving.
“How’d you get to the birthing center anyway?” she asked mainly to make conversation as she waited for a city bus to take on passengers.
“Hank gave me a lift because the movers had me blocked in.”
“Wait—you left the movers at the house? I thought they were supposed to be done by four.” She cut her eyes toward him.
“Easy, tiger. Naya arranged for Carl to babysit the movers so I wouldn’t have to miss the appointment.”
She took her hands off the steering wheel and shook them a few times in an effort to release her pent-up tension before answering. Then she retook the wheel and inched the car forward, just in time to get stuck at the red light that the bus blew through.
“I’m glad you were there. Really glad. And it was nice of Carl to do that, but did you explain everything to him? How to read the chart? The color coding?”
“Sasha—”
“Don’t Sasha me.”
“I’ll Sasha you if I want to. You’re not actually getting worked up about the fact that the movers might mistakenly put the mugs in the cabinet you have earmarked for water glasses. What are you really worried about—work? The ultrasound?”
“No. Well, yes, of course. But that’s not all of it.” She bit down on her lip. She didn’t want to mention the call from Detective Benson. Not yet. They couldn’t afford to be distracted by Costopolous right now. They had to make a decision about the ultrasound. And then she hoped to convince him to swab his cheek with a Q-tip and send his DNA off into the world, a proposition she suspected he’d resist.
“What?”
“Let’s go home, walk Mocha, feed Java, and then head out for an early dinner. There’s a rustic Italian joint that just opened in the space under the French bakery. We can talk about everything over a couple bowls of ribollita. And a nice glass of red for you.”
He relaxed back into the seat and rested a warm hand on her thigh. “That sounds perfect. And we can celebrate the new house.”
They continued on in silence, but it was a less funereal, more companionable quiet. Sasha turned onto their new street and noticed for the first time that all of their neighbors had well-tended gardens in full bloom. She tried to remember if their house had a flower garden. As she pulled up in front, she saw that there was, in fact, a garden. But in contrast to their neighbors’ gardens, which boasted fragrant climbing roses and colorful peonies, their garden was a brown, weed-choked mess. She eyed a pair of stalky weeds that were easily six inches taller than she was.
As she killed the engine, she said, “I don’t suppose you know anything about gardening?”
Connelly shook his head. “I guess we’ll learn.”
“Guess we will.” She smiled at the thought of creating something green and vibrant out of the dead flowerbeds.
Her s
mile faded when the front door opened and Carl came sprinting down the stairs to the sidewalk with a grim expression on his normally cheerful face.
“I was just getting ready to call you,” he shouted.
Uh-oh. Just what they needed—another problem.
Connelly was already out of the car, rushing toward the house. She grabbed her bag and pulled herself up out of the driver’s seat, using the doorframe for leverage. By the time she reached the two men, Connelly’s expression was as somber as Carl’s.
“What happened?” she asked, bracing herself.
“I’m sure it’s just some neighborhood kids screwing around,” Connelly said.
“Skip the preface and just tell me, please.”
Carl pointed around to the back of the house. “After the movers finished up and left, I figured I’d coax the cat out from under the couch. All of a sudden, I heard Mocha barking like crazy in the kitchen.”
“Mocha’s not a barker,” she said.
“Right, so I hustled out there to see what he was going on about. I was just inside the doorway when a rock the size of my fist came crashing through the window over your sink.”
“Someone threw a rock through the window?” Sasha repeated. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish. I ran out back but didn’t see anyone. I think I got all the broken glass cleaned up but I can’t say for sure that some didn’t go down the disposal. I’d be real careful the first couple of times you run it.”
“You didn’t cut yourself, did you?” she asked.
“Nah, I’m okay. And Leo may be right, it might’ve just been teenagers acting like fools. But you should call your insurance agent—you’re gonna want to get that pane replaced before it rains.”
“Thanks, Carl,” she said. She turned toward Connelly. “I’m going to go inside and change. Then we can call the cops and file a report before we head to dinner, okay?”
“I don’t think we need to involve the police.”
She glanced over at Carl before answering. “I think we’d better.” She didn’t want to bring up Costopolous in front of him unless she had to. But considering the timing, she wasn’t willing to chalk up the broken window to young vandals. It could be a message.
Carl nodded in agreement. “Or at least keep your piece handy, Leo.”
Connelly’s face was a stiff mask as he said neutrally, “Not an option. Sasha’s not comfortable having a weapon in the house.”
Sasha gave both of them a level look. “That’s right.”
Carl wagged his head. “Come on, now, Sasha. You know what the Bard has to say about this, don’t you?”
She scanned her memory. Carl, who was a fairly accomplished amateur thespian, loved trading Shakespeare quotes with her. She could usually hold her own with him, but she wasn’t aware of any Shakespearean references to gun ownership. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
He struck a dramatic pose. “The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.”
“All’s Well that Ends Well?” she ventured.
“Bingo,” he said in his normal speaking voice.
“Um…”
“You take the good with the bad. And, I’m just saying that your mingled yarn has got some stone-cold criminals running through it. You know? Why pretend it doesn’t? Let that man protect his family.”
To his credit, Connelly didn’t say a word. But his barely suppressed smile made it clear he was enjoying the show.
“I guess I’ll have to think about that some more,” she said faintly. “Thanks again for everything.” She nodded a goodbye to Carl and made her way up the stairs to the front door.
* * *
She was walking from room to room, getting acquainted with the nooks and crevices of the new house, when Connelly came inside, shaking his head.
“I called the insurance company. And the neighbor across the street came over and gave me the name of a glazier who works weekends, so I left him a message.”
“Thanks for jumping on it,” she said.
“I figure you have enough on your mind.” He crossed the room and enveloped her in a hug from behind, wrapping his arms around her belly.
She leaned her head back and smiled up at him. “Kind of.”
“Are you ready to eat?”
“Definitely. But I have a call into Detective Benson. Let’s just hang out until he calls back.”
He screwed up in his face in confusion, sending a ripple of wrinkles across his forehead. “I really don’t think a broken window merits the involvement of the homicide squad, babe.”
“Ordinarily not,” she agreed. She turned to face him and took both of his hands in hers. She took a deep breath and locked eyes with him. “But it seems that Nick Costopolous has crawled out of his hole.”
His face tightened, and his cheek muscles twitched—the classic sign of Connelly’s controlled anger. “He’s out?”
“No, he’s still in prison. But he’s allegedly found religion and asked for permission to contact me to make amends or something.”
“What the—?”
“The warden reached out to Benson. He called me this afternoon and I told him in no uncertain terms that I didn’t want to hear from that dirtbag. He promised to make sure Costopolous got the message loud and clear. But, the timing …”
“You think he’s behind the rock through the window?” Connelly’s eyes clouded.
She had to strain to speak around the hard lump in her throat. “I don’t know. But … I’m scared, Leo.” She swallowed. “I’m huge and slow. Out of practice. I feel exposed. And this is our house. We’re going to be bringing our baby home here. And it’s already tainted by violence.” Her voice broke.
“Hey, hey.” He pulled her close and smoothed her hair. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Or the baby. Look at me.” He tilted her chin up and stared at her. The intensity rippled off him almost visibly. “I promise.”
She nodded mutely, tears shining in her eyes. A series of images formed in her mind, like a slide show, one picture fading into the next—her brother’s casket; Clarissa Costopolous, slumped over in her car, her brain matter smeared all over the window; Kathryn crouching behind the Dumpster; and then a literal murderers’ row of faces, evil men and women who were now incarcerated thanks, in part, to her and to Connelly. Her stomach tied into a knot. She couldn’t believe what she was about to say. She closed her eyes and steadied her breathing.
“I know,” she breathed. “Go get your gun. Please.”
8
Sasha pushed the greens and white beans around the large, shallow bowl with the side of her fork. A quick glance at Connelly’s meal revealed that her husband wasn’t eating with any gusto either.
“Some celebratory meal, huh?” she said.
He turned his mouth up into a wry smile. “I guess I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“Yeah.”
Even the call from Detective Benson hadn’t been enough to buoy their spirits. He’d confirmed that Costopolous had had no recent visitors, had made no phone calls, and, perhaps most compelling, had no way to know that Sasha and Connelly had just moved. All the publicly available information about them still listed her old address. As far as he was concerned, the rock that had crashed through the kitchen window couldn’t be traced back to Costopolous.
Although that was a relief, it also meant that it could have been a message from some other vengeful enemy lurking in the shadows. Or a fourteen-year old with too much time on his hands. She was going to drive herself bananas obsessing over it. Besides, Connelly had retrieved his gun from the safety deposit box. She had to let it go and trust that they’d be able to respond to any threat to their little family. What choice did she have? Her time was better spent convincing him to sign up with the DNA registry. She just had to figure out the right way to broach the subject.
Across the table, he rested his fork against the side of his bowl and coughed into his fist. She looked up from her bowl. He took gulp of ice wate
r and leaned forward, reaching for her free hand.
“Listen, I’ve been thinking about what Carl said—well, what Shakespeare said—about the web of our life.”
“Okay?”
The candlelight cast a shadow on his chiseled face. “I’ve long since made my peace with the fact that I don’t know my dad. But I guess my heritage doesn’t just affect me anymore. It affects us—all three of us.”
“What are you saying? You want to look for your father?”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t go that far. That’d be wasted effort. I really think if he were findable, the feds would have found him by now. But his genetic information, I guess that could be out there somewhere. And Katrina’s right. It’s important. So, I’m going to submit a sample to that database she told us about. I wouldn’t hold your breath, but who knows? Maybe something will turn up and we’ll have something to tell the baby.” He smiled crookedly.
“Thank you.” He’d never say how hard it had been to agree to take this step, but she knew. Her heart squeezed in her chest.
He picked up her hand and kissed it. “No, thank you for not pressuring me about it. I love you, you know.”
“So I’ve heard.” She grinned back at him for a moment. Then she leaned back against the leather booth and rested her hands on her belly. “Now what are going to do about our giant baby?”
“The ultrasound?”
“Right.”
“That’s your call.”
“That’s not fair. This is our baby,” she pushed back.
“It is. But you’ve done all the research, read all the studies. I trust you to make the right decision. Besides, I’m nearly paralyzed with fear over here at the prospect of having this tiny, dependent little life relying on us.”
A Mingled Yarn Page 4
