The Consequences (5 page)

“Everything okay, sweetheart?”

Stephanie jumped. She looked up to find her father standing in the door. She wondered how long he'd been standing there.

“I'm sorry, Dad. I couldn't sleep. I was just checking my e-mail.”

“Anything important?”

“Just spam.”

CHAPTER 8

“I
'm fine, Mom. Seriously I'm fine.”

Stephanie Burroughs was sitting up in bed, her hands wrapped around a bowl of steaming soup.

“You don't look fine.” Toni Burroughs sat on the edge of the bed and carefully inspected her daughter. “You look worn, and the bags beneath your eyes are so black they look like bruises.”

“Thanks for not sugarcoating it, Mom.”

“You know me; I say it like I see it. Keeps life simpler that way.” She watched Stephanie take a sip from the bowl of soup.

“Not chicken soup?” Stephanie asked. Her mother's chicken soup was one of the great abiding memories of her childhood. Every illness from strep throat to chicken pox, every cut, scrape, and toothache received the chicken-soup treatment. It usually worked too.

“There wasn't any chicken in the house, so I thought I'd make it out of turkey instead. Seasonal chicken soup.”

“Tastes great.” And she meant it.

“Bit too salty,” Toni said dismissively. “How are you feeling?”

“I told you, I'm fine.”

“Billy told me you fainted, went right out cold. . . .”

“I did not. I . . . I was sitting down on the front porch, having a cup of coffee after breakfast. The kids were going crazy opening their presents, so I thought I'd sit outside for a second of silence. Billy came out to have a cigarette. Who smokes anymore?”

“Billy does.”

“Yeah, well, I think it might have been the smell of the death stick that made me feel a bit woozy. That, plus all the travel yesterday and the fact that I was still awake at three thirty this morning.”

“Your father said he'd heard a noise. He thought it might have been one of the children peeking at the presents, but instead he found you in his office.”

“I was checking my e-mail.”

“Still, lack of sleep doesn't make a person pass out,” Toni insisted.

“I didn't faint.”

But Stephanie knew that was a lie. There was a little slice of time she couldn't account for: One minute, she was sitting on the porch looking at the frozen lake, and the next, she was staring up into her brother's broad, pock-marked face, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his dark eyes pinched with concern. He had swept her up into his arms and carried her upstairs into her bedroom. Moments later her sisters had appeared and helped her into bed. Toni Burroughs stepped into the room moments after they left, carrying a tray with the deep bowl of soup and some Saltines on the side.

“I've had about three hours sleep in the past twenty-four hours,” Stephanie said, “and most of that was on the plane. And I'm just a little run down, I guess.”

Toni reached out and pressed the flat of her hand on her daughter's forehead. “You're hot.”

“I'm drinking this soup, Mom,” Stephanie reminded her.

“Are you pregnant?”

The question took Stephanie completely by surprise. Eyes and mouth opened wide, and she spilled some of the soup onto the tray. “What?”

Toni raised her eyebrows and tilted her head to one side. “You heard me,” she persisted.

“How can I be pregnant if I'm a lesbian?” It gave Stephanie some pleasure to see a touch of color appear on her mother's cheeks.

“Well, I hear les . . . of gay couples having children every week. They let Jack adopt a little girl . . . even if he had to go all the way to Haiti to do it.”

Stephanie put the bowl down, then moved the tray off to one side. She reached over to take her mother's hands in hers. Toni's hands were tiny, the joints beginning to knot and swell with arthritis, and each finger was bedecked with a ring. Gold rings on her left hand, silver on her right; it was her only eccentricity. Squeezing her mother's fingers gently for emphasis, Stephanie said, “Mom, I'm not a lesbian, and I'm not pregnant. I'm just exhausted. That's all. Now go and enjoy Christmas with your children and grandchildren. Let me get some rest, and I'll join you guys in a little while.”

Toni Burroughs got up and fussed around the bed, smoothing down the coverlet. “I believe you,” she said finally.

“Good.”

“About not being gay.”

“Mom!” Stephanie said, then smiled when she saw her mother's rare grin.

“I'll close the curtains,” Toni said, loosening the curtain ties and pulling the heavy drapes across the window, effectively plunging the room into darkness.

“Maybe that's what I should have done last night,” Stephanie said, suddenly a child again, lying in bed, watching her mother close the curtains as she had done every night of Stephanie's childhood before wishing her sweet dreams and love dreams.

Toni nodded. She took the tray with the barely tasted soup and leaned in to kiss her daughter on the forehead, the movement straight out of Stephanie's childhood. “Get some rest. This is probably the best place for you,” she said, and then added, “Sweet dreams and love dreams.”

The door clicked shut, and Stephanie heard her mother's light footsteps move along the hall and then the squeak on the third stair as she went down. Stephanie lay in the gloom, staring at the ceiling. As her eyes adjusted, the room began to reveal itself once more, but now the shadows were deeper, and what had once been comforting and familiar now seemed strange and just a little off kilter. Emotional exhaustion—that's all she was feeling: that horrible malaise that was a combination of the worst hangover and physical fatigue. A few hours' sleep, and she'd be fine.

Of course she wasn't pregnant. The very thought of it was ridiculous.

Or was it?

Stephanie lay back in the bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to visualize a calendar in her head. Her periods had always been irregular, anything from twenty-five to thirty-two days in between, and some months were heavier than others. She'd had her last period . . . She frowned, trying to remember.

Oh, it was ridiculous to even think about it.

But once the idea had entered her mind, it was impossible to dismiss. When had she had her last period? It had to have been some time in November, late in November. . . . No, it was earlier, because—she remembered now—her period had arrived just before the office Thanksgiving party had taken place. And that had been held on Friday the 15th of November.

Which meant . . . which meant that she was anywhere between eight and ten days late.

She slowly shook her head from side to side. She couldn't be pregnant. She and Robert were always careful. Except that the truth, the bitter, spiteful truth, was that they weren't always careful; she knew that. In the beginning, when they started making love regularly, Robert had suggested that she go on the pill. She refused. Her agency had just finished working on an awareness campaign about the various dangers of the contraceptive pill, and Stephanie decided that if she was eating right, not smoking, and had given up sugar, then there was no way she was introducing synthetic hormones into her system. Robert argued with her, reminding her just how safe and successful the pill was for the vast majority of people.

Stephanie advised him that she was not the vast majority of people, and if she had given up beef because most cattle ate food full of growth hormones and antibiotics, then she was equally giving up the pill if there was the slightest chance that it could have any adverse effects on her system.

Looking back on it now, she realized that it had probably been their first real argument. It was only later, much later, that she understood he was being selfish.

Reluctantly and with a lot of griping, Robert had gone out and bought his first box of condoms in nearly twenty years. And in the beginning, she'd been very conscientious about his using them. But as time had gone by, he'd started only using them on those occasions when it was “unsafe.” Stephanie tried to remember the last time they'd had sex. . . . It had been last Friday, in his office. They hadn't used protection then. And she remembered thinking that it was safe because she knew her period was due. The time before that had been . . . it had been in her apartment, maybe a week earlier. Stephanie frowned. It had been a Saturday night. They'd been to the movies, had some sushi at JP Seafood Café on Centre Street, then had come back to her place. She'd run a bath . . . and again they'd made love with no protection. The box of condoms had been empty, and by that time they were in the throes of passion and the thought of getting dressed and heading out to CVS was unthinkable.

Almost unconsciously, her hand moved down to rest on her almost flat stomach. Her breathing was shallow, and her skin felt clammy, and she felt a bead of sweat gather in her hairline and trickle around to curl by her ear.

Pregnant.

Maybe.

Possibly.

Unlikely.

She tried to think of anything that might account for her late period. There were any number of factors: There was the pressure of her affair—she'd known for the past couple of weeks it was coming to a head, and that, coupled with the intense pressure at work to get everything finished for Christmas, certainly hadn't helped. She'd been traveling a lot—usually day-trips in and out of New York, D.C., and Miami, and she knew that air flight played havoc with regular periods. Too much exercise? She'd been going to the gym every Monday and Thursday night as well as religiously doing Tony Horton's DVD program, P90X. Or was it her diet? She'd gone on the Atkins Diet for a few weeks—could that have affected her system and knocked her cycle out of kilter?

Stephanie felt queasy again, and was it her imagination or did her breasts feel especially heavy and tender? And wasn't that supposed to be a sign?

Oh dear God. What if she were pregnant?

She was thirty-three years old; she knew her body, knew its rhythms and cycles. Her breasts often became tender just before her period. She was sure what she was feeling now was the onset of the delayed period coupled with extreme stress and exhaustion.

But what if it wasn't? What if she were pregnant?

Stephanie was exhausted and emotionally fragile, and she suddenly found that there were tears on her face. Tears of confusion and self-pity, mingled with fear. If she was pregnant: What about her career, her home, her lifestyle? She'd have to either give up her job or take maternity leave, probably have to sell the condo and irrevocably alter her lifestyle. What was she going to do?

And what would Robert think?

That sudden thought made her bolt upright in the bed. Would he have gone back to his wife so willingly if he knew she was pregnant with his child? Would she have allowed him—even pushed him away—if she had suspected that she was pregnant?

What would Kathy think? There were two children in the Walker marriage, a seventeen-year-old boy and a fifteen-year-old girl. Stephanie wondered if Kathy had ever wanted more. How would she feel if she knew her husband had fathered a child with his mistress?

Would she tell Robert, she wondered, and the answer was immediate. Of course she would; if she was pregnant, she wasn't going to do it alone. Robert had gotten her into this situation. She was going to make sure he knew about it and took financial care of the baby.

So much for trying to cut all ties with him, she thought ruefully.

Before she made any decisions, she needed advice.

And she needed to be certain.

CHAPTER 9

“M
erry Christmas!” The phone was answered with a breezy chirpiness that immediately lifted Stephanie's spirits.

“That sounds like the voice of someone who got engaged last night,” she said quietly.

“Stephanie!” Izzie Wilson's voice rose to a high-pitched squeal.

Holding the phone a little away from her ear, Stephanie asked, “Tell me everything. Are you officially engaged?”

“He got down on one knee, the whole nine yards.” There was a clinking sound on the other end of the phone. “What you are hearing is the sound of a diamond in surprisingly good taste tapping the phone. We're officially engaged, and we decided not to have a long engagement, probably September. You'll be my maid of honor, of course.”

“Of course.” Although she was lying flat in bed, Stephanie felt as if everything had lurched. If—and it was still a big, huge, monstrous
if
—she was pregnant, then the baby would be due in September.

“Izzie, I'm so happy for you and Dave.”

“I knew you would be. So what's going on? You got there all right? You must be zonked.”

Stephanie had rehearsed her conversation. They'd chat about Izzie's engagement, talk about Christmas, compare presents and families and how crazy they were, and then, and only then would Stephanie indicate her fears to Izzie. That was the plan.

Instead she blurted out: “I think I'm pregnant.” She was surprised to hear the crack in her voice. She was thirty-three; yet, she was sounding as scared as any teenager.

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. In the background, Stephanie could hear the muted explosions and gunfire of a Christmas Day movie and overloud and slightly drunken laughter. Abruptly the background noise went away as Izzie stepped into another room and shut the door.

“Talk to me.”

Stephanie cupped her hand over the mouthpiece and dropped her voice to little more than a whisper. “I think I'm pregnant,” she repeated.

“And I think I'm rich, but I'm not,” Izzie said pointedly.

“I'm maybe ten days late. . . .”

“I've often been ten days late.”

“I know. Me too. But, I'm also feeling very queasy.”

“That could just be the stress of it all,” Izzie said reasonably.

“I know. I thought of that. Or it could be my mother's cooking. But my breasts are heavy and sore, and I sort of fainted this morning.”

“Sort of fainted! What does that mean? You don't sort of faint; you do or you don't.” Izzie immediately went into her doctor mode.

“Just like I said. I was sitting outside on the porch having a cup of coffee and then next thing I know my brother is carrying me in. Plus, my mother asked me.”

“Asked you? Asked you what?”

“If I was pregnant.”

Stephanie could hear Izzie draw in a deep breath.

“She asked if you were pregnant?”

“Yup.”

“Mothers always know,” Izzie said glumly. “My mother could always tell when my sister Rosie was pregnant. And that was usually weeks before Rosie herself knew. And she had four kids. What do you think? Is there any chance you could be?”

“There's a chance.”

“Didn't you use protection?”

“Most of the time, but not all the time and not for the last two times.”

“Oh, Stef!”

“I know, but in the throes of passion . . .”

“How do you feel about being a mother?”

Stephanie licked suddenly dry lips. A mother. Izzie would make a great mother; Joan, her youngest sister, would make a great mom, but no, not her. Not now. In a couple of years' time maybe, when she had a little more money saved, a bit of the mortgage paid off, and she was farther up the corporate ladder. The last time she and Robert had talked about children, she'd suggested in about two years' time. . . .

“I don't know. I guess I'm scared,” she admitted finally in a whisper. “I'm scared, Izzie. What am I going to do?”

“First you're going to confirm that you are pregnant. You need to get a pregnancy test.”

“I know, but if I am, what am I going to do? Do I tell Robert? Or do I leave him out of the picture completely?”

“You absolutely involve him! You tell that asshole.”

“Izzie!”

“Jesus, Stephanie.” Izzie's voice was loud, and her sentences were clipped with anger. “You tell him that you expect him to pay. Get some legal papers drawn up and, if he resists, slap a paternity suit on him.”

“I know. I know. You're right. When should I tell him?”

Stephanie could almost feel Izzie smile. “Well, if it were me, I'd be on the phone to him right now, ruining his Christmas. He's certainly ruined yours.”

It was the answer Stephanie had been looking for.