Chapter Eight: Sometimes You Have To Build Your Own Rainbows

I don't care what the computer geeks in my life say; we will never be a paperless society. If you doubt that… go to the doctor's after a long hiatus. Twenty minutes later you're done—and need to make a second appointment with a different doctor for your brand new case of writer's cramp. (If you're a new patient for that second doctor, you're looking at another forty minutes for even more paperwork.)

I huddled in a corner with Ducky, filling out questions from the boring (name, age, weight) to the baffling (I have no clue if any of my female relatives have had a miscarriage; I grew up in an era when that was considered private and personal and they kept it private and personal), then trying to keep from staring at the other women in various stages of gestation. (It was difficult. One woman was so, um, round I was afraid she was going to pop any second. Another looked so young I had a hard time believing she had even graduated high school. She started chirping to the stone-faced woman next to her (her mother, I quickly realized) about how great it was that having appointments at this time of day would get her out of algebra this coming semester… and it dawned on me that she hadn't even graduated junior high school. I quickly turned away to grab a magazine from Ducky's other side and found him studiously scrutinizing the fingernails on his neatly folded hands; from the flick of his eyes I knew he had heard, interpreted and was equally stunned and/or appalled. Maybe fifty-one is a tad on the old side—but twelve is way, way too young.)

We had plenty of time to engage in people watching and the thumbing of books and magazines. We were early. Very early. One, I hate being late. Two, I knew there would be paperwork up the wazoo. Three… I was hoping Dr. Lester might be running ahead of schedule and we could sneak in before our scheduled appointment.

No such luck. She was actually running a little late; a C-section that morning had run into a minor snag (just the thing my nerves needed to hear) and she was doing her best to get caught up. And she actually was getting close to caught up—from being two hours behind at the start of the day, she was down to being a mere forty-five minutes. (As we waited I checked my phone and found the message on my voicemail from the receptionist asking if I wanted to reschedule or take my chances being late. Where it had disappeared for almost six hours, I don't know. But my answers would have been 'no' and 'yes' anyway.)

By the time the receptionist led us in to Dr. Lester's office, we were still at the behind-by-forty-five mark, but several of her afternoon patients had decided to reschedule rather than run the risk of having their appointments run into the nine o'clock news. "So, by six o'clock I should be back on schedule—through only small effort on my own," she said, waiving us to two comfortable chairs on the patient side of her desk. She noticed Ducky's interest in the lift control on one of them and laughed. "When I first started my practice, I actually sprained my back helping one expectant mother out of her chair. I went out the next week and bought a lift chair and I've had one in the office ever since."

"Very wise."

"Dr. Lester, this is my fiancé. Donald Mallard, Dr. Donald Mallard. It's okay for him to be in here, yes?" I hadn't realized how very much I wanted Ducky in there until I heard the "please, please?" in my voice.

"If you want him in here, then he is quite welcome. Doctor?" She looked at him curiously. "GP? Specialist?"

"Medical Examiner," he said with a disarming smile.

"Oh!"

"NCIS. Naval Criminal Investigative Service," he elaborated at her slightly confused look.

"Interesting. Between us, we cover the spectrum of a person's life. Beginning—to end."

"All we need is a pediatrician, GP and a geriatric specialist and you could all go into business together," I tossed out.

"I doubt I'd have many patients calling in for appointments," Ducky said with a teasing look over the top of his glasses.

"Touché."

"So. I understand you've taken a home pregnancy test and it is indicating you might be pregnant." I pulled out the first test, neatly ziplock-bagged, and handed it to her. "I love this test. Nice shade of blue, by the way. Now, sometimes it can give you a false positive—"

I beat her to the punch. I pulled out the larger ziplock bag with individually bagged tests and handed them over.

"Oh, my god," she gasped. I thought she was shocked, then realized she was shaking with silent laughter. She gave in with a whoop and another, "Oh, my god!" and fell back in her chair laughing to the point of pulling her glasses off and wiping the tears from her eyes. "I've had patients repeat a test once, twice, sometimes even three times—but this…!"

"Well… they sell them in multi-packs at Costco," I defended myself. "And I rather doubt we'll run into this situation again, so, I may as well use them all…" (If being pregnant at fifty-one was making me lose my marbles, imagine fifty-two, fifty-five or…oy!)

"Cassandra is a very thorough woman," Ducky said. He reached over and squeezed my hand.

"Very," Dr. Lester agreed. "And our test shows another positive result, making it a nice even fourteen."

Instead of unlucky number thirteen, popped into my head. "So… now what?"

"We'll do a physical exam, including two types of sonogram—hopefully we can see what's causing that bellyache you're bellyaching about." She gave me a reassuring smile. "If you would like D—Donald to be in the exam room, that's perfectly acceptable." From her stumble, I guessed that she was heading for the professionally courteous 'Dr. Mallard' and substituted the more common in this situation and less formal 'Donald' on second thought.

I'm pretty sure she'd rather be able to be one-on-one with her patient—and much as I was glad beyond words to have Ducky here, I didn't really want him there. "Honey… naked with you is one thing—"

He held up a hand. "Say no more. I completely understand. There was a time when my patients and I conversed instead of it being a one-sided conversation." He glanced toward the bookcase. "There are some interesting reference books I see that normally wouldn't cross my path—"

"Please. Feel free. Would you like some tea while you're waiting? Most of what we have is herbal—most of the women prefer them, even though decaffeinated tea is fine and we have several varieties of decaf—"

Answers my question about caffeine being on the yea or nay list.

"But I drink a gallon or two hi-test instead of unleaded, so we do have a stash of 'normal' tea as well." She rattled off several varieties. "How do you take it?" she asked as his eyes lit up over Earl Gray.

"Milk, if you have it? Or plain is fine."

"Cream? Half and half, actually," she clarified.

"That would be lovely, thank you."

"I'll ask Becca to bring some in. We'll be back in about twenty minutes."

Twenty minutes? Try twenty hours. At least it felt like that.

No matter how much I like Dr. Lester (and I do; she's a hoot, next to the stacks of baby and parenting-themed magazines in the waiting room you'll find multiple copies of Erma Bombeck and Jean Kerr books and collections of For Better or For Worse and Baby Blues cartoons strewn about), I don't like going to the doctor, period, and my yearly exam is nowhere near the top of my list. So the first thing she did was gently scold me for missing the last, er, five yearly exams. I made a show of hanging my head, stubbing my toe against the linoleum, wringing my hands and lisping, "I'm sowwy, Doctuh Lethtuh."

"You should be," she retorted. "I changed the gowns just because of you."

"Yeah?" She's one of the few doctors I know who doesn't use the paper throwaway gowns, which was nice—but she used boring, basic white and yellow (carefully avoiding pink and blue). I had suggested patterns—but the half of her patients who were expecting were probably sick to death of teddy bears, ABC blocks, and stuff like that, how about something more interesting? "So, what did you get?"

She opened a cupboard. "Take your pick. And then get changed. I'll be right back."

I eyeballed the stacks and grinned. It looked like she had gone with a scrubs supplier—there were prints of cartoon cats, cartoon dogs, bugs and flowers, classic comic strips, polka dots, stripes—you name it. I grabbed one decorated with a beautiful beach scene—rolling waves, sailboats, even an island in the distance with tiny palm trees. Hmm. Wonder where Ducky would like to take our honeymoon… better plan that soon, it would be hard to reserve the honeymoon suite and ask for a crib, too.

I waited on the exam table, practicing my Zen breathing in the hopes of lowering my blood pressure. No such luck. I was tense, tense, tense.

Dr. Lester knocked and entered the room. "Relax…" She patted my shoulder.

"Easier said than done," I muttered.

"Have you ever had a sonogram before?"

"I've never been pregnant before," I reminded her.

"Oh, OB's don't have a lock on the technology—it's very helpful for gallstones, heart blockage…"

"Hmm. Well, no, I've never had one. Only surgery I've ever had was my appendectomy. And that was in high school."

"Okay. Fast lesson in ultrasounds." She showed me the external scanner, the one that would be used internally, the conductive gel, the sonogram unit itself and told me how it bounces harmless waves and creates a picture on the screen, much like sonar the Navy uses. She made sure to assure me that it was not like an x-ray, and was totally harmless to 'anyone or anything.' "Now, you won't be able to see the screen. This is for two reasons. One, it's cramped quarters to get you, me, the exam bed and the scanner in this area. I have to see the screen; you don't. Two, reading a sonogram screen is not like Magic Eye or Where's Waldo. It's very easy for an untrained eye—"

"To imagine all sorts of things," I finished. She nodded sagely. "You don't need to warn me. I've had customers share their sonogram pictures and say, "Oh, look! There's his head, there's his hand—" and I'm thinking, 'Thank god I didn't say anything, I thought that was a storm front circling over Boise.'"

She laughed. "Yeah, I was doing a sonogram on a patient who was in the early stages of labor, her husband had been pretty blasé about the whole pregnancy—he looked over my shoulder and yelped, 'Jesus Christ, that kid is hung like a horse!'"

I shook my head, chuckling. "Men!"

"Yeah. Darn near broke his heart when I said, 'That's the umbilical cord.'"

I clapped my hands over my mouth and tried to stifle my laughter. Didn't work. But her probably apocryphal story eased some of the tension. I arranged my body as she indicated… then nearly jumped to the ceiling when she squirted the gel on my stomach. "Holy crap, do you freeze that stuff?"

"Oh, Sandy, I'm sorry! You even told me this was the first time and—" She sighed, "Is it too late to warn you the gel is kind of cold?"

"Yeah. I think so." Cold. And gooey. Yuck.

"I'll warn you if I have to reapply."

I lay back and tried to let my mind wander. It refused. I took in every minute bit of the exam. The pressure of the scanner against my skin. The odd movements Dr. Lester made, moving it by microns, then picking it up, wriggling it and starting over in the same area (what did that do, erase it?). The sudden stop, press down… and the click of a computer key. "Just getting a static image as well as video," she said in a slightly distracted tone. She was focused on the screen but still remembering to tell me what the hell she was doing; distracted tone was okay. Throughout the exam she hummed softly, tunes I couldn't recognize but were pleasant and soothing. Every few bars she'd break off and ask questions—where did I meet Ducky, how was the store doing, what's new… I told her about the absurd way Ducky and I had really met the year before (ignoring the times he'd wandered in and out of the store until then), the recent chaos with Lily, Fran—not to mention, Victoria… She listened, commented when appropriate—but her concentration was on the computer screen in front of her.

"This gives a different angle on things…" Well, yeah, a magic wand stuck six inches into your body would get a different perspective. But compared to other exams, it wasn't that bad. But I was glad when the whole thing was over.

"Okay. The images will be available in my office... Now… one question… You want to see things for the first time alone? Or with your fiancé?"

"With… with Ducky," I said slowly. I didn't know if this was the normal question or if there was something wrong. If there was something wrong… yeah, I wanted Ducky there. His medical training would probably mean he'd know better questions to ask—but, regardless, even if he were a ditch digger, I'd want him there. But while I had been off-and-on scared for the past week and a half, now I was a little scared in a whole different direction.

Borrowing trouble, borrowing trouble, no sense borrowing trouble… Gamma's pet phrase circled around in my head as I hurriedly pulled my clothes back on and went back to Dr. Lester's office. Even still, I hesitated for several seconds, hand on the doorknob… then pushed the slightly ajar door open all the way.

Ducky was there, alone, nose buried in a book. He looked up as the door opened and gave me the who-cares-about-that-hurricane-warning-everything-is-peachy smile that makes me immediately feel better. He quickly set aside the book and hurried to meet me at the door. "How are you, dearest?" He took both of my hands in his and gave me a quick kiss.

"It was just an exam, Ducky. Physical, not final doctoral," I joked feebly. He still gave me a grin like I was the wittiest thing in blue jeans.

"Whoops!" We both jumped as the door opened again and bumped us. "I'm so sorry!" Dr. Lester looked aghast.

"Barely connected," I assured her.

"We're at fault for standing in the path of the door," Ducky added.

"I knock on all the exam doors, it never—" She looked truly distraught.

"It never occurred to you to knock on your own office door—and there's no reason it should have," Ducky said soothingly. He's very good at calming people down, and Dr. Lester was no exception.

With a look of thanks she went to her desk and turned her computer monitor around to face us and brought her wireless keyboard over to where we had been sitting earlier. She caught my eye and patted the seat closest to the desk; I sat, and she wheeled an exam stool over from a corner and scooched in. She gave a gentle 'come here' waggle of her fingers; Ducky was standing hesitantly just out of range. He walked over slowly and took the remaining seat. It was the first time I'd seen him look rattled; well, hell, this was the first time he'd been in this situation. (It was the first time either of us had been in this situation.)

"So." Dr. Lester reached over and patted my hand. "You had a pretty, well, interesting past couple of months, hmm?" She had a small, understanding smile on her face.

She had been listening. "You could say that."

"And the past week and a half on top of that… it's been a lot of upheaval in your life, both of your lives."

I laughed shortly. "Can't say it's been boring."

Dr. Lester's smile faded to almost nothing. "Sandy…" Her hand squeezed mine, very lightly.

Oh, shit. I stopped breathing.

"I'm sorry… you're not pregnant."

It took a minute to really sink in. "Not?"

She shook her head.

"Okay… okay, I know I'm not the science whiz of the year but, even I can't screw up thirteen pee tests. Plus the one your tab tech did. Fourteen false positives?"

She let out a small breath. "There are other things that can cause your endocrine system to mimic a pregnancy—"

She said more; my attention was distracted by the tiny, faint intake of breath from the gentle, loving man barely a foot away from me. I tried to look at him without looking at him, my heart going triple time. He's a doctor. He knows all the things that could go wrong with the human body. I tried to remember what I could from my anatomy class a zillion years ago and could only come up with a picture of the human skeleton and vague ideas where internal organs went. If it's a brain tumor, I'm going to demand a fucking recount. Wait. It can't be a brain tumor; she didn't scan anywhere close to my head. I dragged my mind back to what Dr. Lester was saying.

"—look here…" She moved her hand back to steady the keyboard, her other hand rolling the track ball to bring the screen out of sleep mode; she clicked on an icon, quickly navigating to the file she wanted. The screen filled with a large picture of… something. Black and white, it was shaped like an upside down fan and it looked as confusing as the sonogram pictures I'd seen before. I couldn't see a fetus in the other pictures; I couldn't see or not see one in this picture. But there was another faint, infinitesimal indrawn breath from Ducky; he clearly saw something. Something… not good. "…corpus luteum cyst…" Dr. Lester was saying.

I frowned. "Corpus delicti?" I was starting to feel like I wasn't there—no… like I was there, but shut off. Like I was in a goldfish bowl or something, like there was a glass wall between Dr. Lester and me, between Ducky and me, between me and… everything.

"No, no…" She clicked through other views, video feed and static images, things that made no impact on me. I didn't understand them. Cloud cover… It all looked like cloud cover or Swiss cheese…

Ducky was leaning forward, holding my hand. He was listening carefully to what Dr. Lester was saying; good. Glad someone was. Occasionally he asked a question. I didn't track on anything either of them was saying.

Not pregnant. How… odd.

It had taken me the better part of a week to get comfortable, really comfortable with the idea of being pregnant.

And now, with the click of a computer button… I'm not.

Never was.

I realized there was a sudden silence in the room; both Dr. Lester and Ducky were looking at me. I started to fumble for and excuse, but I didn't need to. Dr. Lester reached over and patted my knee. "I understand," she said gently. "It's a lot to take in. But everything indicates it will be easy to take care of. It's probably the cause of your come-and-go abdominal pain. Because of that, I do recommend removal, rather than wait and see…"

Only part of my mind listened to the plans. Outpatient surgery Monday morning, she'd give me a list of pre-op instructions; I should take the day off, just to be safe, but I'd be right as rain Tuesday. Right as rain.

Into each life, a little rain must fall… it never rains, but it pours…

The next thing I knew, Ducky and I were walking in the parking lot. Slowly. Hand-in-hand.

"Oh, I knew I should have driven us…" I only vaguely heard Ducky's mutter. "Sandy… Cassandra… Your van will be fine here overnight, let me drive—" I shook my head. "Perhaps—"

"I'm fine. I'll be fine." I realized how flat my voice was and forced a miniscule smile. "I'm just—surprised. A little—off-balance. Mentally. You know, going from one extreme to…" I trailed off. "But I'll be fine. Really." I determinedly made my smile a little larger. "Fine."

"You did hear what Dr. Lester said? If we want… we could try again. Try the first time, really… but…"

I managed another smile. "We can talk about it. Later. After the surgery." No way. Not going through this kind of upheaval again, never.

But then I caught his eyes; he… wanted to try again.

Could I? Should I? Should we?

Let me think about it…?

"Of course." His eyes searched my face. "Will you—be coming home? To Reston?"

Oh, god. Now I was really glad we hadn't told anyone. Victoria would have been elated—and then brokenhearted. On the other hand, it would have been nice to have someone outside of the two of us to talk to, to get some commiseration from...

Commiserate? Now, that's just stupid. It's not like you were trying to get pregnant. Not even half-heartedly. This was a big oops, a big surprise, and a big oops on the other side.

But even if we hadn't been planning or trying and it wasn't as harsh a blow as it would have been in that situation—being apart wouldn't help either of us. So. Suck it up, pull on your big girl panties and give Mother such a show that she'll never suspect anything is wrong.

But I can't. Not today, not tonight. I need a day to sort things out, to process… to… something.

"Tomorrow?" I suggested. Ducky looked upset at that. No, not just upset—worried. "I just need a little time alone. Just a little. Get back into a normal rhythm of things." He still looked hesitant. "I, ah, want to pack of my clothes, get all of them over to your place tomorrow. Only a month to get my stuff cleared out…"

"I shall love coming home every night to find you there." He slipped his arms around me, gently pulling me toward him and resting my head on his chest. "You said something the other week, something about sailors of old coming to port and the feeling of home they felt… I know what you mean, I see you when I walk in, it feels like all the jigsaw puzzles pieces have fallen into place…" His voice was a soft blur around me.

I still had the odd 'fishbowl' feeling. I had felt like this a week ago, when I discovered I was pregnant—when I thought I had discovered I was pregnant. I knew he was holding me, I could hear and feel his heartbeat against my face… but it was like I was in a glass bubble, everything was slightly dulled, slightly distant, and there was a growing gap of time, a lag between his words and my responses.

Now was one such lag. I had no idea what he had said, but he had said something that required a response. I forced my mind to sift through the last minutes—something about having Mother go over the furniture lists, keep her occupied. "Fine."

Fine.

I was fine.

Everything would be fine, just fine…

/ / /

It took very little work to get my clothes together. Half of what I owned was already at Ducky's, slowly taking over the closet in the guest room. There were the already boxed winter clothes; into the van, done in ten minutes. Stuff that didn't need to transport neatly—underwear, t-shirts, jeans, pants, just jam them into plastic trash bags and toss in the van. Half hour. My nice outfits that would bend, fold, spindle or mutilate stayed on their hangars, went into hanging garment bags (the ones I stopped taking on planes years ago because they never have room up front) and when I ran out of room, I made instant garment bags with big trash bags, tied them off and put the whole mess in the van. Two boxes of shoes, most of which I never wear; cull through them later and donate to charity. By dinner, I was done.

Boy, was I.

And through it all, I still felt like I was trapped in a bell jar, isolated from the rest of the world. Nobody gets in… nobody gets out.

As Evvie often puts it, my give-a-shit-o-meter was pegged at zero. Even microwaving a box would take too much effort; I called Al Dominic's for a pizza strike and checked through the closets one last time. I was loading the already bagged but forgotten in the library closet Ren Fair garb into the van when the delivery kid arrived. I didn't ask for the change; he was thrilled with the $4.50 tip and took off like a rocket. I grabbed the last of the wine (two totally different bottles, who cares), turned on the TV and ate about half of the double cheese meat lovers' (plus triple mushrooms) extra large pizza on autopilot while I ignored Godzilla on the TV.

"—and…he's pregnant."

My head jerked up. Matthew Broderick was explaining to Maria Pitillo how pregnancy tests work, that Godzilla was reproducing asexually ("Where's the fun in that?")—

I clicked numbers and ended up on USA, a "Law and Order SVU" rerun. Stabler and Benson were bugging Dr. Warner for autopsy details. "Oh, no, she was alive when it happened. Unconscious, but alive. Whoever did this knew what they were doing. She would have had to be breathing or they would have had only a minute or two to remove the fetus before brain damage—"

Jesus Christ!

I punched in a music channel and was grateful to hear "Bennie and the Jets." (If it had been "Having My Baby" I would have gone right over the edge.) I grabbed my dinner remains and headed to the kitchen.

I didn't bother bagging the pizza; the box would keep it edible for breakfast, beyond that it would go in the trash. I put the bottles in the recycle bin and the wine glass on the counter—and sniffed. Something smelled sweet—and slightly bad.

Euu. The fruit bowl was the culprit. A couple of pears that had ripened way too fast; they were brown, mushy and attracting the attention of a half dozen gnats. Now the rest of the fruit in the bowl was suspect.

"Well, that was a perfectly good waste of money," I snapped to no one in particular. I dumped the spoiled fruit into the trash and turned to put the bowl in the sink. I was still operating in a fog; the bowl started to slip, I moved to catch it… but it was like looking at two movies running at the same time. My hands were in slow motion, the bowl in triple speed. It glanced off the edge of the counter, flipped in the air and shattered into a thousand pieces as it landed on the tile.

The audio and video of the scene collided. I screamed, jumped out of the way into the dining room, and was somehow safe on the hardwood floor before the bowl exploded—but it felt like it was seconds, even minutes after the impact.

I stared around me, head jerking from point to point. What time is it? What day is it? What the hell is going on? Where am I, why—

Shaking, I focused on the explosion of pale green glass. "Dammit… dammit, dammit, dammit!" I pushed my fingers through my hair, clenching them against my scalp, tightening them more and more until it hurt. Until finally… it hurt.

I picked my way around the debris and pulled a broom and dustpan from the utility closet at the far end and slowly made my way back across the kitchen. My favorite bowl. It had been in my mother's kitchen since I could remember, given to her by Gamma; it had been in Gamma's kitchen for years before that. Mom had given it to me when I bought the house. I, in turn, would have given it—

Lips pressed in a hard line, I swept viciously at the broken glass. Stupid move. For one thing, it made the shards spin around instead of gathering neatly into a pile. For another, a wild swing connected with my wine glass and…

"Aaah!" I screamed as the glass fell, adding thin bits of clear glass to the minefield and splashing almost half a glass of wine all over. I stared at the now larger mess for a few seconds in mounting fury and let loose with another scream, this one of pure rage. My howl ended in a shriek of, "Goddammit!" that rattled the glassware. I grabbed anything within reach—the dish drainer contents: dinner plate, cereal bowl, big glass measuring cup, spoons, forks; canisters of rice, flour, sugar; collection of cooking utensils stuck in a kitschy ceramic milk jug with a Pennsylvania Dutch style rooster on it—anything, everything, each item being thrown to the floor with screams and curses, the mess growing and I didn't care, I didn't care, I didn't care one damn bit.

I was trying to pull the pads from the breakfast nook chairs—unsuccessfully, they were tied on too well—and my energy fled. My hands slid down the frame of the chair, propelling me to the floor—fortunately far away from the disaster at the other end of the kitchen. I sat on the floor, panting, almost but not quite crying, surveying the mess. Finally I just shook my head in sort of resignation. "Oh, yeah. That solves everything," I said bitterly. "Now I have to replace all this crap… and clean the kitchen. Again." My head fell forward, forehead resting on the chair pad I'd been so desperate to disembowel.

This is not the life I planned…

/ / / / /

Interestingly enough, I found that when I woke up the next morning, I actually remembered a lot of what Dr. Lester had said. Very simple, really—after the follicle on the ovary did its' job and kicked out an egg, it sealed back into itself and filled with fluid. Like an ingrown hair, only more painful—and with the ability to fake out a pregnancy test.

I stared up at the ceiling in the semi-gloom of the pre-dawn hours.

Oh, well.

It beats an ectopic pregnancy.

I sighed resignedly… rolled over and went back to sleep for another hour. I was working on accepting what had been dished out—but I wasn't quite at that stage yet.

I didn't tell anyone at the store what had happened; why should I? They didn't know before, this would just make them sad for no good reason. I tried to pull myself together, put on a cheerful face… but the best I could manage was civil and indifferent. I was clearly putting out "leave me alone" vibes; any time I went near the counter, Valerie would smile politely and say she had it covered; didn't I want to work on the artwork for the mailer? Get a head start on Halloween? Check the east coast book sales for the next few months? I retreated to my office, distracted myself with photoshop and catalogues and websites and pulled a little further into myself with each click.

By late afternoon, I knew I had to tell her something. We needed to change the schedule. "Can you cover for Monday?"

She looked startled. "Sure."

"Finally saw the doctor about that muscle. It just needs a little tweak, just an outpatient thing, doing it Monday morning…"

Her face cleared. "Oh, Sandy! I'm so sorry! But they're going to be able to fix it, right?"

I forced a smile. "Yep. Just going to take the day off in case I have a reaction to the anesthesia. Don't need you having to do double duty as Cherry Ames."

"Well, you go lie down. Better yet, go home. Let Dr. Mallard fuss over you, I'm sure he's dying to." She scurried from behind the counter to give me a hug. "Take care of yourself. You're the best boss I've ever had. I don't want to break in a new one."

I hugged her back. "Thanks. Just for that, I won't send Victoria in as my substitute on Monday."

Valerie laughed. "That's okay, I'd just hand her over to Geoff and walk away…"

/ / /

Ducky had prepared Mother in advance, telling her the same tale I'd told Valerie (interesting that we both went the same direction without consulting each other). He tried to rein her in but there are times when Victoria Alexandria Mallard gets an idea in her head and hangs on for dear life. In this instance her almost-daughter-in-law, the beloved of her son, the woman who went out of her way to fix special treats and cook things exactly as she liked them, the playmate who would drop everything and run over to take her to the market or the movies needed her love and protection. And, by all the gods and goddesses and stars in the sky, she was going to coo and cosset and hover like a mother hen with one chick, even if the chick was driven nuts and was close to screaming, 'Leave me the fuck alone!'

I didn't, of course.

I never allowed myself to be pushed beyond a sigh and slightly irritated remark—always followed by a hug or kiss or comment to let her know I still loved her, rather like Chanda dealing with the time out punishment for the girls—

(Stop. Don't go there.)

On any given day I try not to get snippy or snarky with Victoria. But that evening I had to hold on to my thoughts and feelings with both hands, my mental fingers turning white with the effort, hold on and think, think, think, before I said a word, tear myself away from my self-centered pity party and tell myself, 'She loves you, she's trying to help you' before saying anything. Most of the time I said nothing, just hugged her back and said, "I love you, too."

Under the cover of keeping up the pretense I let Ducky haul the laundry down to the basement, but I went down to actually do the chore; it gave me something to focus on, something—something else—to think about. While I worked at being a domestic goddess, he went over to Foot's throne room and started to sift the sand. "I'll get that, you don't—"

"No, no, dear, you shouldn't—" He broke off and we stared at each other. Don't have to worry about the health risk any more. "I don't mind doing it, heaven knows you've cleaned up after the dogs innumerable times—" He turned back to the inset ledge and resumed his work.

He continued to prattle; I knew he was just talking to fill the silence, so I didn't work at finding a reply to anything. His voice became a gentle hum in the background, like the store's copier when it's powered up but not printing.

Life goes on. There are chores that need to be done, the store will open and close, Ducky will discover the reason some poor petty officer is no longer with us, Charlie will come back from camp even more a computer nerd than she already is, Martin and Michelle Romero, Mr. Everstead and, lest we forget her, Alyce Carson will each face their own trial and judgment. Life goes on. No matter how devastating something is to you, personally, the world does not stop spinning, dawn continues to break, night continues to fall. Even if you take yourself out of the loop, chew your way through the medicine chest with a fifth of vodka as a chaser, that won't stop life from continuing on in your absence. Life… goes on.

Ducky had brought my clothes up to the spare room; I killed time arranging things, but that still left me with several hours until bedtime. (Ducky had fixed one of my absolute favorites for dinner, grilled salmon in apricot sauce; it tasted like cardboard, everything did, but I ate it all, had seconds, smiled and chatted during dinner, drank two or three (or five or six) glasses of wine… don't ask me what I said.)

Mother wanted to sit with me, keep me company; I gently encouraged her to park her frail butt in front of the computer. I knew she missed Charlie, Charlie missed her—and I needed a breather. After I had assured her a dozen times that I was fine, the surgery next Monday would be no big deal, she finally took her place at the computer and started tapping away. I hid in Ducky's office area while he brought the laundry up from the basement.

There was nothing to do. All the books and magazines were organized; his desk was pristine. The little wastebasket had a few scraps in it; may as well empty it into the outside bin—that would get rid of two minutes. Five, if I took my time. I grabbed the bag of trash from the kitchen as I passed, giving myself a real feeling of accomplishment. I tossed the neatly tied bag into the outside container and upended the wastebasket. A few items fluttered out, but I could hear something rustling, caught on the wicker. I turned it back over and fished around, coming out with two tickets. The cancelled show, no doubt. How to Succeed In Business (Without Really Trying), an old favorite. I glanced at the tickets—and hugged the wastebasket against my chest. Snow White: A Tale of Terror (the Musical).

When we started dating the year before, the paper had run an article mentioning that the very grim version of the Grimm tale would be presented as a musical the following year; Ducky and I agreed it was so bizarre a concept, we had to see it.

During dinner, when I had indifferently asked about the Saturday plans, Ducky had paused a moment, carefully finishing his bite of salmon before saying, "Oh, I'm so sorry, dear. I completely forgot. The theatre called, they had to cancel the show. Ran into financial difficulties out of town, they're hoping to refinance and bring it back in a couple of months."

"What was it? You never said."

Another pause. "How to Succeed in Business."

"Oh. Too bad. It's a good show."

He reached over and took my hand. "Let's make up for it. Go on an honest-to-goodness, traditional date. Take in a movie, go to the malt shop—"

That actually made me smile. "They don't make malt shops any more."

"Well, there's an old fashioned ice cream parlor I know—"

I stared at the tickets. I had seen the movie on TV; it had scared the bejeezus out of me. Sigourney Weaver was perfect as the stepmother who starts off just a hair touched already and faced with, frankly, a bratty stepdaughter—and then she goes not-so-quietly batshit crazy when she miscarries a son and is told she can never have another child. Perfect musical material.

I closed my eyes for a moment, taking a slow, deep breath as the world sparkled, grayed out, then came back into focus. Oh, Ducky… I looked up at the upstairs window, at the bedroom where he was putting away the laundry. The pauses. The slight hesitation in answering. The unease in meeting my eyes. Ducky, my angel, my protector… You lied. You didn't want me to be hurt. Oh, Ducky… I love you so very much...

I tossed the tickets in the trash.

When Ducky came back downstairs, he found me engrossed in a biography of Madame Curie. Well… I looked engrossed, anyway. My eyes scanned the pages. I read every word, but not one stuck with me. Didn't matter; it was just something to occupy my time.

Time.

Time, time, time, plenty of that…

"Cassandra…?"

I looked up, not sure who had whispered my name. Not Ducky; he was dozing in his chair, open book on his chest, half-empty glass on the table next to him. I turned around. Victoria stood by her computer, waving for me to come over. I set the book aside and walked over quietly so as not to disturb Ducky. "Yes?"

She continued to wave "come here" as she walked across to what was formerly a sitting room, for the past few years her bedroom. I followed, sighing slightly. God; now what? She sat down on her daybed and patted for me to sit next to her.

"Yes, Mother?"

"Cassandra… oh, my dear…" She took my hand and looked at me imploringly.

I clenched my free hand. She knows. Goddammit, she knows. Ducky swore he wouldn't, but he did. She was looking at me with the saddest eyes. "It's okay, Mother."

"Forgive him, my dear."

I blinked. "Sorry. What?"

"Donald—Donald is a good son. I do get vexed sometimes—but he means well. Whatever he's done to upset you this time, I'm sure you're justified in being angry, but—well, he's a man, dear. You know how they can be. Just forgive him, even though I'm sure you're right."

Oh, my god. She thinks we had a fight—another fight—and she's trying to get us to make up. "Mother, it's not—" I broke off.

What are you going to do? Tell her the truth? Oh, yeah, that's a good plan. She cocked her head and looked at me quizzically, like one of the dogs.

I gave her a ghost of a smile. "You're right. It's a silly squabble. I promise we won't go to bed angry."

"Oh, lovely!" She clasped her hands. "I do love Donald—but sometimes I fear he'll act like his father and screw things up with you." I almost snorted over 'screw things up' and turned it into a cough. "You're such a good girl. If Donald were to lose you—" I waited patiently though the long pause, waiting for a Hallmark moment. "It would be his own stupid fault."

Not quite what I was expecting, but heartwarming nonetheless. "He won't. You're both stuck with me."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" She put a shaky hand on my shoulder and kissed my cheek. "I love you very much, Cassandra."

I blinked; my eyes were suddenly painfully dry. "I love you too, Mother. Very, very much." I gave her a hug and a kiss, and blinked again, clearing my eyes.

/ / /

This is stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. There's no reason for you to be having this little pity party, I scolded myself. Were we planning on having kids? No. Did we even discuss having kids? No. Well, yes—and the consensus was that neither of us really wanted them. It's not like this is going to kill you, even—hell, the surgery isn't going to be that bad, you were down for two weeks with that appendix back in high school, this is an outpatient procedure, jeez-louise.

Hormones. It's just those stupid, freaking hormones. Get the nip-and-tuck done and things will be back to normal.

I squeezed my eyes shut. Normal. Yeah. Right.

Ducky was very cautious as he came into the bedroom, undressing almost noiselessly. "I'm awake," I said quietly.

There was a pause. "Oh." Another pause. "When did you come up?"

"Nine or so." Right after my mother/daughter moment with Victoria.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"You looked so peaceful. I hated to disturb you." I sat up as he slipped into bed. "Mother asleep?"

He smiled. "Yes, with the menagerie in residence. Amusing to see Foot on the bed surrounded by the dogs." He slipped his hand behind my head, drawing me close for a kiss. Not a quick peck, not a prelude to a romantic interlude, just a deep, meaningful kiss, tinged with Scotch and chocolate and a close, firm hug—

Damn.

After a couple of months of being the village watering pot, I'd spent the past 24 hours dry-eyed. I expected to cry—but no. A temper tantrum worthy of a Supernanny episode. That was it. No tears.

And, frankly, there was no reason to cry. Nan? Now, she had a reason to cry. Lose a much-wanted pregnancy at four months, have everyone asking, "When are you due? How's the baby?" at every turn—god, the woman must have soaked her pillow every night for months.

But now, all of a sudden… I pulled back, gave him a quick kiss and scooched over to lie on my side, squeezing my eyes shut against the unexpected flood in my eyes. "'night, sweetie," I chirped, hoping he'd leave me alone.

Alone. Yeah. Right.

Ducky moved slowly, carefully, probably testing the waters to see if I'd push away, but finally he was where he was every night, snuggled up against my back, arm draped over my body.

I remembered a night like this in Silver Spring, where he'd held me, caressed my stomach, talking delightedly about the coming baby—

I reached up and quickly scrubbed at my damp eyes, tucking my hair behind my ear in the process, making it look like that was my task. "Oh… oh, Sandy…" Ducky nestled a little closer.

Can't fool Ducky on anything. I couldn't stop the tears. They fell lopsidedly, pouring over the bridge of my nose to splash on the pillow, dribbling from another corner to pool in my ear. "Dammit!" I raged, rubbing at the irritating drops in my ear. "This is stupid! We never planned on having children, there is no reason for me to be upset! The surgery isn't even a big deal!"

Ducky kissed the back of my neck. That just made me cry even more.

"It's these hormones, these damned, damned hormones—" I curled into a ball, wiping my face on the back of my hand, against my shoulder, pulling away from Ducky as I did.

He wasn't having any of that. He draw my miserable lump back toward him. "Oh, Sandy.." he whispered into my hair. "I understand… I'm disappointed, too…"

Disappointed? I wasn't disappointed. Why would I be disappointed? We hadn't wanted children… right? I was pissed. I hate having things out of my control, and this was totally out of my control. I hadn't chosen to be pregnant, but I'd regained control when we thought I was. I hadn't chosen to not be pregnant, but I'd regained control when we discovered I wasn't.

Bullshit.

I'd never been in control. Not then. Not now. Probably not ever.

And through it all there was this tiny voice in the back of my head. A baby? No. Never wanted a baby. But… with Ducky? Ducky... His eyes. My hair. A baby with Ducky. His gorgeous, patrician nose. My long, graceful fingers. Rearing a child with Ducky. Our graces and talents, quirks and oddments, creating a whole new, unique person… Well… maybe…

But we never planned on this—any of this—happening…

"This is just stupid!" I tried to force my tears to a stop. Instead, I could hear the sob in my voice and it made me even angrier. "I hate this! I hate not being in control of how I feel! It makes no sense, I can't—I don't—I don't know why I'm still crying! I don't understand!"

Ducky pulled up so that he could lean over me. He kissed my temple and laid his cheek against mine. "Oh, darling…" I could feel his tears mingle with my own and could barely hear him whisper:

"I do."

8

Is est terminus. Illic est haud magis.
Vado. Constructum vestri infucatus pluvia.
This is the end. There is no more.
Go. Build your colored rain.

(There is no Latin phrase meaning "rainbow." You learn something new every day.)