Petals on the Wind (Dollanganger 2)

"That's no answer."

"I didn't think I needed to answer. I thought you could tell. I thought too, from the way you look at me, that you would turn to me again. I love you, Catherine. . . . Since the day you first came up my veranda steps, I've loved you. I love the way you talk, the way you smile, the way you walk--that is, before you became pregnant and started leaning backward and holding to your back--does it hurt that much?"

"Oh," I said in disgust, "why did you have to stop saying all those sweet words to ask if my back hurts? Of course it bothers me. I'm not used to carrying an extra nineteen pounds in front--go on with what you were saying before you remembered you're a doctor."

He slowly lowered his lips to brush mine, just lightly, before passion came and he pressed them hard with his own. My arms found their way around his neck and ardently I returned kiss for kiss.

The front door opened and then banged shut. I pulled quickly away from Paul and tried to stand up before Chris came into the room--but I wasn't quick enough. He strode in, his overcoat covering his white intern suit. He carried a bag with a quart of pistachio ice cream that I had expressed a desire for at dinner. "I thought you were on duty tonight," I said too quickly to hide my distress and surprise. He thrust the ice cream into my hands and looked at me coldly.

"I am on duty. But it's a dull night, so I thought I could take a few minutes off to drive and get you the dessert you seemed to want so much." He flicked his glance to Paul. "I'm sorry I arrived at the wrong time. Go on with what you were doing." He spun on his heel and left the room, then slammed the front door a second time.

"Cathy," said Paul who got up to take the ice cream from me. "We have to do something about Chris. What he wants can never be. I've tried to talk to him about it, but he won't listen. He closes his ears and walks away. You must make him understand that he's ruining his life by refusing to let any other girl into his heart." He went on into the kitchen, coming back in a few minutes with two sherbet dishes of the green ice cream I didn't want now.

He was right. Something did have to be done about Chris--but what? I couldn't hurt him; I couldn't hurt Paul. I was like a battlefield wanting both sides to win.

"Catherine," said Paul softly, as if he'd been watching my reaction, "you don't owe me if you don't love me. Cut Chris off, make it clear that he has to let go and find someone else. Anyone else but you . . ."

"I find it so difficult to tell him that," I said in a low voice, ashamed to admit I didn't want Chris to find anyone else. I wanted him with me always--just the nearness of him, the confidence he gave me-- nothing else. I was trying to balance my time between Chris and Paul, to give each of them enough, but not too much. I watched the jealousy between them grow, and felt it was none of my fault--only Momma's! As everything wrong in my life was her fault.

It was a cold February night when I felt my first contraction. I gasped from the sharp pain--I had known it would hurt, but not so much! I glanced at the clock--two in the morning of St. Valentine's Day. Oh, how marvelous, my baby would be born on what would have been our sixth wedding anniversary! "Julian," I cried out, as if he could hear me, "you are about to become a father!"

I got up and dressed as speedily as I could before I crossed the hall to rap on Paul's door. He mumbled something in way of a question. "Paul," I called, "I think I just had my first contraction."

"Thank God!" he cried from the other side, instantly wide awake. "Are you all set to go?"

"Of course. I've been ready for a month."

"I'll call your doctor, then alert Chris--you sit down and take it easy!"

"Would it be all right if I came in?"

He swung open the door, wearing only his trousers. His chest was bare. "You're the calmest mother-to-be I've ever seen," he said as he helped me sit. He raced next to swipe at his face with an electric razor, then he was running to put on a shirt and tie. "Had any more contractions?" It was on the tip of my tongue to say no, when another seized me. I doubled over. "Fifteen minutes since the last," I gasped. He looked pale as he pulled on his jacket, then came to help me up. "Okay, I'll put you in the car first, then go for your suitcase. Keep calm, don't worry, this baby will have three doctors doing their very best . . ."

"To get in each other's way," I concluded.

"To see you have the best medical attention possible," he corrected, then he bellowed toward the kitchen. "Henny, I'm taking Catherine to the hospital! Tell Carrie when she wakes up. Then call Madame Marisha and put on that tape we made for her."

We'd thought of everything. When Paul opened the front door after he'd backed his car out, I heard behind me the tape playing for Madame M., my own voice speaking "Madame," I'd taped weeks ago, "your grandchild is on the way."

It seemed forever before the hospital loomed up ahead. Under a protective canopy at the emergency entrance, a solitary intern paced restlessly back and forth. Chris, who said "Thank God you're here! I was picturing all sorts of calamities," even as he assisted me out, while someone else rushed up with a wheelchair, and without any of the preliminaries other patients had to endure, I was snug in bed in no time at all--and gasping from another contraction.

Three hours later, my son was born. Chris and Paul were there, both of them with tears in their eyes, but it was Chris who picked up my son, still with the cord attached, messy and bloody. He put him upon my belly and held him there while another doctor did what he had to. "Cathy . . . can you see him9"

"He's beautiful," I breathed in awe, seeing all the dark, curling hair, the perfect little red body. With a fierce anger so like his father's he waved his tiny fists and flailed his thin legs, screaming at all the indignities inflicted upon him--and all the light that came so suddenly to shine in his eyes, and put him center stage, so to speak.

"His name is Julian Janus Marquet, but I'm going to call him Jory."

Both Chris and Paul heard my thin whisper. I was so tired, so sleepy.

"Why would you call him Jory?" asked Paul, but it wasn't me who had the strength to answer. It was Chris who understood my reasoning.

"If he had been blond, she would have named him Cory--but the J will stand for Julian, and the rest for Cory."

>

Our eyes met and I smiled. How wonderful to be understood, and never have to explain.

PART FOUR My Small Sweet Prince