Authors: Gwen Jones
He laughed softly. “I probably would’ve handed you the gun.” He sighed. “How are you, Julie?”
“Fabulous, no thanks to you. So let’s get down to it. Why the contract?”
“No matter what you think, no matter what I’ve done—and I’ll be the first to admit what I did to you was unconscionable—I’ve never stopped being your agent. Fact was that last contract was so minor league I should’ve never considered it. The station made so many changes it was an insult. Then they saw their numbers tank and started to panic, letting go of the best talent they had. By the way, that was a smart piece of work, your dropping under the radar for a while. Only made you more valuable. Where did you go, if I may ask?”
“Certainly not Seattle,” I said. “That would’ve been way too crowded.”
He laughed again. “Too crowded for me these days, too.”
“Like Philly,” I said, “So I’m thinking maybe I should be going—”
“Well don’t,” he interjected. “Not now. Not for a while. Julie, I’m serious. This is a good deal. As your agent, as someone . . .” I could hear his throat working. “Who still cares about you very much, I think you should seriously consider it. With the MSNBC clause, it’s your ticket to the big show.”
Didn’t I know it. But why did it have to come through him? “Why are you doing this, Richard? And don’t bullshit me. Tell me the truth.”
“Because I fucked up, Julie. I know it. I just want to make it up to you, that’s all.”
“Wouldn’t have anything to do with your girl dumping you, now would it?”
Silence, then: “It has everything to do with my girl dumping me. Because if I were you, I would’ve dumped me, too.”
Now I was just plain irritated. “Richard, I’m not in the mood for your being cute. I know you’re not that selfless, so answer my question.”
“It’s the truth, dammit, and just to prove it, I’m taking no commission on the contract.”
“Oh stop it—that was when we were together. I’ll cut it to ten, but you take it.”
“Look, I’m sending you a revised contract, so just quit arguing with me and accept it. I’m doing right by you whether you want me to or not, and I’m going to keep doing it until I can hold my head up to you again. Until then, call me anything you want, but don’t underestimate me. I’m going to absolutely make it up to you, with interest.”
And in the following couple of weeks, I quickly found out how much he meant it. For my grand return on December first, he arranged for the station to launch a publicity campaign, online, on air, in print, and on billboards warning, “Get ready for a new Julie!” commissioning a top Hollywood firm to make sure I looked totally A-List in front of the camera, hiring me a personal trainer, and weaseling from the station a wardrobe allowance. He opened a bank account in my name only, restoring all the money he had frozen, including an additional $5,000. He found a great row house in Northern Liberties and even paid the security and the first six months’ rent, furnishing it with the nicest pieces from our old penthouse, including that tea table Andy and I had talked about. I promptly put it in the closet. But the best part was how he tweeted everyday what a shit he’d been to me, and how blinded he’d been by that soprano succubus Annika Eden.
“That last part’s not necessary,” I told him over mulled cider and cheese. “Looks so petty.”
“Petty would be tweeting how fat she’s gotten.” He pulled out his phone, his grin all malevolence. “On second thought . . .”
I couldn’t believe I’d actually told Brent I wouldn’t mind if he came for Thanksgiving dinner, and the truth was it didn’t bother me at all. Fact was, amid the hubbub over my return, I pretty much didn’t feel anything anymore, except when something innocuous would punt a memory byte to the fore. Such as the twinge I felt reaching toward the cheese tray, passing over the brie for the stack of crackers beside it.
“Brie should be served with a nice crusty baguette,” I said, nipping into a cracker.
“What?” said Richard idly, finishing the tweet. The crowd roared on TV and he looked up. “Son of a bitch!”
“Damn, there goes Penn State down the shitter,” said Denny. “I should’ve went to Louisiana.”
“Yes, just imagine our float in the Sugar Bowl parade,” Brent drawled, coming in from the kitchen. “Total queens from Gay Bingo.” He flipped a towel over his shoulder. “Okay, my quarterbacks—dinner is served.
Ya’ll
.”
I dropped the cracker back to the cheese plate; suddenly the idea of cramming myself full of turkey and fixings held as much appeal as a root canal, even though Brent was an excellent cook. I took another sip of wine instead.
Richard inspected the bottle. “Wow, we pretty much killed that, didn’t we?”
“Don’t worry,” Denny said. “We have a couple of bottles of this great pinot for dinner. Got it from a local vintner up in Bucks County.”
“Oh yeah?” said Richard. “Anyone I know?”
“Silver Drum Winery,” Denny said. “Ever hear of them?”
His eyes widened. “Oh yeah. They’re fantastic. Had a bottle of Beaujolais from them last week. Good stuff.”
Beaujolais
. . . I thought, sipping again.
Serve Beaujolais with a nice, fresh
. . . My head began to spin. Before I knew it the glass slipped from my hand I was staring up at Richard.
“Julie!” he cried, blanching. “Julie!”
It suddenly occurred to me I was crumpled on the floor. I scrubbed my hand across my eyes. “What . . . happened?
He helped me to the sofa. “One minute you were sipping wine, then the next you dropped like a rock.” He grabbed a magazine from the table, fanning me. “Have you eaten anything today?”
I caught the clock on the mantel; it was going on three. “Coffee, this morning. I think.”
“Damn girl—cried Denny, “get over to this table and eat!” But as I made my way to it I felt my knees weakening. I grabbed the wall, feeling ready to go down again.
“That’s it,” Denny said, his arm around me, “you’re going to the hospital. Brent!”
He already had his jacket on. “I’m getting the car.”
“I’ll get your coat,” Denny said, leading me back to the sofa. “Now stay put.”
I felt more horrible than I ever had in my life. I picked up a cracker and nipped it; as benign as it was, I wanted to hurl.
I felt the sofa sink as Richard sat beside me. “I’m coming with you.”
“No,” I shook my head. “That’s not necessary. I’ll already have two nursemaids.”
He slipped his arm around me, turning my face toward his. “I’m not asking your permission. I’m going.” He felt my forehead. “My God, you’re warm.”
Another memory byte clicked. “Probably an old snakebite come back to haunt me.”
Richard looked at me. “What?”
Within a half-hour, I was on the fast track to the ER, the patient load surprisingly light for a holiday. After answering about three dozen pertinent questions, I was zipped to an examining room, ordering all my protectors to stay behind. A nurse came in, poked, prodded, took my temperature and blood pressure, and had me pee in a cup, all while letting a glucose drip snap me surprisingly back into focus. About a half hour later a doctor came in.
“How’re you feeling?” she said.
“Much better,” I said, sipping water.
“You were pretty dehydrated,” she said.
I instantly felt stupid. “I’ve been pretty busy lately.”
She smiled. “I know. I’ve seen your pictures all over town. So is this the new Julie?”
“Ha!” I laughed. “Are you shocked?” I rolled my eyes. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” she whispered, detaching the IV. “But you really do have to take care of yourself. Especially now.”
“I know, I know,” I said, properly chastised. “But my trainer wants me to lose some more weight, and that’s probably why I got so dehydrated.” I sipped more water. “Don’t worry. It won’t happen again.”
“It better not,” said the doctor. Then she stared at me. “Wait a minute. You don’t know, do you?”
I was mystified. “Know what?”
She stood, crossing her arms as she came up to me. “Ms. Knott—you’re pregnant.”
Mother Knows Best
T
HANK
G
OD
P
ENNSYLVANIA
doctors were bound by privacy laws. So far, she was the only one who knew I was pregnant. And that’s how I intended to keep it, at least until I could think straight again.
“You didn’t know, did you?” the doctor asked.
“No,” I said, gulping water now. “But I should’ve. Oh my God—am I about six weeks?”
“Yes, very early on. Is that about the time of your last ovulation?”
“About the time I forgot to start the next month of pills.”
“Hm,” she said, sitting down to fill out her report, “that’ll do it. I’m assuming you have a gynecologist? Might I suggest seeing her as soon as possible? Your urine came back positive, but you do need other tests to be sure.”
“Doctor . . .” I said tentatively, hoping it wouldn’t come out wrong, “may I please ask that you don’t . . .” I hoped my expression told her the rest.
“Ms. Knott—I wouldn’t think of it,” she said with all candor. “I did the urine test myself, so believe me, no one knows.” She patted my hand. “Don’t worry. That’s not what we’re about here. You just take care of yourself. As far as the official diagnosis goes?” She scribbled onto the report. “I’ll put down dehydration and fatigue, which are the real reasons you ended up here anyway. Now, I want you to take a couple days rest. Does that work?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said.
Pregnant!
Andy’s face flashed into my head, and I nearly burst into tears. As if we weren’t complicated enough, this only made it worse.
She scribbled a bit more then handled a folder to me. “Take this to the desk over by the door, and you’re ready to go.” She held out her hand and I shook it.” Take care, my dear. I sincerely hope it works out for you.”
So do I
, I thought, but instead I just smiled gratefully and took my folder to the discharge desk. Maybe I still had a few things to feel grateful about, like having health insurance. Wasn’t any question now how badly I needed this job now. But how long would I be able to keep my condition off-camera? I already knew the answer. As if I could keep it from anyone for very long. Especially the one person who needed to know about it the most.
As I entered the waiting room my three escorts quickly surrounded me. “How are you? What’d they say? Are you all right? Do you need a wheelchair?” they all said at once, bombarding me with questions.
“I’m all right!” I said, fending them off. “I was just pretty dehydrated and I need something to eat.”
“Thank God, darling,” Brent said, visibly relieved. “Might I suggest we return to Thanksgiving?”
“Right after this punt,” said Denny, turning back to the TV.
“Dude, I’m so winning this game,” Richard said, his fingers wrapped around a Starbucks. “This kicker sucks.”
Brent sighed. “I’ll get the car and meet you out front.”
Richard turned to me. “You
are
okay, right? I mean, we’re due at 30 Rock Monday.”
I leveled my gaze. “I’m fine. I just need food and a good night’s sleep.”
He eyed me a moment. “Stellar.” Then turned back to the game. “Ooh! Damn! Look at that!”
“Ha!” Denny yelled, arms raised. “You owe me, dude! You frickin’
owe me
!”
I’d already come to this conclusion a while ago, but its impact was never more apparent: I knew too many men. As Richard adjusted his package, as Denny spit into the trash can, before I became asphyxiated by their testosterone smog, I needed to get in touch with my sisters in the worst way.
In the worst possible way
.
I
ARRIVED EARLY
at the studio Monday morning after spending the long Thanksgiving weekend angsting and sleeping off a turkey tryptophan overdose. I wanted to catch Terri, my assignments editor, potential confidant, and the mother of four, before Richard and I left for New York and NBC. As expected, she was in her office pouring over leads. I knocked on the jamb and she smiled, waving me in.
“A man just called saying he has a two-headed cat.” She squinched her face in distaste. “I’m betting one’s vestigial.
Gross
.”
“No kidding.” I looked over my shoulder, slipping into a chair. “Terri . . . do you have a minute? I’d like to talk to you about something, if it’s okay.”
“Absolutely,” she said, looking concerned. “Close the door.” After I did, she said, “What’s going on? Is everything okay, sweetie?”
I had thought about the best way to tell her, but decided to just come out with it. “I’m pregnant.”
She slapped the desk. “I
knew
there had to be a reason you hooked up with that snake again!” Then all at once, she reddened. “Oh my God—I’m so sorry! Don’t take that the wrong way!”
It took me a moment before it sunk in. “You mean you think . . .?” I made a gagging noise. “Oh Terri! Hell no! It’s not Richard! Jesus!
No
.” We both laughed, then all at once I teared up. “Actually, it’s much worse than that.”
Terri handed me a tissue. “Tell me, sweetie, then who?”
I blew my nose. “Remember the day Richard dumped me? And you sent us to do that story about the flyer you found on a utility pole?”
She thought a moment. “You mean that guy looking for a wife?” Her face went from confusion to clarity. “It’s
his
? But Denny came back saying you never got the story! Holy cow—talk about off the record! What’d you do, meet him on the sly?”
“Better than that,” I said. “I married him.”
“
What?
When?”
“Six days after we met. I wasn’t at my parents like everyone heard. Except for breaking up with Richard, they think nothing in my life has changed. They still don’t know I married Andy and moved off the grid into the Pine Barrens. In fact, very few people do.”
“And how was it?” Terri asked, wide-eyed.
I swallowed hard, trying to put it into words. “Like nothing I ever imagined, Terri. Like a great big wonderful dream.”
Saying it cracked the floodgates, because after that I couldn’t stop. I told her about Andy’s contract and the book deal, about our wedding and the house in the woods, about Jinks and Bucky and Betsy, about the lake, the garden, the peach trees and the chickens, and about the fire and our honeymoon, at least as much as I could say. The telling made us laugh and at the end, when I told her about Marcel and the real Andy, we were both grabbing tissues.