True Confessions of the Stratford Park PTA by Nancy Robards Thompson

Author:Nancy Robards Thompson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2006-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

Elizabeth

How does one recover from barfing on her boss?

Or maybe the more appropriate question is does one recover—professionally, personally?

It’s been ten days since that horrifying event and I want to crawl under the table every time I see him.

After the meeting, I apologized and sent his coat out to be dry-cleaned. A few days later, I even tried to make light of it, but he hasn’t been in a jovial mood since.

I finally decided all I can do is move forward as if it never happened.

The phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Deveraux, this is Paula from Dr. Riggs’s office. He asked me to call and tell you your test results are in. Could you and your husband come in tomorrow at four to discuss it?”

My blood runs cold. He wouldn’t call us in just to give us an all-clear. Oh, my God—

“Sure, but, umm…could you give me a hint as to the result?”

The nurse is silent.

“Is my baby okay?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Deveraux, the doctor has that information. There are no notes in your file.”

Take a deep breath. Don’t panic.

“May I speak to him, please?”

“I apologize, but he’s at the hospital delivering a baby.”

I close my eyes against the mounting anxiety and rest my head on my hand, quashing the urge to yell at the nurse. It’s not her fault.

“Okay, then. We’ll see him tomorrow.”

When I hang up, Anastasia is standing in the middle of the kitchen looking as if she just saw a ghost.

“What do you mean is your baby okay?”

Oh, shit.

We didn’t want to tell her yet, not until after we decide what we’re going to do.

The thought rings a pang of guilt. You can’t just throw away a child.

“Mom? What’s going on?”

She’s asking me. I have to tell her. But emotions collide: anxiety over the pending news Dr. Riggs is keeping from us; unease at being unprepared to have this conversation with my daughter.

“Come here, honey, sit down.”

She stays rooted to the spot, her face screwed into a mask of utter disgust.

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you? That’s why you’ve been sick so much. That’s why you’ve been coming home early from work.”

Instinctively, I lace my hands over my belly.

It’s all in the presentation, Elizabeth. Smile. Say, “Yes, I am! Isn’t it wonderful? We’re all going to be so happy.”

Before I can utter a word, she screams, “I don’t want you to have another baby. You don’t have enough time for me as it is and now you’re going to have another kid?”

She runs out of the room. I go after her, but by the time I lug my tired body upstairs, her door is shut and locked, the face of some pretty-boy singer smiling at me from the poster tacked to her door.

I knock on pretty boy’s pimple-free forehead. “Anastasia, please open the door.”

“Go away.”

“Please, let’s talk about this.”

“Go away! I hate you.”

“Open the door right this minute! I’m not going to tell you ag—”

Rap music blasts so loudly I can’t even scream over its impenetrable barrier. I feel the bass thump in my chest as some punk sings something about telling all adults to go fuck themselves.

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