Delia's Gift by V. C. Andrews
“You don’t have to worry. Your aunt’s gone,” he said. “She left shortly after you went up.”
“I don’t want to see her anymore, Señor Bovio.”
“No, she won’t be back until after you’ve given birth. We’ve agreed about that.”
“I don’t want to see her after I give birth, either. In fact, I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to remain in the area.”
“What?”
“Things will never improve. I wouldn’t even want to see her from a distance, and I certainly don’t ever want to see my cousin Sophia.”
“I wouldn’t make such decisions in your present state of mind, Delia. We can talk about all that later. However, there are other problems now.”
“What other problems?”
“Why did you betray me?” he asked softly. “I warned you not to do another secret meeting, and I assumed you were listening and would obey.”
“Señor Bovio, Edward is a grown man, and I am a woman, not a little girl. We have a right to remain close and friendly. Tía Isabela is simply a spoiled, mean-hearted woman. I won’t let her do this to us. She doesn’t have that right.”
“Delia, Delia, Delia,” he said, shaking his head. “You are a young woman, yes, but you are not yet strong enough or mature enough to battle in this world. Your aunt, as you must know, mixes with the same powerful people I do. She knows many of the same politicians, government officials. She learned about my attempts to help your friend Ignacio Davila, and now she is threatening to interfere. I fear she has the power to do that, Delia. If she should call the father of the boy who was killed and tell him of my efforts, for example…well, you can just imagine what he would do and what would happen. They would stop any parole hearing, and Ignacio would remain in prison to the very last minute.”
I looked away, biting down on my lower lip. He was right. In this world of the rich and the powerful, I was helpless. I might as well be a child.
“What should I do, Señor Bovio?”
“For now, you must not leave the estate, especially to be with Fani. I have called her and told her it would be better if she stays away until you give birth.”
“That’s not fair, señor. She was only trying to make me happy.”
“I know, but there would be less chance for another mistake. All of this tension and nastiness when you are so vulnerable and our baby is in such a dependant state is very, very dangerous. Dr. Denardo agrees that you should be kept from any more turmoil. Mrs. Newell told me she served a pregnant young woman not much older than you are who had a nervous breakdown and miscarried. What a horror it must be to come this far and lose a child.”
I was quiet. In the back of my mind, I wondered if Mrs. Newell had been talking about herself and not some patient. Was Señor Bovio aware of her past? Should I mention it now, or would that only cause more trouble?
“Will you still be able to help Ignacio?” I asked.
“I was making some headway. I think I can keep Isabela from doing any damage, but you absolutely must listen to me this time.”
“Okay, señor.”
“Good. Now, please, rest and take care of yourself,” he said, rising. “We’ll take better care of you. I promise you that.”
I thought that was a strange thing for him to say. How much better care of me could they take? He left, closing the door softly behind him. Despite what I had promised, I couldn’t help but be worried about Edward. Did he even know yet that his mother had found out about us?
I went to my purse to get my cell phone to call him. I could warn him if he didn’t know yet what had happened. At least, he would be somewhat prepared. However, when I looked in my purse, I couldn’t find my phone. I paused, wondering if I had taken it out. I looked everywhere in the suite where I might have put it but didn’t see it. When I recalled Edward and me saying good-bye at Fani’s, I was positive I had put the phone back into my purse and closed my purse after he had punched in his cell-phone number. I was just about to call for Teresa to ask her if she knew anything, when Mrs. Newell returned.
“I want to check your pressure,” she said, carrying her blood-pressure monitor.
“I feel fine,” I said, “but I’m having trouble finding my cell phone. Do you know where it might be?”
“I’m sure I have no idea. People spend too much time on those phones, especially teenage girls. Everyone’s babbling on one whenever I go to the mall. Everyone’s private business is easily overheard, too.”
She took my pressure and lifted her eyebrows.
“As I expected, it’s higher than usual.”
I could see in her face that she just loved being right.
“If you stay calm, it should go down.”
“I’d like to know where my phone is,” I said as she packed up her monitor to leave. “Would you ask Teresa to stop in, please?”
She sighed and dropped her shoulders, as if I were asking her to carry fifty-pound bags of potatoes up the stairway. Then she grunted and left. I waited and waited, but Teresa didn’t come up. Finally, I went downstairs, thinking that maybe it had fallen out of my purse somehow and Teresa had located it. However, Teresa was nowhere in sight. I was about to go look for her in her quarters, when Señor Bovio emerged from his office and came down the corridor.
“Delia, why aren’t you in your bedroom resting? Is anything else wrong? Why aren’t you dressed?”
I didn’t realize I had come down in my nightgown and was barefoot.
“Oh. Yes. I can’t seem to find my cell phone,” I said.
“Your cell phone? Yes, I took it earlier.”
“You took it? Why?”
“It was part of the deal I made with your aunt, I’m afraid, and besides, you should keep focused now on the baby’s birth. People will put crazy things in your head. I don’t want you made nervous or overly excited again. We’re too close, too close. Besides, you’ve agreed not to contact Edward, and you won’t be seeing Fani Cordova.”
“But there could be a time when I would need to call you or—”
“No, no. We won’t let you out of our sight. Don’t concern yourself anymore about that. Please, do what I ask, even if it seems foolish. Humor a worried grandfather.” He widened his eyes and shook his right forefinger at me. “Mrs. Newell was not pleased with your blood pressure. That’s the first time I’ve heard her sound so concerned about you. Now, please, go rest.”
He patted my hand, stroked my hair once, and gazed at me with pleading eyes.
Maybe it was my imagination, but I could see Adan in his eyes. I nodded and returned to my suite. I would have to go to sleep worrying about my cousin Edward. I wasn’t sleeping well these days, anyway. It was starting to get uncomfortable for me. I tossed and turned, waking often. Then, very late, close to midnight, I heard voices and footsteps in the hallway. Someone had come up the stairway. I remembered that Teresa had been preparing one of the guest suites not far from mine. Curious, I rose and went to my door. I listened for a moment, and then, even more curious, I stepped into the hallway and looked toward the stairway.
Just reaching the top was Stevens, Señor Bovio’s driver. He was carrying two large suitcases, one in each hand. Coming up behind him was Mrs. Newell. She paused at the top of the stairway and looked in my direction.
“Why are you awake and out in the hallway?” she asked.
“I heard noise. Who has come to stay here?”
“I think it’s pretty obvious,” she said, nodding toward Stevens, who continued toward the suite. “I’m staying here now until you give birth. Go to sleep.”
She walked on after Stevens.
She was moving in? There was nearly two months left. What about her husband, her own home? How could she be here day and night every day? I watched her enter the guest suite. Moments later, Stevens emerged. He didn’t look my way. He walked as if he were in a trance, taking great care to step softly over the tiled floor, descending the stairway so quietly he could have been floating. Once again, it was ve
She was moving in? I wouldn’t be able to take a deep breath without Mrs. Newell knowing about it now. Any other woman in my condition probably would be grateful to have such immediate and constant professional attention, but to me it felt like a collar being tightened around my throat.
I retreated to my bed and again tried to sleep. Just before morning, I did sink into a deep repose, but I heard the curtains being pulled open and felt the sunshine spill through the windows and over me.
“You didn’t bathe last night,” Mrs. Newell said, approaching. “Proper hygiene is even more important now. I’m running a bath for you.”
“Not yet,” I told her. “I’m tired. I want to sleep.”
“Oh, you’ll have plenty of time to sleep. A bath will even help you fall asleep again. Get up, please,” she said.
When I didn’t move quickly enough to satisfy her, she pulled my blanket away.
“The more cooperative you are, the happier you will be,” she told me, blinking a smile.
She reached for my hand. Too tired to put up any resistance, I let her help me sit up.
“I guess I was right in regretting I had given permission for your little excursion yesterday. It was too much for you.”
“No,” I said.
“Please. There’s no sense in debating about it. Look at you. However, what’s done is done. Here are your slippers. I’ll check the tub,” she said, going to the bathroom.
I closed my eyes and nearly fell asleep again sitting up, but she was back quickly to get me moving.
In the bathroom, she pulled my nightgown up and over my head. I started to get into the tub when she stopped me.
“Wait.”
She began to study my body and actually squatted to look at my legs. Suddenly, she squeezed my right calf, and I cried out.
“There’s swelling here,” she said, looking up at me with eyes of accusation. “Why didn’t you tell me you had sensitivity? How am I supposed to do my duties if you don’t follow what you’ve been told?”
“I didn’t feel anything until just now.”
She looked skeptical and then stood up. “Get into the tub,” she told me.
I stepped in carefully and lowered myself, surprised at how hot the water was. When I mentioned it, she said I’d get used to it. My second surprise came when she took the sponge before I did and began to wash my body.
“I can do that myself.”
“You can also twist and turn and injure yourself,” she said, and continued. She made me raise my arms and then came around to run the sponge over my breasts. She paused to study them.
“Now what’s wrong?”
“You need a larger maternity bra. Why don’t you tell me when you have discomfort?”
“I didn’t have any.”
“Of course you did,” she said, and continued to wash me.
I felt very foolish sitting in the tub and letting her go over every private inch of me, but she was working me over as if she were washing a car, turning and pressing my body until she dropped the sponge into the water and told me to get out carefully.
She held up a bath towel. I started to dry myself, but either she was impatient or she thought she had to be part of everything. She took another towel and worked on my back, rear, and legs.
“I’m going to have Dr. Denardo come look at your swelling,” she said. “We must be very careful about potential blood clots. Thromboembolic disease is the leading cause of death of pregnant women in the United States,” she recited.
“What is that?”
“A clot blocks an artery. If you die, naturally, the baby will,” she added, without any emotion but making it clear that the baby was more important. “Get dressed, and get back into bed. I’ll go see about your breakfast and call the doctor.”
Holding the towels with two fingers, she dropped them into the hamper as if they were filled with disease and walked out. I stood there trembling, feeling she had handled me like a baby. I sensed that I was losing control of myself. She controlled what I wore, what I ate, when I ate, and when I slept. Soon, that woman would tell me when and how to breathe, I thought, and went out to get dressed.
Whatever she said to Señor Bovio about me put him into an immediate state of panic. He rushed up to my bedroom just as I had finished dressing.
“Please, get off your feet,” he told me. “Dr. Denardo is going to get over here as soon as he can.”
“I don’t feel sick, señor. There’s no reason for all this panic.”
“There is much you don’t know about yourself right now,” he insisted. “You must follow Mrs. Newell’s orders.”
He stood there until I got back into the bed.
“I’m all right, Señor Bovio. Please.”
His hovering over me with a look of deep concern was actually beginning to frighten me. When Mrs. Newell squeezed my leg, it did hurt. Was I really in some danger?
“You didn’t do too much at Fani’s yesterday, did you?” he asked. “Too much exercise, perhaps?”
“Oh, no, señor.”
“This is why it’s good to have someone like Mrs. Newell on the job,” he told me. He squeezed my hand gently.
Teresa entered with my breakfast tray. She looked more timid and afraid than ever. I couldn’t imagine what Mrs. Newell had said to her. I hoped she hadn’t blamed her for anything. Señor Bovio stepped aside, and she set up my breakfast on the bed table. He insisted on arranging my pillows himself and remained there watching me as if he half expected I might keel over with every new bite. Finally, he smiled, patted my hand again, and left.
Teresa had gone into the bathroom to clean up. I finished eating, although my stomach had tightened up because of my nervousness. Teresa took the tray.
“When you were told to prepare that guest suite, did you know that Mrs. Newell was moving into it, Teresa?” I asked.
“No, Miss. No one told me anything, and I don’t ask questions,” she said.
“She didn’t yell at you for anything, did she?”
Teresa looked away rather than respond.
“Teresa?”
“She just told me I was to spend less time in here now. I have to look after her suite as well. Not that I’m complaining,” she added quickly. “I have the time, of course.”
“Why would she tell you that? You don’t spend all that much time in here with me as it is.”
“I don’t ask questions,” she told me, and left.
Maybe you don’t, I thought, but I will. I rose to get dressed. How different this morning was from yesterday, I thought. Yesterday, although I was nervous, I felt excited and happy, looking forward to seeing Edward. What was I to look forward to now? The moment I stepped out of my suite, Mrs. Newell pounced as if she had been hovering in her own doorway.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I thought I would go out, take a little walk, get some fresh air. Is that all right with you?”
“No,” she said sharply. “Are you really this foolish? Return to your room until Dr. Denardo arrives and examines your swelling. Stay off your feet.”
“But it doesn’t hurt when I walk.”
She shook her head and stepped closer. “So, what does that mean?” she began in a very condescending tone. It was as if she were talking to a five-year-old. “That you should go and aggravate the problem until it does hurt, until it does get worse, until it does cause a serious problem?”
“I’m only going—”
“You’re only going back to your room. Look at this stairway you have to descend and ascend. What if you cramp up out there and collapse? Who would be blamed for that, do you think? You, a child-mother, or me, a professional maternity nurse?
“Besides,” she continued, “women can give birth at this point in a pregnancy, you know. There are more premature babies than ever. I’m going to take your blood pressure again in an hour, but I’d like
I hesitated. I wanted to be defiant, but I was also frightened.
She brought her hands to her hips and widened her eyes. “Do I have to call Señor Bovio and have him speak to you? I won’t work here if my orders are disregarded,” she threatened.
For a moment, I considered saying, “So what? Quit.”
But then I thought about what this would do to Señor Bovio and all of our arrangements and bargains. Besides, both he and Dr. Denardo had shown how much faith and respect they had for Mrs. Newell. They wouldn’t think much of me for driving her away. I really didn’t have much choice. I turned around and went back to my suite, took off my special maternity shoes, and got into the bed. She didn’t follow me to be sure, but exactly an hour later, she came by to take my blood pressure. It was still higher than she said it should be. She examined my swelling again, and again I jumped when she applied some pressure. Her face wasn’t harsh and angry as much as it was now a face of concern.
“Is it worse?” I asked.
“Just continue to rest,” she said, and left.
She had me so frightened I was afraid to move a muscle. I concentrated on the swelling myself, anticipating some sort of pain. Whether it had been planted in my imagination or not, I did not know, but I thought my leg had begun to hurt without anyone touching it.
Horrible visions showing me losing my baby passed under my closed eyelids, a streaming movie of my screaming in pain, the doctor rushing to my side, the baby being prematurely born and born dead. In Señor Bovio’s eyes, it would surely be as if I had killed his son a second time. Ignacio would rot in prison, and Señor Bovio and mi tía Isabela, with Sophia cheering in the background, would send me packing off to Mexico in some broken-down, smelly pickup truck. I’d be dumped out across the border like some defective product.
I tried to sleep again and did nod off from time to time, but mostly I lay there in a terrible nervous state. Teresa brought up my lunch. I couldn’t eat much of anything. I thought I heard Señor Bovio and Mrs. Newell whispering just outside my doorway, but neither of them came into the suite. Finally, late in the afternoon, I heard footsteps in the corridor, and Dr. Denardo came in with Mrs. Newell and Señor Bovio.