The Clone's Mother Page 12

  “Pee-ewe. What’s in that?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  That was a pretty stinky nothing.

  “Smells like a bean burrito, after it’s digested. Poorly.”

  Just then a squall came up from behind the door. Mack turned red.

  “You know you’re not supposed to throw those away. Cloth diapers aren’t disposable. Even with a poorly digested bean burrito in it.”

  “No one had a burrito,” he said, his irritation barely contained. He tossed the diaper down the chute and stood in front of his door, like an Indian chief guarding his teepee. “This isn’t a good time, Kate. I don’t have time to talk.”

  “You shouldn’t feed Mexican food to babies. Unless, of course, you live in Mexico. Then all their food is Mexican. Except when you order out Chinese. Can I come in?” I stretched up on my tiptoes and tried to see around his broad shoulder as he cracked the door a tiny bit more and tried to squeeze his whole buff self inside through the narrow cranny.

  “If you want to get back in, it’d work better if you opened the door first.” I’m so clever.

  “Kate, I have to go. Like I told you last night, it can’t be helped. I have something to take care of for the rest of the day.”

  “Yeah, like a baby. I can help. Sounds like it needs a woman’s touch. I can change diapers, feed bottles, shake rattles. Remember, I’m a professional. Where’d you get a baby anyway? You babysitting?”

  “Go home.” He didn’t sound very friendly. I started to pout, but thought better of it and sucked my lower lip back in.

  “Aren’t you going to work today? You’re late.”

  “Go home.”

  “All right. I’m going. You don’t need to get bossy.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “Kate—”

  “No, no,” I said stoically. “I’m going. I’m gone. Forget it.” And I scooted down the steps and away before it got any more awkward.

  ***

  At home, I collapsed on the lumpy, orange couch. The outing had taken it out of me. I wasn’t sure if the stress of Mack acting so weird affected me, or if it was left over from all the emotions surrounding Uncle Howard’s death. But either way, I knew I wasn’t right. I decided to call a doctor—but a new one, and this time I’d make sure he was a she.

  I called my insurance to find out who I could go see. That’s when I found out I could go to any gyne doc I wanted. I didn’t need a referral for that. What I really needed was probably an Internist or an Oncologist, since I most likely had some terrible terminal disease anyway. But I didn’t want to wait the three to five business days it would take to process a referral for one of those. I could easily be dead by then. And then what would I do?

  I opened the yellow pages and eenie-meenied my way through all the gynecologists whose names looked remotely respectable. When my finger landed on the tiger’s toe, I dialed, confirmed it was a she-doctor, and got myself in for that afternoon. They’d just had a last minute cancellation before my call.

  When I locked up the apartment to go, I realized I didn’t have my sunglasses. The last time I’d had them was at the Greek restaurant. I must have left them there when I had skedaddled in such a hurry on Thursday night. So I dialed them up and sure enough, they had found them and would hold them for me. I didn’t have time to get there before my appointment, so I planned to drop by afterwards.

  Once I arrived at Dr. Chen’s office, I waited in the waiting room while my mind wandered back to my impromptu visit at Mack’s. That baby thing was weird. What would he be doing with a baby? And why would he try so hard to hide it from me? Maybe nothing was as it appeared to be.

  I was mulling over all the absurd possibilities when a nurse called my name and escorted me to an exam room via a scale, which by the way, lied and said I’d gained five pounds.

  I was pleased to discover my doctor was a very kind physician. Of Asian descent, she was petite with sparkling eyes and black silky hair to her collar. I declined the pelvic, and she didn’t seem to mind, once I told her I’d just had one a few weeks ago. When I told her how sick I’d been and all the stress I’d been under, she did a lot of nodding and head tilting with a dose of sympathy mixed in. She asked if I’d ever considered talking to a counselor. I told her I was fine and just wanted a prescription to stop the vomiting, that I really only came to a gynecologist because it was easier to get in and it worked out with my insurance. Surprisingly, she didn’t flinch when I said that, or act insulted at all. Cool lady.

  Her exam consisted of some pokes, peeks, and palpations. I gave her a few deep breaths—in and out through your mouth please—followed by a quiet pause while she listened to my heart beat. She also asked a few inevitable gyne questions like, When was your last menstrual cycle? and Have you ever been pregnant? I knew the answer to the latter, but I really had no idea when the last period was. As I concentrated on a ceiling tile, muttering something about mid-summer while trying to calculate when last I laid hands on a tampon, she suggested we do a pregnancy test.

  “Ha,” I laughed. “Save the bunny. I haven’t had much more than a kiss in years.” Somehow it was easier to admit to a fellow-woman professional.

  With a straight face she said, “We don’t use bunnies very often nowadays. Something with PETA, I imagine.”

  What do you know? A fellow jokester.

  “Two months is a long time to go without a period, Kate. We should run the test.”

  “Will it be expensive?”

  She fanned through my chart to the back page. “Your insurance should cover it.”

  I tried to argue, telling her, no really, there’s no reason to do an hCG level. But she wanted to check my electrolytes anyway, so as long as we were going in for the red stuff, we might as well cover everything. It wouldn’t be too swell if my potassium or sodium was screwy from all the barfing. That could even be serious. And as long as we were at it, we might as well see about my hematocrit and hemoglobin. And a white cell count wouldn’t hurt either. Heck, we might as well call in Dracula and drain the whole five liters while we’re at it. If there was something wrong with it, wouldn’t it be better to be rid of it all anyway?

  She suggested I go home once I’d had my blood drawn and rest till she knew more from the tests, and she gave me a sample of some over-the-counter concoction to help keep my stomach from regurgitating. She shook my hand, smiled a doctor smile and told me to dress, proceed to the window where the lady would take my money, then turn right and I’d find phlebotomy.

  In the drawing room was a humongous Eskimo-looking guy sitting in the chair reading last month’s wrinkled Cosmo. His white lab coat, which was straining against his Incredible Hulk size, cued me that he was the fellow I needed to drain my blood. The Sumo phlebotomist had trouble getting his large-bore needle into my dehydrated, shriveled vein, so before I left the office my arm sported a beautiful hematoma the size of Alaska, replete with four puncture wounds. The first three holes looked like two eyes and a nose to me. Before the final needle stick I suggested to the over-sized tech he complete the face with a knife slash across my arm, then he could just catch the blood in a bucket as it spewed from the gash. I was about to emphasize he make it a happy slash, but the evil-eye he shot my way reminded me he held the razor-sharp, beveled pipeline that was about to be plunged again into my arm. So I shut up and let him work his magic.

  Well, what he did wasn’t really magic, but he finally found the vein—about the time I was ready to ralph on the sweaty rolls of his bald head, which was bent over the pin cushion I sometimes like to think of as my arm. He got his three red-capped tubes and one purple-top tube filled with my lifeblood, taped a folded cotton gauze inside my elbow before he flexed my arm closed, and he sent me on my way.

  ***

  When I arrived at the restaurant, it was filling up with the dinner crowd. A line was forming of High Society waiting to be escorted to their tables. All the glitz made me feel out of place with my saggy Levi’s and wrinkled shirt. But I w
ould just snag my glasses and go on my way, being careful not to tarry and ruin everyone’s dining experience.

  I squeezed my way through the congested doorway to the maître d’s counter, receiving one icy glare after another from all the prim and painted prima donnas hanging on bent Armanied elbows in the foyer. They eyed me like I was going to cut in line or something.

  When I got to the front of the line, the host recognized me with a bit of a frown. He eyed my apparel. I assured him I was just there to grab my sunglasses. He told me he’d already returned them to Dr. Mackenzie. With a gesture toward a far corner table—the same table I’d sat at with Mack—he pointed out Mack, once again, occupying “our” table.

  And he sure as heck had no baby with him now. Of the infantile persuasion, anyway.

  Ooh, baby.

  Across from my supposed boyfriend sat the most glamorous woman I’d ever set eyes on. Not a baby, but a babe! She looked more Greek than Mack, with dark curls framing a stunning slender face. Her skin was olive oil—rich and smooth—flawless and glowing. The black spaghetti straps of her gown snugged over tanned, well-defined shoulders—round and firm, strong and perfect, set off beautifully by her black, elegant lace shawl draping over the back of her chair. Everything about her was perfect.

  And the smile she was bestowing on Mack shined with even, perfect pearls, just like the strand accentuating her long, beautiful neck.

  I looked back at the maître d’. He was smirking at me. The whole restaurant seemed to be mocking me. Except Mack, who was ogling the goddess at his table. He didn’t see me, thank goodness. His chair was sideways to me.

  I stammered to the host that I’d get the glasses when it was a more convenient time for the doctor, and I pressed my way back through the crowd to the street outside where I escaped with my shame into the darkness.

  Chapter 23

  Ollie greeted me when I bumbled in through the doorway. He head-bumped me while he roared his purr engine up to full throttle.

  It’s nice to be loved.

  I pretended he never did that exact same thing to the wooden chair leg.

  I felt like telling Ollie all about Mack’s infidelity, but as I tried to put together the words, I realized how ridiculous it would sound. Where did I get off thinking he was all mine? He’d never promised I was the only one he would date. He had never said he’d stay away from all gorgeous goddesses so that miserable, plain, dull me wouldn’t feel left out. What was I thinking? A sexy hunk like Mack could have any woman he wanted. Why would he settle for me? He wouldn’t. And he hadn’t. And I had to find a way to live with it.

  So I took a fudge bar from the freezer, and as I licked the chocolate that was beginning to drip down the side almost as soon as I got it out of the wrapper, I stuffed every thought of Mack deep down, out of reach.

  I flopped on the couch and snapped on the TV thinking I’d catch the end of the news before popping in a George Clooney movie. Ollie opted for my lap over the empty faded chair cushion, and he settled down to wait for some entertainment on the tube.

  As I sucked the Popsicle stick for every last molecule of fudge, Willie the Nerd did a recap of his lead stories—of course using his deep and low Brokaw impersonation. The latest kidnap victim had been found and returned to her foster family.

  My eyes must have bulged like Jiffy Pop. And my body must have jumped off the couch because Ollie was suddenly on the floor scolding me with fury.

  “Did you hear that?” I asked Ollie, ignoring his complaints for being dumped. “Emma is back!”

  Ollie was too upset to put it all together. But my mind was racing with all the information I’d collected.

  Two babies kidnapped. Two babies returned. Both from Howard’s client list. A third baby on his list—Nikki’s baby—wanted by Carl the Baby-Maker because of his illegal cloning. His partner, my supposed boyfriend, suddenly in possession of a baby he denied having and acting very suspiciously about it.

  If Mack were somehow involved with Carl in an illegal activity, his mysterious baby might have something to do with the kidnappings.

  If? What was I thinking? I already knew the two doctors had been involved in illegal activity. Could it be too great a stretch to think they had something to do with kidnappings?

  What was happening to me? I was believing the preposterous. My brain enzymes must have gone helter-skelter from all the puking. Ollie agreed with Dr. Chen. I needed some serious counseling.

  It had to be coincidence that Mack happened to be in possession of a baby just when another disappeared. And suddenly out of possession right after it reappeared. And coincidence he didn’t want anyone to know he had a baby. And coincidence that his buddy the Baby-Maker was a schmuck and had been hunting for a baby he’d cloned.

  Wow. Those were a lot of coincidences.

  But then there was still the thing with Howard. Mack wasn’t involved with that. He couldn’t be.

  No way.

  No how.

  Oh, no! What is going on?

  Did I really even know this man? I’d just seen him with some mysterious woman—sans baby—having a fantastic time in a world of glitz where I could never belong. Maybe he just happened to have a baby on the exact day another one was stolen—one who just happened to have been adopted out by the same lawyer as the baby being hunted by Mack’s partner in illegal baby-making.

  If I gave him a chance, maybe he’d give an easy explanation. Maybe it was the child of some neighbor who had to run out to the market for a minute. Perhaps the kid belonged to a friend who was out of town for the weekend and needed some low-cost childcare.

  Yeah, right.

  If that was the case, he did a quick job of dumping the kid in order to go out with Miss Greek Gorgeous Glamour Queen. He seemed able to take care of baby business fast enough to get free for her.

  I needed to call Fosdick and tell him all I knew.

  Boy, was I sounding like a spoiled brat. I wanted to tattle and get him into trouble.

  But I had every right, come to think of it. He’d been a real jerk to me.

  The softer side of me wanted to argue. The wimpy side. I told her to leave me alone, I was busy feeling sorry for us, but she insisted on looking at other possibilities.

  What if there is a reasonable explanation?

  Yeah, sure.

  No, really. What if there is some good reason why Mack had a baby? Maybe he was babysitting. Maybe the date was a business dinner. There could be a thousand answers to the puzzle. We could ruin his career, and any chance of a relationship with him if we jump to conclusions. Why should we assume the worst?

  “Oh, shut up,” I told her. “I’ll tell you why. She was gorgeous, and we’re not. She was skinny, and tanned, and muscular, and we’re not. She was the one sitting across from him making goo-goo eyes, not us.”

  That did it. Miss Wimpy shut up and let me feel sorry for us. After all, that was my specialty.

  I settled back down into the cushion of the couch and let Ollie get situated. Before he did, he gave me a glare. He was out of patience and wanted to watch the show.

  “Relax,” I told him. “You’ll get your entertainment. I’m all right now. I’ll just sit here and feel depressed while you pretend nothing is wrong.”

  While he watched, completely oblivious to my situation like the typical male that he was, my mind wandered to the possibility of calling Mack to find out where he was, what he was doing, and where his baby was. I knew he probably wouldn’t be home yet, but I did have his cell phone number.

  It was tempting, and my mind went all over the place thinking of what I’d say to him, what he’d reply, and the piece of my mind I’d give him once he fessed up and told me it had all been a great misjudgment on his part and he hoped I’d forgive him. In the process, I realized I had no proof of anything. And I sure didn’t want to jeopardize any chance to win Mack’s affection by telling Fosdick.

  I decided I’d wait till Mack got home, maybe even just falling asleep, and I would call him.
That would give me the clear advantage in my attack. I’d put the pressure on, but keep it just between the two of us, so he wouldn’t be in any danger of real trouble. Just enough to make him wake up and smell the proverbial coffee. And notice me.

  At just the perfect moment, I rallied up my nerve and called him. My body was shaking so much, I must have looked like Katharine Hepburn in her last years. But I was determined. I was going to do this.

  It barely rang and went straight to voicemail, like it wasn’t even on.

  I never got that chance to give him the piece of my mind I fantasized blasting him with (Ollie thought I had none to spare anyway) because he never turned his phone back on. I tried calling more times than I’d want to admit.

  About two o’clock, I woke up with a jerk. I was dreaming of Mack with that other woman who stole him from me. And the images I saw clearly explained why his phone was turned off. I shut off the TV and straggled to bed convincing myself it was only a nightmare.

  ***

  The next morning, I stayed in bed till I couldn’t stand it any longer. My stomach felt wobbly. Could it have possibly been the fudge bar? Or maybe it was the Oreos I finished off after the stash of M&M’s I found behind the couch cushion. Who could know? Either way, I wasn’t interested in breakfast, so I’d managed to sleep until noon, then the sun was in my eyes and my back ached. So I extricated myself from the sheets and managed to get to the couch.

  I stared at the ceiling, wondering what I was supposed to do with my life. No job, no boyfriend, no class, and I couldn’t even eat chocolate for breakfast anymore. What was existence coming to?

  Then the phone rang. I answered it without thinking.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi.”

  It was Mack. My ex-almost-boyfriend.

  What happened next was totally out of my control. I went Southern, and I hadn’t even known I could speak it so fluently.

  “Hah. Hew’s thee-us? Yew’ve got thuh wrong numbah.”