All Fixed Up

by Linda Grimes

  I heard a thunk—that would be the phone dropping—followed by a happy squeal.

  “Mom!” I yelled. “Mom, pick up the phone right—”

  “Oh, this is such wonderful news!” Mom’s voice was loud and clear again, glazed with joy. “If it’s a girl, they’ll have to name her Helen. Well, middle name at least. And Mo will throw a shower, of course, and we’ll have a fabulous christening party—”

  “Mom! Stop a second, okay? Listen, you cannot tell Thomas and Laura I spilled the beans. They’re on their way up to tell you in person.”

  Mistake. Mom shifted gears faster than a NASCAR driver on race day.

  “Why did they tell you before me? Shouldn’t grandparents be the first—”

  “They wanted to see your face when—”

  “Would it have killed them to wait to tell you? Who else have they told? James? Brian? Mo? Am I the last one to find out?”

  “No! Nobody else knows.” If you don’t count Billy, I thought, crossing my fingers and glancing ceiling-ward for stray lightning bolts. “And the only reason I know is because Laura had to cancel her lesson with me to go to the doctor. She wanted to explain why she ditched me, is all.”

  “Well … I suppose I understand. Still … never mind, it doesn’t matter.” Thank God for Laura’s saintly immunity. “Listen, honey, I have to go. I need to call Mo!”

  “Mom, you can’t tell Mo yet!”

  “But she’ll want to start planning the shower.” Mom was already a million miles away, somewhere deep in Baby Land. In fact, I heard the telltale sound of her fingers tapping away on her computer. She was probably already scouring the Babies“R”Us website.

  “No,” I said. Loudly, to break through her haze. “You have to wait until Thomas and Laura tell you. And you have to act surprised when they do. Promise me!”

  “Promise what, sweetie? Listen, I’ll call you later. So much to do!”

  Chapter 5

  Aunt Helen’s funeral was a suitably somber affair, unless you counted the flashes of joy in Mom’s and Auntie Mo’s eyes every time they glanced at Laura. They were starting to make me queasy. Seemed like I was feeling queasy a lot lately. Which made me wonder … no. I was not going to go there, and damn Billy for planting the seed of the idea in my head, anyway.

  The seed-planter himself (okay, even as a random thought, that so didn’t sound right) squeezed my hand reassuringly.

  I glanced at Laura, whose auburn hair had grown into a sleek bob, presently shining in the morning sun. She’d met Aunt Helen only once, at the wedding, so her forest green eyes were focused on my brother Thomas with concern for him more than sadness for herself. His dismay lessened perceptibly when he looked at her. The skirt of her dark burgundy suit showed not a hint of a baby bump yet, but her hand still gravitated toward it unconsciously, like she was already protective of it.

  I jerked my eyes away from her, fighting the roil in my belly. There was no way … was there? I mean, I used birth control. Religiously. Then again, going by Thomas’s slip on the phone, so had Laura. If someone as meticulously careful as I knew CIA spooks to be could get caught …

  Crap. Where were horrible cramps when you really needed them? I did a quick calculation in my head, trying to remember how long it had been since my last period. Had I even had one since Thomas and Laura’s wedding? Things had gotten pretty messed up with the client I’d had then, and afterward the rift in my relationship with Billy had upset me so much I hadn’t exactly been paying attention to my internal calendar. If I hadn’t had a visit from good ol’ Mother Nature since—

  Holy shit! No, it couldn’t be.

  I looked at Mark with something akin to terror flowing through me. It had been a stupid, stupid misunderstanding on my part. I hadn’t even known at the time he was the one who—holy hell, God couldn’t be so cruel. Could He?

  Billy once again squeezed my hand lightly. “It’ll be over soon, cuz.”

  Would it? I thought weakly, and then gave myself a shake. This was ridiculous.

  I nodded up at Billy and tried to smile. Forced my mind to focus on Aunt Helen. Which didn’t make me feel one whit better. Funerals sucked, no matter how long and good a life the deceased had had, but then to be taken out in such a senselessly violent way … damn. It wasn’t right.

  Mom and Mo had (naturally) arranged everything. They’d tried to respect Uncle Foster’s wishes for a small graveside service with only the closest friends and family members in attendance, difficult as it was for them to plan anything low-key, but there were still a lot of people in there, most of them adaptors.

  At least the setting was beautiful, I thought, trying my best to find something positive to focus on. Aunt Helen and Uncle Foster had bought a double plot at the Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx back in 1974, when Duke Ellington was buried there. They were big jazz fans. The weather was crisp and clear—cold enough to be seasonal, but not to give you frostbite.

  The only disconcerting thing about the morning was the presence of several undercover security guards posted around the perimeter, trying to blend in with the mourners. Mark had insisted on it. He was working with the police on the murder case (if by “working with” you mean “had taken it over entirely”) because it involved an adaptor. He hadn’t told the local law enforcement officers that, of course. He’d merely flashed his government credentials, said something about “national security” and “need to know” (big surprise), and set them to doing the mundane groundwork, without allowing them to follow any trails that might lead to discovering the existence of adaptors. (Yeah, I’ll bet the local LEOs love when the feds come to visit.)

  I put it all down to Mark’s tendency to be extra cautious where the anonymity of the adaptor community was concerned. (Thomas had once hinted that Mark’s extreme caution had something to do with his family—whom none of us knew—but refused to discuss it more than that.) Still, somebody purposely singling out Aunt Helen? It was a ridiculous notion. She was the most inoffensive person you could imagine. There was no possible reason anyone would kill her, other than pure random malice.

  When the minister—a friendly older woman who looked like she’d be right at home baking cookies in Santa’s kitchen—finished listing all the wonderful things about Aunt Helen (it was a long list), Uncle Foster picked up the saxophone from a stand between two huge wreaths of anthuriums. The waxy red flowers, with their obscene protrusions, had been Aunt Helen’s favorite—she said they always looked happy to see her.

  If there’d been tears before, the floodgates opened on everyone when Uncle Foster handed his prized possession to my brother Brian, the musician in our family, who started playing “In a Sentimental Mood,” Aunt Helen’s favorite. Uncle Foster closed his eyes, holding on to my father and mother for support, an achingly sad smile on his face as he swayed, ever so slightly, to the melody. I buried my face in Billy’s shoulder (yeah, that suit jacket was going to need a trip to the dry cleaners) and momentarily lost myself in memories of the sweet old lady who’d snuck me candy and told me scandalous stories about her days entertaining the soldiers as a USO volunteer.

  My snuffling was interrupted by an extra hand on my shoulder. Mark.

  “To your left, Howdy,” he said, barely moving his lips. “Recognize anyone?”

  I glanced. A man appeared to be photographing us from twenty or thirty yards away, documenting our grief for whatever reason. “Maybe he works for Woodlawn?” I looked again, more closely, after blinking away excess tears. This time the camera was away from the man’s face. “Wait a second—that’s Alec Loughlin. What’s he doing here?”

  “Good question,” Mark said quietly.

  What the hell? I thought. Mark stepped away before I could voice it. He must have signaled his men somehow, because they closed ranks—quietly, casually—around our small group. Mark walked toward Loughlin, also not rushing. Unfortunately there was no way he could sneak up on the man. Instead, he gave a friendly wave. When the man bolted, so did Billy, joining Mark in the
chase.

  Mark and Billy were fast, but the man had a vehicle idling close by, and was in it, tearing out, before they could reach him. Traveling much faster than the fifteen-mile-per-hour speed limit, too, the asshole.

  * * *

  “Are you sure it was Alec Loughlin?” Mark said. “I’ve only seen pictures of the man, but you’ve met him in person.”

  We were in my parents’ study, along with Billy, taking a brief break from the gaiety in the dining room, where all the in-town Halligans and Doyles were gathered to toast Thomas and Laura’s good news. Perhaps it wasn’t in the best of taste to hold such a celebration on the evening of Aunt Helen’s funeral, but Mom had pointed out Aunt Helen would have been the first to insist on it. She’d always made such a fuss about each and every new Halligan baby, and would have been thrilled at the news of the newest generation.

  Uncle Foster was settled back at the exclusive senior living community next to Central Park where he and Aunt Helen had lived for the last ten years. As a new widower, he would be well looked after by a few dozen widows who also resided there, God help him.

  I thought hard about Mark’s question, struggling to see the man’s face in my mind. “I was sure. At the cemetery. When I saw him,” I said. “There was something about his stance, about the way he held his camera—it reminded me of the news conference. But, no, I suppose he was too far away for me to be a hundred percent certain. Say, ninety-eight percent?”

  Mark had shown Billy and me pictures of the real Alec Loughlin on his cell phone. It was definitely the same guy who’d been on the Vomit Comet with me. Or his twin, I supposed, but Mark probably would have mentioned if he’d had one.

  Billy’s usually playful eyes were serious. “It makes sense Loughlin was hired by NASA to document Dr. Carson’s announcement. He knows her—there’s a connection. But how could he know Ciel wasn’t the real Dr. Carson? Sure, he might wonder why she was ignoring their previous romantic relationship”—I’d already explained how she had neglected to include that little tidbit in her questionnaire—“but that shouldn’t be enough to make him think it wasn’t her. And, if it was Loughlin at the cemetery, why was he taking pictures of everyone?”

  “More good questions.” Mark’s mouth settled into a hard line. He didn’t like unanswered questions, especially where adaptors were concerned. “Do you think Dr. Carson told him?”

  I shook my head. “And risk her mission? Highly doubtful. It’s too important to her.”

  Molly, Billy’s youngest sister, a shorter, long-haired female replica of him, stuck her head in the door. “Hey, you guys, Auntie Ro”—my mom, the inimitable Aurora Halligan, was “Auntie Ro” to Billy and his sisters—“says to come back for the toast. Guess what! Dad said I can have a sip of champagne!”

  She skipped off, happily anticipating her first parentally approved taste of alcohol. Of course, if she was anything like her brother and sisters (Sinead and Siobhan, currently home from college on winter break), she’d already illicitly sampled the fruit of the vine. Doyles were precocious.

  “Be right there,” Mark called after her, then turned back to Billy and me. “What are the chances of getting your families to take Christmas vacation to someplace remote this year?”

  “Ha. Mo and Ro, the Christmas queens, leave the city at the height of the holiday season? Slim to none,” Billy said.

  “No kidding,” I said. “But why would you want them to?”

  “Call it an abundance of caution.” Mark looked like he was about to say more, but was interrupted by my mother’s voice telling us to get a move on. Instead, he herded us out of the study. “Come on. Let’s go make the newest Halligan’s existence official before the wrath of Granny comes down on our heads.”

  Dad was already pouring when we rejoined the festivities. The amount he put in Molly’s glass was minuscule.

  “Not even one good swallow,” she complained.

  “Hey, at least you get real champagne,” Laura said, eyeing her own glass of sparkling cider suspiciously. She looked over at James, appealing to the scientist in our family for support. “Are you sure alcohol is bad for the baby?”

  James, the brother who looks the most like me, with his strawberry blond hair and pale green eyes (no freckles though, the lucky bastard), shrugged. “Current medical opinion on the consumption of small amounts of alcohol while pregnant varies, but the official recommendation is still not to risk it.”

  Thomas looked at his wife’s disgruntled face and hugged her to him with one arm (his other was busy lifting his full-to-the-brim glass). “Don’t worry, honey. Since you’ll be eating for two, I’ll be happy to drink for two.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Laura grumbled indulgently as everyone else laughed. It’s possible my laughter was a tad forced.

  My father finished topping off the rest of our glasses and raised his. “To the next generation!” he said, looking about as happy as I’d ever seen him.

  I didn’t let myself look up at Billy or Mark, standing on either side of me. Fighting down the tiny seed of panic taking root inside me, I wanted nothing more than to guzzle my whole glass in one good swig. Instead, out of some superstitious dread, I barely let the liquid touch my lips.

  Chapter 6

  I stood in line at Macy’s Santaland, wearing the clothes and aura of Molly’s good friend Olivia Hawkins, a cherub-faced child with a halo of golden-brown curls and eyes the color of old pennies. Even from as far back in line as Molly and I were, I could see Santa’s eyes matched his rosy cheeks. I had a sneaking suspicion the contents of his cocoa thermos went beyond the usual kiddie drink. Not that I blamed him. Hell, I was tempted to see if I could get him to share.

  I’d about convinced myself the insidious “what if” thoughts I’d been having were purely a psychosomatic response to Laura’s pregnancy, so joining the jolly old elf in a quaff of something strong enough to deaden the pain of being trapped in this store with dozens upon dozens of joyously—and some not so joyously—screaming children and their harried parents sounded pretty good. But of course, it was only a pipe dream, considering the age of the aura I was projecting.

  Plus, part of me was convinced if I avoided alcohol, then I wouldn’t be pregnant. Superstitious? Probably. But that was the way my mind worked. The same way I didn’t want to take a pregnancy test, because as long as I didn’t know, then I wasn’t pregnant. (Yeah, I know. Stupid. But when you thought about it, it was like the Schrödinger’s cat dilemma—which made it totally scientific—only with my belly. Until I took a test, I both was and wasn’t pregnant. As long as I covered my ass on the “was” possibility by not drinking, I could safely remain “wasn’t” in my head. Not that I wouldn’t take the damn test eventually, if necessary. I was superstitious, not stupid-stitious.)

  “Are you sure this is a good idea, Molls?” I said. “I mean, I hate for your friend to miss out on the fun.”

  Molly, tall for her age—all the Doyle kids were tall, like their dad—wore her dark brown, wavy hair in one long braid. Her bright blue eyes (almost identical to Billy’s, again courtesy of Uncle Liam) sparkled.

  “Oh, it was Olivia’s idea. Her mom has a picture of her sitting on Santa’s lap every year for the last twelve years. She started in utero”—Molly had a great vocabulary for her age—“and made Olivia promise to keep doing it until she’s twelve. It’s a family tradition, and Olivia hates it with a passion. So I told her I’d do it for her as a Christmas present. I was so sure I’d be adapting by now, after what happened before.”

  Molly had recently gone through a phase of being able to adapt—after a fashion—at a younger than usual age. The vast majority of aura adaptors don’t acquire the ability until they hit puberty. We’d all assumed Molly was as precocious at adapting as she was at everything else, but it turned out her early onset had been a short-lived fluke. She’d been waiting on pins and needles for it to reappear ever since.

  “If it’s a family tradition, shouldn’t she be doing it with, you know, her family
?” I said, nudging my youngest honorary cuz in the ribs. I would have been concerned about Molly telling her friend about us and what we could do if I hadn’t known Olivia’s grandmother was an adaptor. None of her offspring had inherited the trait, but our existence would be no surprise to the family.

  Molly giggled. “You’d think, huh? But Olivia threw a major fit, and told her mom she’d only do it this year if she could do it with me, no parents involved. She told her mom you’d take us. Which is kind of true, isn’t it? If you don’t get too technical about it.”

  You had to admire their proficiency at scheming, if not their honesty. “I hope Olivia stays out of sight until we’re through here. If she’s seen two places at once…”

  Molly, raised in a family of adaptors, was well drilled in the dangers of discovery. “She’s hiding out in the tree house her dad built her. We stocked it up ahead of time with sodas and popcorn, and she has her iPad with her to watch videos. With headphones, so nobody will hear her.”

  “Good thinking. But what if her brother finds her?” There was very little possibility Olivia’s mom would make the climb, but her kid brother was half monkey. As far as I knew, he had not been let in on the adaptor secret yet, being somewhat ill-equipped for keeping his mouth shut about anything.

  “He’s not allowed in the tree house since their mom caught him up there last summer spying on Chrissy next door with binoculars. Chrissy was sunbathing.” Molly lowered her voice to whisper, lacing it with giggles. “Topless.”

  Ha! Chrissy was a newly minted teenager who’d recently started filling out a bikini. “You really think being forbidden will keep him from trying for another peek? Isn’t Chrissy’s bedroom window right across from the tree house? As I recall, he’s a persistent little bugger.”

  “Nah, we’re good. If he gets caught again, his parents will take away all his electronic privileges for a month. He won’t risk losing access to his video games. Not even for boobies.”