Page 33 of Captive Heart: Armani
“How are you feeling?” I ask, pulling open the heavy glass door for her.
“Fine.” Her voice is terse and clipped, which is nothing out of the ordinary.
“Is there anything I can do to…make you more comfortable while we’re here?”
The words sound preposterous the second they’re out of my mouth. I’m not sure what I’m even asking. I guess it sounded more solid in my head.
She whirls on me in the middle of the lobby. “I said I’m fine. Let’s go, or we’ll be late.”
All I can do is nod and walk beside her to the OB-GYN’s suite at the rear of the building.
After she checks in, I gently urge her to a seat near the waiting room exit. She doesn’t put up a fight. One of my security guards, who has been trailing behind us, nonchalantly takes a seat behind us where he has a full view of the waiting room. No one seems to pay him any mind, but I can feel his presence like a weight on my back.
There was a short time when my family didn’t have to be tailed by guards at every footstep, but here we are, back in that place where looking over your shoulder is a given. Candi buries her nose in a magazine while I sit and do nothing but think. That’s all I seem to do lately.
My mind never turns off, never stops turning over and over.
Planning. Plotting. Worrying.
I can’t stop wondering if it’s really her. Liliana. Could Juliana Guerra be our sister? Dante is still on the fence, but Marco seems convinced, solely based on how similar she looks to our mother. And yes, the facial features are a dead ringer for our mother in her younger years. The only thing missing is the haunted shadow in her eyes and the lines around her mouth—being married to my father surely aged her more than we’ll ever know.
The door to the back office swings open and a nurse checks her clipboard and calls Candi’s name. I nod at the security guard to stay where he is and follow my wife to the back. After Candi’s vitals are taken—blood pressure, weight, height—we’re led to an exam room.
A different nurse comes in and asks Candi a bunch of health questions, tapping her answers on a tablet, and then tells us that the ultrasound tech will be in momentarily. My stomach drops when she says that. I knew the ultrasound was going to be part of the exam, but I still can’t believe I’m about to see my child on a screen. I’m sure it’s not much more than a clump of cells right now, barely big enough to be detectable, but seeing this confirmation of life is…it’s a big deal. This image will shift theideaof this baby into therealityof this baby.
As for Candi, she doesn’t look any different. No baby bump, no weight gain, none of that “glow” you always hear about. She looks completely normal. If it hadn’t been for the fire, I—we?—wouldn’t even know this baby existed yet, but here we are, waiting to see the evidence.
I’m still not sure I believe that Candi didn’t plan this all along. As a form of insurance. Surely she would have considered the fact that once we got divorced, she’d have no financial safety net anymore. What better way to make that safety net permanent than to have a child with me, cementing my support for the next eighteen years?
Yet, as I side-eye my wife and spy her tired face, I start to doubt my suspicions—and not for the first time. She definitely doesn’t give off the self-satisfied vibe of someone who is successfully pulling off a con. I’m not even sure how she feels about being pregnant.
The door swings open and both our heads snap up, but it’s just the nurse again.
“Mr. Bellanti, would you mind filling out this medical history form for yourself and your blood relatives, please?” she says. “We’ll need it for the baby’s health screenings in the future.”
She hands me a six-page, double-sided packet that’s attached to a clipboard. My eyes track to the nurse, and I swallow down an expletive and give her a tight smile.
“Of course.”
“It’ll just be a few more minutes,” she adds.
Then she leaves me with this monstrosity of paperwork and a pen that won’t fucking write. I grab my Montblanc PIX ballpoint from the inner pocket of my jacket.
“We’re finding a new doctor,” I inform Candi.
That gets her attention. “What? Why?”
“Why should I trust someone to deliver my child when they don’t even have functioning writing implements in their office? And look at this floor. It’s a disgrace.”
The tiles haven’t been polished recently, and dirty scrape marks are showing around the feet of the chairs. Hardly sanitary.
Candi scowls. “Dr. Perry is the highest rated obstetrician in Napa.”
“I don’t care. You’ll go to the one Frankie went to,” I tell her. “Dante vetted her already, so I’m sure she’s the best—”
“Thisisthe doctor Frankie went to,” Candi interrupts. “And excuse me, but since when do you give a shit about this baby? Because I didn’t realize you cared.”
“I’m sorry, are you referring to the fact that I’ve been less than enthusiastic about you tricking me into having a kid?”
