Christie cleaned the baby as the doctor pulled his stool around to the side of the bed facing Miranda and took her hand.
“Miranda, when you were pregnant, do you remember us discussing genetic testing?” he asked suddenly, sounding more like a lawyer than a doctor. “Amniocentesis, or CVS, or any of those?”
Her stomach lurched. Miranda had decided that all prenatal testing was unreliable and cruel since her first pregnancy, when after a routine ultrasound her then doctor indicated that Bailey would most likely be born with unnaturally short legs, and Miranda spent the next three sleepless months worrying about how she was going to raise a dwarf baby. “You know now I feel about those tests.” Her voice started to break. “What’s going on? Is something wrong with Brixton?”
Dr. Fales took a deep breath and thought about the many places he’d rather be.
“Well, I can’t say conclusively … but it appears, at first sight, and this is based solely on physical characteristics, but it appears that Brixton might, and let me stress that word,
might,
have Down syndrome.”
He took a moment to let them absorb the news, but instead it filled the room like water. Miranda felt like she was drowning.
“We’ll need to do some tests to know for sure, but … I think it would be prudent if the two of you started managing your plans.”
Miranda’s head split with questions, but when she opened her mouth the only thing that came out was a very small “no.” It simply was not possible for Brixton to have Down syndrome. Miranda would have known, she would have felt it. She was her mother, for heaven’s sake. Besides, plans had been made, and they would not be
managed
. There had to be some kind of mistake.
“I know it’s not what you want to hear right now,” Dr. Fales said, “but … there’s a reason these children are called special.”
Miranda wanted to cry, or scream, or vomit, but she was empty.
“Otherwise,” the doctor continued, “Brixton appears to be a perfectly healthy little girl, and she needs her mommy and daddy just like any other little girl.”
He gave Ray a sympathetic smile, patted him on the shoulder, and crossed to the nurses.
“What happened?” Miranda asked no one in particular. Was it something she’d done? The stress from the pageants? The fight with Theresa? September eleventh?
Miranda turned to Ray, who was staring ashen faced at the table where the nurses were cleaning his wife’s insides off his new daughter. “Ray? Did we do something wrong?” Her voice was a ghost.
“No. I don’t know,” he whispered. But he did know. Ray may not have believed in God, but he did believe in karma, and she was a stone-cold bitch. His affair with Courtney was an admission to the universe that he believed his actions had no real consequences, but that is not how the universe works. This was Ray’s fault, and for the rest of his life, whenever he looked at his daughter’s face, he would be reminded of his failure as a father and husband.
Miranda took her husband’s hand and held it to her face. The bitter knot growing in Ray’s throat prevented him from speaking, so he just nodded at her, hoping she knew what it meant: that he loved her more than anything in the world, and he was sorry for what he’d done.
“Would you like to meet your daughter?”
Christie was standing behind him, cradling a mass of white flannel. The parents tightened their grip on each other’s hands and exhaled until they were light-headed. Miranda nodded and took the baby from Christie, who then turned to Ray and practically knocked him over with a hug. Surprisingly, he welcomed the human contact and tried to physically transfer some of his guilt onto her.
Brixton Destiny Miller’s tiny red face was topped with a shock of black hair. Perhaps Dr. Fales was trying to let them down easy, but tests would only confirm the obvious. Their daughter had Down syndrome. It took all Ray had not to confess everything: the affair with Courtney, the baby they were expecting, the trip to Gatlinburg, the Ceasocor, Walter Beddow’s credit card, his pill hobby, how much porn he watched, everything. He wanted to stand in the middle of the room and scream, “This is all
my fault
! I did this! And I want you to hate me for it!”
But before he could say anything, Brixton let out a massive sneeze that surprised all three of them. The newborn’s eyes widened and then, in what Miranda would forever describe as a miracle, looked at her parents and said, “Wow.” She then closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, as peaceful and still as an angel. It was only a sneeze, but Miranda chose to see it as much more than that. To her, it was a sign from God that her daughter was going be okay—because that’s what she desperately needed it to be.
Ray managed a smile, but his lips looked like they’d shattered and been hastily glued back together. There were cracks, tiny chips that were lost forever, subtle changes that would always remind him of the moment his carelessness destroyed something special. Miranda leaned forward and kissed away one of Ray’s tears that had fallen onto the baby’s soft head.
“Everything’s going to be okay, Ray.”
Still unable to speak, Ray wiped another tear from his face and nodded.
“Hey,” she said calmly to her husband, “we can do this.”
“Can we?” he whispered, his voice thin and scratchy like an old record.
“Of course we can. You and I can do
anything,
” she said, and looked at Brixton. “Do you want to meet your daddy?”
Ray felt unworthy of the title, or the honor of holding her, and stood motionless until Miranda practically forced the girl into his arms. He cradled her a little more delicately than he would have otherwise. He’d already done enough damage.
“I always forget,” he said, his voice becoming more unreliable with every word, “how light they are.” Staring at the tiny person he’d made with love, and damaged with hubris, he gave her a small kiss on the nose. “She’s beautiful,” he said, and meant it.
A volcanic sob was bubbling up from deep inside him, but Ray clenched every muscle in his body to force it back down. Crying would make him feel better, and he didn’t deserve to feel better. Besides, if he started crying now, he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to stop.
Standing in her underwear in front of her grandmother’s full-length mirror, Courtney rubbed her belly like a crystal ball and tried to imagine what her body would look like when she finally started showing. At seven weeks, her stomach was still pretty flat, but the Internet said it could be anywhere from three to four months before she noticed anything, so whatever. Bumming her out more than anything else was the fact that her boobs hadn’t gotten any bigger. The black minidress she’d bought for Marvin’s funeral showed—in her opinion—a tasteful amount of cleavage, but it would have been awesome if that cleavage were fuller. But that wasn’t going to happen, so she’d just wear something else. On her rapidly growing list of problems, that one was relatively small.
Courtney had spent the day before with Geralton Waxflower III, Marvin’s attorney and executor of his will. Mr. Waxflower had been Marvin’s attorney since his original lawyer, Geralton Waxflower Jr., died in a parallel-parking accident ten years earlier. Geralton III was a cadaverous, redheaded yawn who had worked out of his immaculate home office since being self-diagnosed with agoraphobia in the late ’80s.
His “condition” was more of a reaction to his utter dislike of people than any real fear of leaving his house: But since his insurance didn’t cover misanthropy, he convinced one of his clients—a dermatologist whose wages were being garnished for unpaid child support—to make it official. The formal diagnosis allowed him to work from home, which provided a healthy tax deduction. The federal disability check he received on the first of every month further legitimized his condition, at least in the eyes of the U.S. government.
A compulsive nose blower, Mr. Waxflower had strategically placed boxes of tissues on every available surface of his home, ensuring he would never be more than an arm’s length away should he feel the urge to blow. His office, which resembled a midcentury New Orleans whorehouse, was spotted with dozens of white, billowy tufts haunting the room like tiny, mentholated ghosts. Additionally, dozens of antique porcelain dolls, a collection his beloved mother willed to him (and that he’d coveted since childhood), populated the dusty shelves.
To prepare for his meeting with Courtney, Mr. Waxflower placed his one and only visitor chair four feet away from the front of his desk. His profession dictated that he often deliver bad news, and the distance provided a much-needed buffer between himself and a client’s undignified emotional outbursts. If it were not for his clients, Mr. Waxflower’s job would be perfect. He often found himself wishing that porcelain dolls needed attorneys, since their company was infinitely more comforting.
As Mr. Waxflower droned on through the monotonous details of Marvin’s last will and testament, Courtney’s mind drifted to other things—primarily Ray, to whom she hadn’t spoken since returning from Gatlinburg. She had texted him a couple times, and he’d responded promptly enough, which was fine … for now. He was busy. Apparently, his baby was retarded or something.
Then Mr. Waxflower said something that jerked her back to the present.
“… so, it appears you owe the state $12,735.63, which must be paid within the next sixty days to prevent foreclosure on your house.”
“Wait, what? What are you talking about?”
Mr. Waxflower cleared his throat and smoothed his soup-stained tie back under his sweater vest. “Well … as I was
just
saying, it appears your grandfather owed several thousand dollars in past-due property taxes.”
Courtney spit her gum into her hand and dragged the heavy chair up to the edge of her lawyer’s desk. At the same time, Mr. Waxflower pushed his chair backward in an attempt to maintain an equal distance. He made a mental note to bolt the visitor chair to the floor.
“But he’s dead,” Courtney protested, “so he doesn’t owe anything anymore to anybody. He can’t. It’s impossible.”
“Yes,” Mr. Waxflower said, reaching for a tissue. “But the law states that you cannot take legal possession of the house until the debt is paid in full.” He coaxed a tissue from a nearby box and blew his empty nose. “I’m sorry, Miss Daye, but that’s how the law works.”
“But that’s not right. Granddaddy told me he left me the house and a whole bunch of money. So that’s what I want.”
“Yes, but as I’ve explained to you, he had not paid taxes on the house in a long time and there is a lien on it.”
He delicately pulled another tissue from the box with the grace and flair of a sleight-of-hand magician.
“What’s a lien?”
He sighed heavily, making no effort to hide his irritation. Even with clients who understood the law, Mr. Waxflower was not a patient man.
“Again, as I was saying before, when a person doesn’t pay his taxes, the government can put what’s called a lien on the property, meaning that in lieu of the money, they can keep the house as collateral against the debt.”
“And that’s legal?” she practically shouted.
“It is, yes. It’s actually how our government works.”
“Well, that’s stupid. What about the money Granddaddy left me? It’s, like, fifty grand or something.”
Mr. Waxflower cleared his throat. “It was $25,436.87. Minus the $10,000 that’s been set aside for funeral expenses—casket, burial, etc.—you’re probably looking at around $15,000.”
“Okay. So then how do I owe $12,000?”
“The lien on the house and surrounding property is for approximately $27,000. So fifteen minus twenty-seven…”
Courtney’s eyes moved upward as if she was trying to watch her brain do the math.
Mr. Waxflower sighed again. “… is twelve. Miss Daye, you owe the government $12,735.63 or they will take your house.”
All those numbers were making her angry and confused. And who the hell was this weird guy to tell her that she owed the government money when she knew better? Marvin had promised that she would get the house and a bunch of money, and this creep was trying to con her out of it. Mr. Waxflower obviously did not know who he was dealing with.
“What are you trying to pull?” she asked.
“Pardon me?”
“You’re conning me. I want a second opinion.”
“Miss Daye, I can assure you—”
“You heard me, buddy. I want to talk to another lawyer. Is there another lawyer back there somewhere?” Courtney gestured to a closed door that she imagined was hiding smarter, better-looking men who would tell her exactly what she wanted to hear.
“No. This is my house. Miss Daye, please. I don’t make the laws, I just study and respect them, and I promise what I’ve told you is correct. Considering the circumstances, the county has agreed to give you sixty days to come up with the money, but that’s it. Do you have family who can help you?”
“Granddaddy was my only family.” Courtney’s voice was unstable. “He said he was going to take care of me.” She put her head down on Mr. Waxflower’s desk and burst into tears.
Nothing was as off-putting to Mr. Waxflower as raw human emotion. It was messy and unpredictable, like children or sex, two other things with which the attorney had very limited experience. However, the job—not to mention human decency—dictated that moments like this be acknowledged. Therefore, Mr. Waxflower pulled his chair back up to his desk, reached across, and gingerly patted her twice on the top of her head.
“There, there,” he said, so empty and hollow the words practically echoed. It was the first human being he’d touched in thirteen months.
“I’m pregnant!” Courtney screamed.
Mr. Waxflower reflexively withdrew his hand as if she’d just said she was radioactive, or a peanut—one of the many things the attorney claimed an allergy to. He quickly grabbed another tissue and wiped his hands.
“How am I supposed to raise a baby without a house?” The question sounded rhetorical, but Courtney looked at him with her red, puffy eyes and screamed, “
How?
”
Mr. Waxflower sat like a statue before blurting out the first thing that entered his head. “That is none of my business, I’m sure. Please leave my home office. Our business is done for today.”