Authors: Kerry Reichs
Wyatt Sees a Girl About a Horse
W
yatt entered as unobtrusively as possible, given that he was not a pregnant woman. He slipped into a chair in the middle of the waiting room unobserved. It was a strategic spot. He could see everyone in the room and eavesdrop on almost any conversation. He picked up an outdated copy of
Parent
magazine, and feigned a look at the wall clock, as if he was waiting for his wife, while subtly canvassing the room. There were nine women waiting. None of them was particularly striking except for a statuesque woman with long auburn hair. For a moment Wyatt forgot himself and stared. Then he collected himself—this woman was not Deborah Tanner from Fresno.
Wyatt had been startled to return from a staff meeting earlier in the week to find a message from Katherine Feely Jones on his desk. They hadn’t spoken in the weeks since Ilana’s disappearance. Irrational hope had flared in his chest that it had all been a mistake. Ilana was really pregnant, and the baby would really be Wyatt’s. Then he felt foolish because of his gullible heart.
“Katherine Feely Jones here,” Katherine rasped into the phone.
“Katherine. It’s Wyatt, returning your call.”
“Wyatt! How are you?”
“Fine thanks, you?”
“Cheating the reaper. Turbulent times for public schools, I see. I was just reading about Detroit and all the closings there. It makes sense, but I can see that it’ll be hard to streamline.”
“That Superintendent has quite a headache,” Wyatt agreed, letting Katherine flow over him, impatient to know why she was calling.
“Martha Stewart recommends cutting a lime in half and rubbing it on your forehead as a cure for headaches. Says the throbbing will go away.” That was news to Wyatt. Perhaps he needed some limes. “Personally, I’ll take mine in a margarita.” Katherine’s guffaw sounded like a rusty weather vane.
“I’ll have to give that a try.”
“The margarita or the limes?” The weather vane grated again. At last, “I’ll tell you why I’m calling. I have a candidate who would be a good match for you.”
“What?” Wyatt was confused. Katherine didn’t search for candidates free of charge.
“It’s a unique situation—the reverse of your circumstances, so I immediately thought of you. The young lady in question is named Deborah Tanner. She’s a twenty-year-old student at Fresno City College. She was seeing a much older boyfriend she doesn’t like to talk about. My money’s on married—the young and gullible are the most obstinate in their refusal to see the obvious.”
“The young don’t own exclusive rights to foolishness.” Hadn’t Wyatt been blind?
“Deborah finds herself pregnant. Boyfriend wants nothing to do with it, of course, and she doesn’t want the family to know. Conservative Christians, I believe. A Fresno counseling center put her in touch with me, and I arranged a situation with a local couple. Ms. Tanner told her family she was going on a semester mission to build houses for the poor in Nicaragua, and came here.”
“Where do I fit in?”
“The couple has separated, and no longer wish to adopt. The baby’s up for grabs.”
Wyatt imagined a fat cartoon baby bouncing on a trampoline surrounded by clamoring adults with outstretched arms.
“It’ll be the standard arrangement. You’d pay Deborah’s medical and dental during the pregnancy, her temporary housing expenses, and a small monthly stipend. Currently, she’s living in a suitable complex off Bundy, conveniently close to both her doctor’s office and the UCLA Medical Center, for $975 per month.” Katherine cleared her throat. “There’s the matter of my placement fee. In consideration of the fact that the wily Ms. Lloubina duped us both, I’ve decided to reduce my placement to half.”
“That’s very generous,” Wyatt said. It still constituted a hefty chunk.
“Under the circumstances, I can give you a few weeks to decide,” Katherine said. “But I hope we can move relatively quickly. The girl is in her second trimester, and anxious to have the matter settled.”
Wyatt checked his growing excitement. “It does sound like an attractive opportunity. I’ll have to take a look at my financial situation. I also want to take precautions to ensure I’m not taken advantage of a second time.”
“I understand,” Katherine said. “It’s unfortunate that one bad seed can ruin the bushel, but so it is. I’ll arrange for a meeting as soon as you’re available.”
“No.” For a man seasoned at seeing through adolescent fabrications, Wyatt was questioning his abilities. “I want to meet without her knowing who I am.”
“Wyatt, I can assure you there’s no conspiracy with this girl, she—”
“I insist.” Wyatt was quiet but firm.
Katherine sighed. “I’d like to accommodate your wish, but I don’t feel comfortable giving you her home address.”
Wyatt had the mean thought that Katherine didn’t feel comfortable with him negotiating a side deal with Deborah Tanner that excluded her placement fee. He banished it. Katherine was being entirely reasonable.
“What about a doctor’s office?”
“Do you really feel this is necessary? I’m happy to arrange a face-to-face meeting in our office under any premise.”
“I’d strongly prefer to meet her in circumstances where she is not expecting a potential adoptee.”
Katherine exhaled. “Fine. She’s a patient at Hope Women’s Health and Fertility Clinic, located on Laurel and Twenty-fourth. She has an appointment Thursday morning, but I don’t know the exact time. I’ll call her and find out exactly—”
“No!” Wyatt said. “That’s fine. No need to make her suspicious.”
“Wyatt.” Katherine’s voice softened. “I know that what happened was difficult for you. You’re the victim of fraud and that makes you understandably wary. But you can trust me. I’m exercising the highest degree of care to ensure that such a dreadful thing never happens again—not to you or anyone else. I want to unite beautiful babies with desirous parents.”
“Thank you, Katherine. I apologize for being . . .” Wyatt didn’t know what he was being. He settled on “ . . . difficult. If you’ll indulge me on this I’ll be happier.”
Katherine grated out a chuckle. “The good news is that Ms. Tanner is as skinny as a beanpole, so you’ll find a comforting visible assurance of pregnancy. I’ll send her file by messenger today, and look forward to your call later in the week. I recommend you bring reading material with you—the waiting room magazine selection is dismal.”
Sitting in the clinic now, Wyatt wished he had taken her advice. Deborah Tanner’s file lacked a photo and he felt obvious trying to identify her without a newspaper to peek over. He didn’t feel convincing reading
Fit Pregnancy
.
Four of the waiting patients appeared to be in their twenties. The first had a husband. The second was Hispanic, and he knew from Katherine Feely Jones that Deborah Tanner was white. That left a mousy brown-haired girl in floral cotton who satisfied Wyatt’s stereotype of “country,” and a blonde in a crisp black suit with crocodile heels. Wyatt put his money on the first one, and contemplated how to maneuver to the adjacent chair. He’d settled on a trip to the water fountain when the nurse called, “Ina Clark?” and the mousy brunette stood and disappeared into the back. Wyatt barely had time to turn his astonished eyes to the stylish blonde before she disappeared to the call of “Laney Bishop?” He sighed and settled into his chair. Deborah must have a later appointment.
He was amused to see the gorgeous redhead look at the clock, gather her things, and stroll coolly through the door to the doctors’ offices. Apparently she needed no invitation.
Another wave of women entered the clinic a little before ten. This set was promising. None brought a companion, and all appeared to be in their twenties. One by one they checked in and took seats. One by one they busied themselves with books, magazines, or mobile phones. The waiting room was silent but for the bustle of the office behind the counter.
The striking woman reemerged, but rather than leaving, she seated herself next to Wyatt. Her skin was luminescent. He wondered if she was an actress. She saw him looking, and smiled, before returning to her
Wall Street Journal
. Not an actress, he decided based on the paper.
Wyatt began to feel foolish. How was he going to identify Deborah Tanner, much less initiate anonymous contact? He surreptitiously studied the women, trying not to make presumptions this time, but inescapably focusing on a young, tired-looking woman in ill-fitting jeans and a sweatshirt. He was gratified that all but one had visible baby bumps. The other he ruled out because she would not, by anyone’s description, be described as a “beanpole” unless it was a very sturdy stalk one clambered in search of giants.
At ten o’clock nurses began to call names.
“Kim Linkner.”
“Ann Baker.”
“Barbara Zeller.”
One by one the women withdrew to their appointments, including the tired girl. None of them was Deborah Tanner. The same thing happened at ten thirty
AM
. And eleven
AM
. Also at eleven, the woman sitting next to him got up, and, after giving him a curious look, again disappeared unbidden into the treatment area.
“Have I lost my mind?” Wyatt muttered. He’d been there since they opened and had seen a complete cross section of pregnant Los Angeles, but none of them was Deborah. Or maybe he had. For all he knew, she’d used a fake name. After all, her family thought she was on a church mission to Honduras. He became frustrated. Even if she strolled in with a blinky name tag proclaiming
I AM DEBORAH TANNER
he didn’t have an approach.
He tried to recapture his normal Wyatt self. What would he advise a student or colleague in a similar predicament?
He couldn’t make a true character assessment from a waiting room encounter, but he could determine if she was legitimately pregnant and get a gut reading. He decided he’d stick it out until noon, the official end of “morning.” If Deborah Tanner arrived and he verified that (1) she appeared pregnant, and (2) she was pursuing prenatal care, he’d be satisfied with his day’s mission.
He settled in for the next wave of patients. The redhead stepped from the treatment area, and again settled herself next to Wyatt, rolling down her sleeve to cover a Band-Aid.
“Is your wife getting the four-hour glucose test too?” she asked. “Or do you dig knocked-up girls?”
“What?” Her joke hit too close.
“I’ve seen you here all morning. I’m doing it too. It sucks. I’ve been stuck with a needle four times since eight o’clock.”
“I thought the office opened at nine?” Wyatt was startled.
“Nope. Eight. For us working stiffs.” She observed him, openly curious. “What do you do?”
“I’m a high school principal.” Wyatt was distracted. He’d missed an hour of morning clinic time.
The woman’s eyes widened. “Are you catching truant students?”
Wyatt’s attention returned to his inquisitive companion. “No. I—” Wyatt stopped. Was it criminal to stake out a waiting room for someone? He was saved by the woman’s cell phone.
“Maryn Windsor.” Her voice was crisp, confident.
Wyatt searched for a convincing story that felt least like a lie.
“What? Oh god!” The distress in her voice was palpable. “How bad?” Agitation spread to every inch of her body as she listened. “Where’s Dr. Williams?”
Murmuring came through the phone.
“Keep her calm and use towels to tamp any hemorrhaging. [Pause.] No. I’m most concerned about saving the mother. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
She leaped to her feet. Once there she stopped, paralyzed. “I didn’t bring my car,” she said helplessly to Wyatt. “It’ll take forever to get a cab. I’ll be too late!” She became agitated, looking at Wyatt as if she had no idea what to do. She gave herself a shake and pressed some buttons on her phone.
“C’mon, c’mon . . . ,” she muttered, jiggling her leg, then snapping to attention. “Yes! I’d like a taxi please, it’s an emergency.”
“I can take you,” Wyatt surprised himself by saying. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he decided he’d lost his mind.
“What?” The woman stared at him. She disconnected her call. “Really? Oh, thank you so much!” Without another word, she started out the door, leaving Wyatt to follow in her wake, wondering what he’d gotten himself into.
“I’m close, on Ocean and Hart. This is a huge lifesaver. Honestly, I really appreciate it,” the woman babbled. “I’m Maryn Windsor.”
“Wyatt Ozols.” He shook her hand as they stepped outside, and gestured toward his Subaru. “Are you going to UCLA Medical Center? St. John’s?”
“What? No, near LAX.” She gnawed her lip, distracted.
“LAX?” Wyatt considered. “Your place is kind of out of the way. If you like, I can drive you directly there.” When she stared at him, he shrugged. “I don’t mean to pry, but time seems to be of the essence.”
After a split second she nodded, sun setting strands of hair on fire. “You’re right. If you don’t mind . . . It’s such an imposition. Today of all days.” She remembered. “Oh god, the clinic.” She was on her phone again calling the clinic as Wyatt started the car and headed toward LAX. He avoided the 405 (always), and took a street parallel to Lincoln.
“ . . . an emergency. Please process the test without the last blood draw. Hopefully there’ll be sufficient data. I’m so sorry, really. I’ll call Dr. Singh tomorrow.” She dropped the phone and sighed. Then she managed a smile. “You navigate like I do.”