As I prepared to go to bed, there was a knock on the door, and a second later my father stuck his head into the room. “Are you decent?”
“About as much as I’ll ever be,” I replied with a laugh.
He stepped into the room and sat down on the corner of the bed beside Beanie, who was sound asleep and snoring like a buzz saw. “Does he always sound like that?” He frowned.
“If you think that’s bad, just wait until he starts breaking wind,” I chuckled. “Is something wrong, Dad?”
“Can’t a father check in on his daughter and see how she’s doing?” he protested.
“I’m okay, I guess. I’m just feeling a bit dazed and glazed right now,” I admitted. “It’s been a long, stressful twenty-four hours.”
“I’m pleased that you and your mother were able to talk—and without any shouting, I might add.”
I studied him for a long moment, uncertain whether to say anything. Growing up, I had wondered why he always allowed my mother to have her way, no matter what it might be. Now it all seemed to make sense.
“Dad—how would you feel if everything you thought was real turned out to be an illusion—?”
“So I take it your mother finally got around to telling you about how we met,” he said with a laugh. “Did she also tell you about how she slipped a love potion into my champagne?”
“You know about that?”
“Of course!” he replied. “I’m one of the richest men in the world! And back then I was one of the most eligible bachelors in this, or any, country! I was always getting dosed with love potions and having Come Hithers cast over me by gold diggers. That’s why I always wore counter-charms and carried antidotes on my person at all times.”
“You mean Mom didn’t bewitch you?”
“Oh, I’m under her spell—but it has nothing to do with magic!” he laughed. “I was enchanted by your mother the first time I laid eyes on her. She’s an amazing woman, you know that? She’s a real firecracker, and isn’t afraid to speak her mind and stand up for what she believes in. You and she are a lot alike. I suspect that’s why you two are always butting heads. Unfortunately, I fear she’s reliving some unresolved issues she had with her parents through you, especially in regard to your decision to become an artist. I know she hated quitting the stage to marry me—but my parents insisted on it. That’s why she’s such a passionate fund-raiser for the ballet, you know.”
“If you’re not spellbound, why haven’t you told her yet? She’s spent years waiting for you to come to your senses and replace her with some bimbo who looks like a pool toy.”
“And lose what little leverage I have in the relationship?” he exclaimed. “Are you nuts?”
After my father bid good night and kissed me on the forehead, I changed into my nightclothes and climbed into bed. It was far bigger and much more comfortable than Nessie’s living room couch, but it was also just as cold and lonely. My only consolation, as I drifted off into a troubled sleep, was knowing I, like my child, had been conceived in love. Granted, a weird, fucked-up kind of love—but love nonetheless.
Chapter 23
“How did you sleep, dear?” my mother asked, as she spread marmalade on her English muffin.
“Okay, I guess,” I replied, as I eyed the plate of bacon and eggs Clarence set before me. “I’m afraid I’m not used to the sound of traffic in the streets anymore. It’s going to take some readjusting.”
“Have you seen an obstetrician? Or were you simply relying on witch doctors for your prenatal care?”
Despite my mother’s recent decision to treat me as an adult, I didn’t see any point in testing her resolution by revealing that I’d left Golgotham because Hexe had stolen money I needed for a prenatal exam. “Well, I have a friend who practices traditional Chinese medicine. . . .”
“I suspected as much,” she said, setting down her knife. “So I took the liberty of booking you an appointment with my gyno, Dr. Blumlein—he’s also an obstetrician. You’ll love him—he warms his hands before he does his exam.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” I said, the image of my mother with her feet in gyno stirrups now seared into my mind’s eye. So much for breakfast . . .
Dr. Blumlein’s practice was in a state-of-the-art office building on East Seventy-second Street, within easy reach of Prada, Frédéric Malle, and Swifty’s. When my mother and I arrived, we entered a tastefully appointed reception room with nicer furniture than most people have in their homes and were greeted by a pleasantly smiling woman who only glanced at my tattoos and eyebrow piercing once as she entered my information into a computer. After that was taken care of, I was handed over to a second, equally pleasant woman dressed in nurse’s whites, who escorted me to an examination room, leaving my mother to her own devices.
I changed out of my street clothes into a smocklike garment, and the nurse took my medical history and drew a blood sample. She then handed me a little plastic cup with a screw-on lid and pointed me to the bathroom at the end of the hall. Once that was taken care of, I was returned to the examination room, where I sat on the paper-wrapped exam table, staring at a laminated poster depicting cutaway views of a gestating womb during the various stages of pregnancy.
There was a polite rap on the door as the nurse reappeared, this time in the company of a dapper middle-aged man dressed in a white lab coat with a stethoscope looped about his neck. He had a nice smile and kind eyes, and seemed exactly the sort of man my mother and her high-society friends would trust to look at their hoo-has on a regular basis.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Eresby,” he said, flashing me a welcoming smile. “My name is Dr. Blumlein. I’ll be looking after you and your baby from here on.” As the nurse busied herself with preparing the room for my pelvic exam, he glanced down at the clipboard he was carrying. “It says here that you are in your eighteenth week.”
“That’s correct.”
He gave me a dubious look. “Are you certain?”
“I might be off a week in either direction,” I admitted. “But I’m in the general ballpark.”
“I see,” he grunted, jotting something down on the clipboard. “I understand that this is your first prenatal exam? I realize you’re young, but there are risk factors in all pregnancies. You don’t want to gamble with your baby’s health, do you?” he chided. “I see that you’re twenty-six. And the father? He’s—?”
“Kymeran.”
The gynecologist’s smile abruptly blinked off. “I was asking his age.”
“Sorry, my mistake. He’s thirty,” I replied.
The pelvic exam and pap smear proved to be as awkward, uncomfortable, and tedious as all such exams tend to be, landing somewhere between a getting-my-teeth-cleaned and changing-the-oil-in-my-car on the Necessary Evil scale.
“I’m going to leave you with Nurse Riggins here,” Dr. Blumlein announced as he shed his gloves. “She’ll conduct the ultrasound, so we can check on the development of your baby and triangulate your due date. Once that’s finished, I’ll be conferring with you in my office.”
“Just stay on your back and uncover your tummy, Ms. Eresby,” Nurse Riggins said as she rolled over the portable ultrasound machine. Once my abdomen was exposed, she slathered it with a clear gel and then turned on the machine.
“What, exactly, are you looking for when you do this?” I asked as she placed the transducer against my swollen belly.