Chapter 30
Thirty
Astor
The next morning, I’m sitting on the front stoop waiting for the doctor to arrive. I don’t want the doorbell to wake Sabine or Valerie.
I have a headache, and I never get headaches.
I’m rubbing my temples when I get the feeling someone is watching me. I look over my shoulder, and sure enough, Brittney is standing behind the front windows, staring at the driveway. But she’s not looking at me.
I turn fully toward her, the movement earning her attention.
She blinks, startled. She hadn’t even seen me. How is that possible?
I offer a crooked smile and wave.
She responds with the most awkward wave I’ve ever seen, then spins on her heel and disappears.
I surge up and push through the front door.
“Brittney?”
I catch her just as she’s about to go into the master bedroom.
“Can I speak to you outside for a moment, please?”
She hesitates, then drops her hand from the doorknob and follows me outside.
She looks paler than yesterday. Her eyes are puffy and red as if she’s either been crying, or didn’t sleep last night.
“You okay?”
“Yes,” she nods feverishly. “Yes, sir.”
“Okay. Let me know if you need some time off.”
“I don’t. Thank you.”
“Okay. . . . Yesterday, when I came into the bedroom after you brought Valerie in from the patio, was she speaking to you?”
Brittney frowns, searching her memory.
Jesus, what is it about this place and people forgetting things?
“Um, I can’t—I don’t think so.”
“So, no? She wasn’t speaking to you?”
“No.”
“ . . . Okay, so, to confirm, you two weren’t speaking.”
“I don’t think so. Sometimes she mumbles, but . . . no, I don’t think so.”
Her cheeks look like they are about to explode into flames so I let her go, feeling zero percent better.
Dr. Squire pulls into the driveway in a dusty SUV with two kayaks secured to the top and a bicycle strapped to the back.
“I hope I didn’t interrupt your vacation,” I say as we shake hands. His white hair sparkles in the early morning sunlight, his gaze warm and sharp. If not for the slight limp in his gait, you’d never know the man was pushing eighty years old.
“Anything for you, Astor. You know that.”
He pulls me in for a hug. His signature scent, Old Spice, tugs at memories. Squire has been my doctor for decades and became Valerie’s when she became ill, not long after our daughter, Chloe, died. A war veteran, Squire is the type of doctor who still believes in house calls, natural medicine, fitness to combat chronic illness, and a swift kick in the ass when needed. I have immense respect for him.
“I love this place,” he says, taking a seat on the porch swing while I settle in on the wicker chair next to it.
“It’s becoming haunted with bad memories.”
He sombers. “What’s going on?”
“Valerie isn’t doing well. Physically or mentally.”
“Give me the physical first.”
“She had a deep rattle cough and was running a fever yesterday. She also gets short of breath on occasion throughout the day.”
“During exertion?”
“No. Sometimes she’ll wake up and it seems like she’s struggling for air. But I’m not sure if it’s related to a bad dream—she gets them almost every night.”
“I’ll give her a full exam today, and will take blood and urine samples. Pending those results, we’ll take her in for additional testing.”
“Thanks. And Jackie? Did you talk to her?”
“Yep. She’ll be here soon. She’s prepared to stay full-time with Brittney, if she needs to. How is Brittney doing?”
I find myself hesitating. “She’s young.”
“You were young once, too, remember.”
I nod.
“Give her a chance. She was the top of her class. Now, tell me, how is Valerie doing mentally?”
I take a deep breath. “She’s confused more than usual, and slurs occasionally. And sometimes she sees things that aren’t there, and other times, appears confused about seeing things that are right in front of her.”
He nods. “Both are common with schizophrenia. Seventy percent of people living with the disease experience hallucinations. I know she’s aware of this, so that’s likely a part of her confusion— she doesn’t know what’s real and what’s fake.”
“Is there any way she could be exaggerating her symptoms?”
“You mean faking?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s highly unlikely, especially considering the dosage of medicine she’s on.” He pauses. “It’s a horrible disease, trust me. Has she opened up to anyone else?”
“Well, that’s the other thing. She says a few things to Jackie, as you know, but I also caught her whispering to Brittney. When I asked her what they were speaking about, she denied it.”
Squire spreads his palms as if he’s not surprised. “All part of it, Astor. But let me ask, this nonverbal thing is new right? Just in the last months?”
“Correct. She’s been off since losing our child years ago, but it seems exacerbated since the incident.”
“How so?”
“After Chloe died, Valerie hardly spoke Chloe’s name. Now, she’s calling out for her in her sleep, asking why. And the other day she wrote her name on the shower wall.”
Squire sucks in a breath. “That must be hard for you, too.”
“It’s hard for many reasons, one being that I feel like she knows something on a subconscious level and is trying to communicate it?—”
“You mean, regarding Chloe’s death? And the fact that you don’t think it was an accident?”
“Right.”
He pauses. “Be careful in trying to get her to open up more. Don’t push her, especially with something as traumatic as losing a child.”
I drag my fingers through my hair. “I know, I know, I just feel like there’s something there.”
“Astor, with the amount of medication she’s on, I wouldn’t put stock in anything she says. We need to get her stable before pressing for any concrete information.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder. “I know it’s tough, especially for someone like you who needs to feel in control in every situation. Your daughter’s death and everything surrounding it felt totally out of your control. Astor . . . I’ve told you a hundred times, I highly recommend that you begin seeing both a therapist and a psychiatrist.”
“And I’ve told you a hundred times to go fuck yourself.”
Squire chuckles, pats me on the back. “I’ll never stop, Astor. It’s my job to advise you on your health. What was the other thing? You said you had two reasons for Valerie bringing up Chloe’s name being hard on you.”
I exhale. “It brings back all the memories. Feels like it was yesterday that I lost my only child. My only blood.”
“I can imagine. Especially what a miracle it was to have gotten pregnant again so soon after the miscarriage.”
“What?”
Squire frowns. “You know . . . the miscarriage.”
I blink, shake my head. “Miscarriage? What miscarriage? What are you talking about?”
The porch swing stills and Squire is frowning intensely, staring at me in a way that sends my instinct piquing.
“What, Squire?”
He blinks, having trouble finding his words.
“What? Speak.”
“I . . . I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?” My heart is pounding against my ribcage.
“When Valerie became a patient of mine, I had her doctor send over her medical records. She miscarried the first baby you and she had, at six weeks.”
My head begins spinning. An ice-cold chill snakes up my spine.
“Astor. Are you okay?”
“She—she never told me.” Sweat breaks out over my skin, and my lungs feel like they are being squeezed from the inside out. “And I—I never joined her at any of the appointments… I didn’t know—she didn’t tell me . . .”
“It can be a difficult thing for a woman to go through. It’s not uncommon for women to feel embarrassed and think it was somehow their fault. Again, it was a miracle you two were able to get pregnant again the next month, so soon . . . Astor—Astor, are you okay? You’re as pale as a?—”
I’m vaguely aware of Squire pulling me onto the ground and guiding me to lay down while I gasp for air.
“Breathe, son, breathe. Feel the ground beneath you, focus on the feeling of the ground beneath you…” His voice sounds like it’s underwater as he guides me through a meditation to alleviate panic attacks. “…The ground is there to support you. Feel the ground underneath your heels, your calves, your thighs . . .”
I’m not sure how much time passes before I feel less like I’m falling out of an airplane and more like I’m in shock. I sit up, but remain on the ground.
Squire is kneeled beside me, his hand on my knee. He looks extremely concerned.
“You okay? You passed out on me. . . . Astor talk to me.”
I squint, forcing my focus on Squire.
When I speak, my voice doesn’t sound like my own. It sounds weak. “Valerie and I didn’t have sex again until after Chloe was born. I didn’t want to risk hurting the baby after she’d told me she was pregnant.”
Squire’s eyes widen. “Wait, so you had sex one time, the first time she was pregnant?”
“Yes. Oh my . . .”
“Breathe, Astor.”
I swat away his hand, anger beginning to mix with the shock. “Valerie miscarried our child, and then got pregnant with someone else immediately after—and didn’t tell me.”
Squire’s jaw drops. “I’m sorry—I just always assumed it was yours.”
“So did I.”
“So then . . . who’s the father?”
The emails flash behind my eyes.
I can’t wait to see you. I can’t stop thinking about you or what our life will be like when we’re finally together.
Love, Valerie
Soon. I miss you too. The plan is almost in place. Be patient, we’ll be together again soon. I love you so much.
Carlos
Chloe was not my child.
She was Carlos’s child.