Triplets For The Texan

Now it was too late for second thoughts. The babies were a reality.

Stumbling to her bathroom, she washed her face and sprawled on the bed. She was hungry again, but it was a weird hunger. Beneath the pangs of an empty stomach rolled a sensation of nausea in the offing.

Finally, at midnight, she dragged herself out of bed and went to the kitchen in search of a snack. Milk seemed like a bad idea. Ditto for cheese or yogurt. Craving something salty, she found half a bag of stale, plain potato chips. She gobbled two handfuls and washed them down with ginger ale.

Her hunger appeased, she went back to bed only to jump up twenty minutes later and rush for the bathroom. She threw up violently, so hard that her ribs ached. Even rinsing out her mouth made her stomach heave.

Groaning, she found a damp cloth and pressed it to her forehead. The notion that she might have to endure weeks of this misery pointed out once again how foolish she had been. I’m sorry, she said silently to the three lives she carried.

No matter what sacrifices it demanded, she would make sure this was a healthy pregnancy.

The following morning was no better. Dry cereal and water came right back up as soon as they went down. Her hands began to cramp, signaling possible dehydration. Doggedly, she sipped from a water bottle and forced herself to put on the same dress pants from the day before but with a different top. She couldn’t simply stay home because she felt bad. She had a business to run...a business that would soon support three tiny infants.

Driving was doable, but only because she never pushed the speedometer over thirty miles an hour. When she reached her office, the receptionist, Candace, gave her a wide-eyed stare. Simone didn’t engage. She made a beeline for her private suite, closed the door and put her head on the desk. The sharp corner of a business card poked her stomach through her pocket.

She pulled the rectangle out and laid it on the desk. Hutch. Dr. Hutch. Saint Hutch. It would be a cold day in hell before she called him for anything.

With nothing more than dogged determination and the inherent stubbornness that got her into trouble more often than not, she made it through an entire workday. The campaign for Luna Fine Furnishings, a subsidiary of Cecelia’s company, To the Moon, was coming along nicely. Phase one had already been rolled out. In two weeks, an intensive social media blitz would back up the initial print ads and billboards.

The noon lunch hour came and went. Simone didn’t even attempt to eat. At five o’clock, she closed her laptop, packed up her things and took a deep breath before heading out to her car. Once there, she had to spend another chunk of time convincing herself she could make the drive home. She was shaky, light-headed and so very sick.

She must have dozed when she got home, because suddenly it was seven o’clock. Naomi would bring her food if she called, but then Simone would have to explain what was going on. Even if it was time to share her secret with her friends, she’d rather do it with both women present.

Carryout pizza sounded revolting. Canvassing the pantry in her kitchen was an exercise in futility. She knew how to cook but seldom spared the time. Most days she had lunch with clients and grabbed a salad for dinner.

In the end, the only available choice was peanut butter. That was protein—right? Even her crackers were stale. But smeared with peanut butter, they were edible. At first, Simone thought she had landed on a miracle. The peanut butter was comfort food, its smell and taste appealing.

Sadly, no matter the enjoyment going down, everything she consumed came back up in a matter of minutes.

The night passed slowly. She alternated between lying on top of the covers covered in a cold sweat and hunching over the toilet. No matter how slowly she sipped water, it wouldn’t stay down. Nor would anything else.

Once she almost fell, so dizzy the room spun around her. Finally, at 4:00 a.m., she collapsed into an exhausted slumber.

When her alarm went off, she muttered an incredulous protest. How did working mothers do this?

Dragging herself into the shower, she held on to the towel bar as she washed her hair. Blow-drying it took everything she had. At last she was dressed and ready to go. By now the thought of trying to eat was beyond her. Maybe she’d be able to attempt some lunch.

The ride to work was a blur. This time she barely noticed the receptionist’s look of consternation. Simone’s mouth was dry and fuzzy. How could she risk taking a drink when she might have to rush for the bathroom? No one in Royal knew she was pregnant. Well, aside from Hutch and Dr. Fetter. It was far too early to let that cat out of the bag.

As she sat in a stupor at her desk, the buzzer on her phone sounded. “Line two, Ms. Parker. It’s your accountant.”

Later, Simone couldn’t remember the exact details of that conversation. For all she knew, she might have agreed to transfer her personal and business funds to illegal offshore accounts.

Thankfully, her two full-time employees—including her exceptional right hand, Tess—were out of town at a conference. The receptionist was fairly new and wouldn’t have the temerity to invade her office uninvited.

So the hours passed.

At one, Simone knew she had to eat something. Her headache had reached monumental proportions. Maybe she would send Candace out to get chicken noodle soup. Not only would that guarantee Simone a few minutes of privacy to test her stomach with a sip of water, but the soup might actually be good for her.

She stood up on trembling legs. Rarely did she ask an employee to carry out a personal errand, but she was literally incapable of walking down the block. Carefully, she opened her door. “Candace, can you come in here?”

Candace looked up and blanched. Apparently Simone looked even worse than she felt. Her receptionist rushed into the office. “Can I help you, Ms. Parker?” she asked.

Simone nodded, wincing when the motion sent shock waves through her skull. “Would you mind grabbing me some chicken soup from the diner?”

“I’d be happy to,” Candace said.

“Let me get my billfold.”

“No worries. We can settle up later. Do you want something to drink? Lemonade? Iced tea?”

Oh, wow. Tea sounded wonderful. “Tea would be great.” Her mouth was so dry. “Hurry, Candace. I don’t think I can—” She stopped dead, nausea rising in her throat. “Oh, damn. I’m going to—”

* * *

It might have been hours or days later when she woke up completely. She had vague memories of an ambulance and several people in white coats. Now she was in her own bed.

When she shifted on the mattress, Hutch’s voice sounded nearby. “Take it easy, Simone. You’re going to be okay.”

“My head hurts,” she groaned, trying to recreate her spotty memory.

“No wonder.” Hutch crouched beside her bed, his smile quizzical. “You whacked it pretty hard on the edge of your desk when you fainted. The ER doc put in three stitches, but there’s no concussion.”

Panicked, she tried to sit up. “The babies?”

“Steady, woman. They’re fine.”

“What happened to me?”

“Hyperemesis gravidarum.”

“Oh, God. Is that as bad as it sounds?”

“Yes and no. You were badly dehydrated, Simone, and disoriented. One of the unlucky women who suffer from severe nausea and vomiting when pregnant. Women with multiples are more prone to it.”

“Well, that’s just peachy,” she muttered.

“Dr. Fetter wanted to admit you, but you pitched a fit and demanded to go home. She only agreed because I promised to stay with you.”

For the first time, Simone realized she was hooked up to an IV. “You did this?”

He looked at her strangely. “Yes. But if you’ve changed your mind, I’ll take you back to the hospital.”

Now that her head was clearer, she did remember most of what he was saying. It didn’t paint her in a good light.

“How did you hear I had passed out? Why were you there with the EMTs? Candace doesn’t even know you.”

“She was trying to call 911 and saw my card on your desk.”