Taji's Syndrome (2 page)

“We’ll see more.” He took her hand. “What say we go on in and get lunch? They’ve got a seafood salad with shrimp and crab and scallops that looks perfect.”

“Good enough for
Jonathon’s Table?”
she asked, referring to the best of his four restaurants.

“You bet,” he said. “Besides, you don’t want to starve the new kid on the block. Get him used to the best right away. Make a gourmet of him early.”

“Him?” she demanded with false indignation.

“All right, him; her; whatever.” He was drawing her toward the dining room. “You’re going to love it.”

She tagged after him, starting to think of names as she went.

She was one hundred twelve days pregnant.

Alexandra Porter

Frank was late again, and Alexa stared at the walls of the mobile home they shared while he was on the rodeo circuit. She wanted to be back home, in the small, familiar Oregon town where they leased a hundred-acre ranch, raised a few head of cattle and Frank: broke horses to help make ends meet. But every year, from June to October, he made the rounds of the smaller rodeos, from Alberta to Texas, and after five years of it, Alexa was tired.

It was more than tired, she admitted: it was the baby. And if Frank weren’t so busy riding half-crazy horses, he might have noticed something by now. But no, he was out with his buddies, drinking and probably whoring as well. These last two years he’d spent more time with those eager, glittery ladies who wore jeans so tight and shiny that Alexa wondered how they ever sat down, let alone breathed.

She got up and went to the icebox. Nothing much in it but half a dozen slices of bread, a head of lettuce and some mustard. It wouldn’t be much of a meal, she thought, but until Frank got back, it was all there was in the house except a six-pack of Bud. Sighing, she took the lettuce out of the icebox and began to eat it, pulling the leaves off, rolling them up, and eating down them as if it was asparagus.

She was one hundred seven days pregnant.

Susan Ross

Susan was on her way to pick up Kevin at school—it was his first semester in kindergarten—and Grant from the preschool. She had packed a picnic when it became certain that the weather would stay clear through the afternoon. She was delighted that she would be able to tell her two sons that their father had got the post he wanted and that they would be moving to Seattle around Christmas.

Traffic was heavier than she had expected, and Susan was almost late to Kevin’s school, which troubled her. She had been accused of being overprotective, but the constant reminders in the mail and on grocery bags and in the news of missing children made her vigilant, and she dreaded the thought of Kevin standing alone in front of his school, the potential target of any maniac who might come along.

“You’re overreacting,” she told herself aloud. “You get this way when you’re pregnant, remember? It isn’t good for the kids to see you like this. It isn’t good for the baby. Relax.” She started doing the anti-stress exercises her nurse had recommended the year before, and it helped some. At last she made the turn in front of the school and was relieved to see that Miss Brewer was standing beside Kevin and waving at her.

“Sorry I’m late,” Susan called as she came to a stop and leaned over to open the door. “It’s been—”

“It’s fine, Missus Ross,” said Miss Brewer. “We had a good talk, didn’t we, Kevin.”

“Yes, Miss Brewer,” Kevin said in a subdued voice as he got into the car.

“What do you say to Miss Brewer for waiting with you?” Susan asked before she closed the door.

“Thank you, Miss Brewer,” said Kevin without enthusiasm.

“You’re welcome, Kevin,” she said as if she were not aware of his disinterest. “Drive carefully, Missus Ross,” she added, as she stepped back from the car.

“She smells like mothballs,” Kevin remarked as they drove away.

“Kevin, that’s not a nice thing to say,” Susan protested.

“Well she does,” Kevin insisted, then looked around. “You made liverwurst!”

“And tuna fish for your brother,” she added, smiling at his obvious pleasure. And, she added to herself, a simple lettuce and cucumber salad for her since she had to watch her weight for the next six months.

She was one hundred one days pregnant.

—Gail Harmmon—

WHEN
Eric met her after swim practice, Gail was pleased and puzzled at once. “Where’s Dad?” she asked her older brother as she bounced out of the gym.

“Still in line for gas, I guess.” Eric had four books under his arm and even though he had been wearing contact lenses for three years, he still looked as if he were wearing glasses. “Mom asked me to meet you.”

“I can walk home on my own,” declared Gail, with the defensive independence of her almost-thirteen years. “I’m not exactly a kid.”

“You know what Mom’s like,” said Eric, as the only explanation for their situation.

“Sure; and she’s been worse since she went back to work.” They had fallen into step together, prepared to walk the mile and a half home, though pedestrians were not that common a sight in the San Fernando Valley, especially now that there were so many smog alerts.

“She’s worried, that’s all,” said Eric, frowning. “She’s a little guilty, too. You know what happened to Erin’s kids—she thinks the same thing’s going to happen to us.”

“That’s silly.” They stopped at a crosswalk and waited for a break in the stream of cars to cross. “Jenny got into junior-crack because of that guy from Texas. I mean, it was legal, a look-alike, not the real thing, being manufactured and all.” She tossed her head, her short brown hair shining in the ruddy afternoon haze. “Dad gave me this ghoully lecture about all the designer drugs. He’s worse than the cops that come to the school.”

Eric cleared his throat. “Well?”

“Well what?” she challenged. Until two years ago she had idolized her brilliant older brother, but much of that glamor had faded as she began to shine in school sports.

“Is there any reason they should worry?” Eric asked in his usual oblique style.

“You mean do I mess with drugs? Of course not.” Her scorn was tremendous and she increased her already long stride to emphasize her contempt for the idea. “I’m an athlete, for God’s sake! You know what happens with those designer drugs? Well, I’m not taking any chances.”

“Olympic gold in diving, right?” said Eric, repeating Gail’s often-stated goal.

“For starters,” she said, letting him off the hook.

“And then what?” He caught up to her, his breath coming too fast. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead and the color had drained from his face.

“Oh, hey, I’m sorry,” said Gail, slowing at once. “I keep forgetting. Are you sure we ought to be walking home at all?”

Eric gave her a crooked smile. “The doctors said that so long as I don’t overdo, some exercise is probably good for me. I’m scheduled for another series of tests next week.”

“Next week?” Gail was shocked. “But you just had a bunch two weeks ago.”

“Which didn’t turn up anything,” he reminded her, pleased that she reduced the pace of their hike.

“But Eric . . . ” She hesitated. “I mean, don’t they know what’s wrong? How can they not know? They’ve got all those machines and computers and all that. How can they not know?” They passed a service station with the usual twenty-car line for the pumps; neither Eric nor Gail paid any attention to the sight, which had become commonplace in the last two years.

“I guess because there’s nothing . . . specific about what’s the matter. It’s a little bit like mono and a little bit like a lot of other things, but it isn’t any of them.” He sighed, giving way to the futility he had felt since he had his first tests last May, six months ago.

“Boy, what a ghoully thing!” Gail burst out. “I start my crummy periods and then you get . . . what did they used to call it?”

“The vapors,” he suggested, trying to make light of it again.

“Yeah, that’s right. The vapors.” She said it in an exaggerated way, her voice deep and what she hoped was spooky. “The vapors! It sounds like a third-rate monster mini-series, doesn’t it?”

“Or a new video.” He stopped briefly, smiling his apology at her. “Sorry. Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure,” she said at once, switching to her own sports with ease. “I’m going to be in the freestyle as well as the diving next weekend. The coach asked me to fill in for Gretchen Wills—she’s got something wrong with her, and Ms. Dennison wants to have a full team in all the events.”

“Well, good for you,” said Eric, doing his best to muster enthusiasm. He was never much good at sports, and recently he had been excused from the athletic program at his high school until his physician determined it was safe for him to resume such demanding activities. “I know Mom’ll be happy to know that, too. She told Megan that she ought to practice more.”

Gail shook her head over the lack of perception this showed. “Megan’s no swimmer. She’s okay, but that’s all. Mom ought to get her those extra dancing lessons she wants, because that’s what she’s good at.”

“How can you tell? She’s only nine.” Eric hated to admit it, but his youngest sister baffled him.

“Nine’s almost too late for a dancer,” Gail announced with authority. “You ask Meredith, and she’ll tell you.”

Eric shook his head. “Meredith doesn’t talk to me that much anymore.” She had almost been his girlfriend for more than a year, and then, as Eric’s health changed, Meredith slipped away from him, as if she feared his unknown disease might touch her as well. “She’s taking extra dance classes,” he added, glad that there was a reasonable excuse for the change in their fading relationship.

“Well, see what I mean?” Gail asked, then paused. “Are you scared, Eric?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Don’t tell Mom and Dad, will you? They’re pretty upset as it is.” He cleared his throat and squinted across the next intersection. “They’d get me shrunk if they thought I was scared.”

“So what? Getting shrunk isn’t too bad,” said Gail blithely.

“That’s for the stringers on drugs and the weirdos with the tattoos and the tech-ers who won’t let anyone touch them. I’ve got an odd disease is all.” He coughed once, more to keep his voice from breaking than because he needed to.

“Whatever,” said Gail, holding up an imperious hand to the approaching cars. They had four more long blocks to go before they were home. As they crossed the six-lane street, Gail watched her brother covertly, looking for signs of illness.

“Stop it,” he said as they got to the curb.

“I didn’t mean anything,” said Gail, knowing it was useless to deny what she had done.

“Stop it anyway. I’m not going to drop dead in the middle of Victory Boulevard, for Chrissake.” He studied her and then smiled. “I don’t blame you for wondering.”

“Well, you got to admit that it makes more sense for you to be wondering about college than a puke-o disease.”

“It makes more sense,” he said, knowing that if his doctors would allow it, he would start at Cal Irvine next fall. If.
If. If. The word had put all of his life in suspension while a bunch of doctors looked over the printouts and pictures from their machines and tried to decide what was wrong with him. What puzzled him most was that the machines— for which he had more respect than he had for physicians—had not been able to pinpoint his disease and offer a solution to it.

“You ought to volunteer for some of those experimental groups, you know, the ones that try out all the new medical things. I bet they’d find out what was wrong in a couple of weeks.” Gail favored him with an encouraging grin. “Those guys love to experiment, and they’re into everything.”

“Sure,” he said, with a complete lack of confidence. He began to feel sick, and he touched Gail on the arm. “Can we just wait a minute?”

“You okay?” she asked, suddenly anxious for him.

“I think so. I’m just . . . a little short of breath.” He stared toward the next cross street and glared at the traffic. “I guess the smog is getting to me. They issued a warning for this afternoon. I should have paid more attention.”

“Yeah.” Gail was more uncertain than ever. “Look, if you want to wait on the bus bench, I can run home and tell—”

“Tell who?” demanded Eric. “Mom and Dad are at work and they won’t be home, either of them, for more than two hours.” He hated the thought that his younger sister was in better shape than he was, though he knew it was true.

“Then we can wait a little while,” Gail conceded at once. “You’re right. Mom and Dad are still out. If I had my license, I’d drive you.”

“You won’t have your license for almost four years,” said Eric, who had acquired his learner’s permit only a month ago.

“I’d still drive for you if I could get away with it.” She gave him a conspiratorial wink. “You could drive home, but I’d bring the car here.”

They had reached one of the infrequent bus benches, and Eric gratefully sank down on it, chagrined at how much he needed the respite. “You’re not supposed to know how to drive at all.”

“That’s silly,” she declared. “And you know it as well as I do.” She shaded her eyes and looked down the street. “We could try hitchhiking.”

“Mom would have a fit.”

“There’s two of us. I wouldn’t do it alone. I’m not that dumb. But you and me ought to be safe.” She started to stick out her thumb, but Eric stopped her.

“All I need is a couple more minutes and that ought to be enough. HI didn’t have this crap, whatever it is, I’d be fine.”

“I know that,” said Gail with more sympathy than before. “You can’t help it that you’ve got something no one can figure out yet.”

“That’s so,” said Eric, taking several deep breaths of the gasoline-tainted air. “But I got to tell you, Gail, I’m damned sick of being sick.”

“I can imagine. It must be ghoully to feel bad all the time.” She reached out and patted his arm. “You don’t have to worry. They’re going to find out what’s wrong and fix you up in no time. Doctor Plaiting knows his job.”

“He sure does,” Eric agreed as he got to his feet. “What’s the worst part is that I end up feeling out of it about half the time, and that means I can’t think worth batshit.”

“That’ll change when you get well.” They started walking once more, Gail slightly in the lead. “You’ll see.”

“Yeah,” said Eric, striving to get more air into his lungs with each breath.

—Steven Channing—

“There will be two more payments before the trust is exhausted,” the insurance lawyer explained to Irene Channing, his old-fashioned glasses riding down his nose so that he could peer over them at her; he felt it made up for his receding chin and hairline. “And there is the matter of the two trusts for the children.”

“Neil took very good care of us,” said Irene, squinting out the window at the flat spread of Dallas. “Three years and I still miss him.”

“You’ve already gone over the stock portfolio, I trust?” the attorney asked, knowing the answer.

“Yesterday, and Neil’s personal attorney also.” She was, she admitted to herself, growing very tired of attorneys and forms. In the three years since Neil died, she was sure she had spent more time attending to his estate than painting. On the other hand, she allowed as the insurance attorney droned on, Neil left her astonishingly wealthy and had provided for her son as well, and so she was the last woman on earth who had any reason to cry spoiled fish.

“If you’ll sign this authorization,” the attorney said at last, presenting her with a long, closely written document, “then I can make the necessary transfers through your banker.”

“I’d appreciate that,” said Irene, reaching over to take the pen he proffered. “Is signature enough?”

“Initials at the bottom of each page, please,” said the attorney. He cleared his throat as Irene tended to the matter. “Have you decided which house you intend to use for the summer?”

“The boys like the little ranch,” she said, scrawling her full name—Irene Dysis Poulakis Channing—on the space provided.

“When were you thinking of going there?”

“As soon as school is out. But that’s months and months away. It’s only November.” She handed the pen back to him. “And frankly, I’m more concerned about my gallery opening in March than vacation in June.”

“Oh, yes, the gallery opening,” said the attorney in a strained tone of voice. “I read about it.”

Irene made an effort to keep her temper. “I’ve had shows there before, but never a solo act. One-man—or one-woman—shows are hard to come by.” She smoothed her skirt. “Is that all, Mister Parker?”

“For the time being. You must understand that when amounts of this size are involved, there are procedures that have to be undertaken for everyone’s protection.” He removed his glasses and tried to smile. “You might find this—”

“Difficult to grasp?” she finished for him, angry at his bland assumption that she, both as a woman and an artist, had no sense of business. “I supported myself and my son for five years before I met Neil Channing. At a gallery opening, incidentally. It’s true that there wasn’t much money to take care of, but most of the time I managed, Mister Parker. I know about contracts. Just as I know that you are employed by this insurance company to protect their interests, not mine.” She reached for her suede jacket and pulled it on. “Thank you very much for your time.”

His adam’s apple bobbed under his collar. “Missus Channing, I hope you didn’t take offence at anything . . . I didn’t mean to say anything . . . ”

She went to the door and let herself out, her mind on Steven and Brice. She reminded herself that she owed them the time it took her to deal with infuriating men like Parker. She remembered the many times Neil had taken her aside and told her that she would have to be careful of men like Parker, and not to let them frazzle her, because that was how they gained the advantage. She was out on the street before she was willing to concede the contest to Parker.