When he returned, she was stretched out on the sofa, one arm across her eyes, the other hand resting on her abdomen. She lowered her arm and smiled wanly at him as he approached on tiptoe. “Find everything?”
“I think so.”
“Did I send enough money?”
“Don’t worry about it. Why aren’t you in bed?”
“Well, as I said, it’s kind of a mess.”
At the end of a short hallway one of the bedroom doors was standing ajar. He set the sack of purchases on the floor beside the sofa. “Here’s your stuff.” Then he started down the hall toward the bedroom.
“Roark, no,” she protested weakly as she sat up.
“Take care of yourself, Mary Catherine. I’ll take care of this.”
He did, but it wasn’t pleasant.
For one thing, it was much more difficult to remain detached than he had imagined it would be. He couldn’t get it out of his mind that the “mess” represented a human life, which had started out exactly as every human life did. For reasons that would never be known, it had decided to give it up, cash in early, let go. It was said that miscarriages were blessings in disguise, that it was the natural way for a uterus to discard an imperfection. Nevertheless, knowing that a life had ended tonight was depressing as hell.
Also she must have been fairly far along, because there was more bloody substance than he’d expected. As efficiently as possible, he stripped the linens, including the mattress pad, and crammed them into a plastic trash bag he found in a kitchen pantry. He sealed it tightly, then carried it out to the Dumpster behind the building.
On his way back through the apartment, he heard the shower running in the bathroom. He found fresh linens in a hall closet and remade the bed. He was finishing up when she came into the bedroom, looking scrubbed and wearing another ensemble of loose T-shirt and baggy boxers.
He swept his arm wide to indicate the bed. “Climb in.” She did, sighing with relief as she lay down. “Everything all right?”
“Sure.”
“Did you take some of the Tylenol?”
“Three. Figured they couldn’t hurt.”
“How about some tea?”
“You’ve done enough.”
“How about some tea?”
She looked up at him. “You’d really make me tea?”
“Do you have a kettle?”
“I don’t think so.”
“A microwave?”
“Of course.”
Five minutes later, he was back with a steaming cup of tea, packets of sweetener, and a spoon. “I didn’t know if you took sugar or not.”
“Two, please.” As he stirred the sweetener into her tea, he glanced over at the TV. The sound was muted, but she was staring into the screen. “I love this movie,” she told him. “I bought the video and must’ve watched it a thousand times. Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant.”
“A winning combo. Careful, it’s hot,” he said, passing her the mug. She made room for him beside her on the bed, and he sat down, leaning back against the wall. “What’s it about?”
“She’s gorgeous and in trouble. He’s handsome and comes to her rescue. She’s scared. He’s suave. They fall in love in the end.”
They watched the video in silence until it played out, then she clicked off the TV and he took the empty cup from her. “Thanks, Roark, that helped. Nobody’s ever made me tea before.”
“My mom always made me tea when I was sick.”