Chapter Ten

"It's the sixth of the month, and we agreed I get the even-numbered days, Samantha!" Jonathan slapped Samantha's hands away from the Advent calendar. "That chocolate is mine!"

"Nuh-uh! That was last year. This year, we were going to do alternating weeks."

"I never agreed to that!"

Sam held up the fork she had been eating breakfast with and pointed it menacingly at the boy. "Listen, pal! If you know what's good for you, you won't come between a menstruating woman and a piece of chocolate."

"And if you know what's good for…." Jonathan's face crumpled in disgust as her words sank in, and whatever threat he'd been planning to make died on his tongue. "Ewwww!"

Angela rolled her eyes. "Jonathan, it's basic biology. You know where babies come from. Get over yourself."

Shaking his head, as if to chase Sam's ugly words from it, Jonathan backed away from the calendar. He picked up his bookbag and headed for the door. "I'm gonna go wait for the bus outside. I've completely lost my appetite."

"Samantha, you didn't have to traumatize the poor kid," Tony lamented. He reached into his pocket. "If you're having a craving, swing by the school store before your first class. Here's a couple of bucks. And next time, just come to me. Don't bully a smaller kid."

"Sorry, Dad." Sam looked appropriately contrite. "I'll apologize to Jonathan for the fork thing later, I promise."

"That's a start, though I'm pretty sure it was the m-word that scared him more." He kissed her on the cheek and wished her a good day as she slunk out the door. "December's shaping up to be as stressful as November," he sighed, reaching out to straighten the Advent calendar.

Angela looked up from her plate briefly. "Still sweating blood over your finals?"

"I'm not sweating blood, I'm just spitting acid." Stress-induced heartburn had him back on a diet of green tea and fat-free yogurt. "Good thing you're stepping up to eat my share of breakfast these past few days, huh?"

Angela crammed in one last bite of cinnamon French toast and gave him a dirty look. "Cut me some slack. My weight's still not back up to where it was before we got poisoned, and I'm trying to build up my strength. Plus I'm still having intermittent bouts of nausea and I've got to take my nourishment where and when I can."

"Yeah, right." Tony rolled his eyes. "Nothing for a girl's health like extra butter and powdered sugar."

Angela brandished her own fork. "Tony, if you know what's good for you…"

Tony put his hands in the air. Apparently, Sam wasn't the only one suffering from the m-word. "Truce, truce! If you're gonna hospitalize me, can we postpone it till next week when finals are over?"

Seeing the misery written all over his face, Angela put down the fork and looked on him with a kinder eye. "Tony, you've been doing fine so far. Even after missing a week of classes, you've been keeping up with your schoolwork and bringing home good grades. Why would that change now?"

"I'm not a good test taker, Angela. Never have been." He joined her at the table, his eyes dark and haunted. "It goes all the way back to the first test I ever took, in kindergarten. It was on matching up barnyard animals with the noises they make." He slammed an angry fist onto the tabletop. "I knew that the piggy went 'oink' and the cow went 'moo!' But my hand was shaking and I couldn't keep track of where my lines were going, and it was all downhill from there. I had the roosters going 'meow' and the dogs going 'quack,' and the sheep going "Name: Tony M.'"

Angela seemed to find his distress hilarious. "Tony, you were five. Get a grip."

"Oh, but it didn't end there, Angela! First test of first grade went the same way. It was a spelling test, and I had been studying the dictionary all week in preparation. You know what the first word they gave us was? Too! Or maybe it was two." He held up two fingers. "Or possibly to." He waved his hand, miming motion toward her. "I tried praying for guidance, but the nun teaching the class kept hitting me with a ruler and telling me not to talk in class."

Angela had a hand over her face and was trying, very unsuccessfully, to hide her laughter. "What kind of trauma did you endure in second grade? Did your well-sharpened number two pencil suddenly burst into flames in the middle of the test?"

"No," Tony replied self-assuredly. "By second grade, I had given up on being smart and carved out a comfortable schtick for myself as the good-looking jock and lovable scamp." His haughty façade crumbled almost immediately. "What was I thinking, trying to break out of that schtick?" he moaned. "That schtick's been damn good to me!"

"Maybe you were thinking you've grown as a person since you were seven," she suggested gently.

"I wish," he sighed. "I did the same thing on my big entrance exam just a few months ago. Remember how I got so flummoxed I entered all my answers on the wrong lines and brought home a two?" He glared into the distance. "Two again. My unlucky number!"

"Can I make a suggestion?" Angela offered.

"If it's praying for peace of mind, forget it. Every time I bow my head in class, I still half-expect a yardstick to come crashing down on my skull." Tony grimaced, rubbing his head in remembered pain.

"No. What I was going to suggest is that if you run up against a really evil question, like the two/to/too dilemma, you skip it and move on to the next one. That way, if you never figure it out, at least you're not wasting precious time you could have spent better."

Tony considered it. "That might help. But what if the next one is just as bad?"

"You could always do what I used to in that situation. Pretend to have cramps and tell the teacher you need to go to the nurse's office."

Tony cringed. "Ugh, not the m-word again!"

"See?" Angela was making no effort to hide her laughter now. "This is why it works so well. Especially if the teacher is a man. He never, ever asks any follow up questions. Mention the m-word and he can't wait to get rid of you."

He clapped his hands over his ears. "I've got to get out of here!"

"Wait, you said you'd drive me to the train station first! You've got time, it's only seven thirty-tw…"

"Don't say it!" he shrieked.

"Sorry. Uh, seven thirty-one, plus one?"

"Better." Mollified, he accompanied her out to the car to start the day.

His chemistry final with Professor Petrie nearly had him wishing he was back at home with Angela, Sam and the m-word. The short answer and multiple-choice questions were a snap. Chemical equations were harder, but manageable. Filling out the entire Periodic Table of the Elements complete with name, symbol, atomic number, mass, and chemical group block was a nightmare come to life. It didn't help his nerves that the professor kept yelling out every ten minutes, every five minutes, and then every thirty seconds how much time they had left. Really, was that necessary? He felt like he was trying to disarm a timebomb. And Petrie kept walking up and down the aisles while he called out the various timestamps, so that the students never knew which direction the next shout would be coming from.

As he filled in the various chemical elements, he realized to his horror, that his mind had gone completely blank. He had forgotten what went under atomic number two. Another two? No! Anything but that! He took in a long, deep breath through his nose and released it slowly through his mouth, trying to ward off a panic attack. Come on, Micelli! This is an easy one! It's up there all by itself. Hydrogen? No, hydrogen's number one. Think, think, think…the rest of the column are noble gases, so it's got to be a noble gas. Unless it's part of a diagonal block with the nonmetals. No, wait, wasn't there supposed to a column of halogens between those somewhere?

Sweat began to bead on his forehead, and he shucked off the thick winter jacket that had seemed so necessary a few minutes ago. As he racked his rapidly short-circuiting brain, Angela's voice settled over it like a balm. Skip over it, Tony. Or pretend to have cramps. It's your call. Without a hint of warning, he burst out laughing there in the middle of the silent classroom. A few of his classmates turned to stare at him quizzically, clearly wondering whether he had finally cracked under the pervasive pressure in the room.

Petrie was literally looking down his long nose at Tony, peering over the rim of his glasses disdainfully. "Mr. Micelli, do you find something amusing about isotopic abundances and atomic weights?"

"Yes, sir. They're a laugh a minute, sir," he replied with a smile that remained firmly affixed to his face as he moved on and completed the table. Helium! he finally put in box two by process of elimination, once all the others were full. It had been so obvious. He'd just needed to loosen up and let his brain have a little room to breathe.

His Speech final was considerably easier. All he had to do was give a three-minute persuasive speech about any topic of his choosing, and he had chosen increased funding for youth sports programs in K-12 schools. With rising rates of obesity, mental illness, and poor social skills, the concept sold itself, and it was something he was passionate about. In the end, he found more to say than he had planned, and continued expounding slightly past the time limit. "In conclusion, our young hero may have broken his arm making that dismount, but he gained strength, confidence, and a bond with his mother that endures to this day. If you ask me, that's worth a few bucks toward gym mats and balance beams. Thank you."

The teacher gave him a look of grudging respect as he headed back to his seat. After class, a couple of his classmates even told him they'd enjoyed his speech. "You're a pretty good storyteller, Tony. That funny story you told us about your son Jonathan got my mind off of being nervous about my own speech for a few minutes," the girl sitting in front of him said as she gathered up her stuff.

"I especially liked the part where he was wearing his wristband as a headband." The girl across the aisle chuckled. "You're a good dad for not laughing at him."

"Thanks," said Tony simply. Jonathan was his son in every way that mattered, and he saw no reason to correct the misunderstanding.

By the time he made it home, he was in a fairly decent mood. He was halfway through his first round of finals. He would have a day off tomorrow to study before his algebra and history finals on Wednesday. In the meantime, he was looking forward to an afternoon of mindless housework that would give his addled brain a chance to rest. After making up the beds and washing the breakfast dishes, and emptying the refrigerator for a good defrosting, he was on his way upstairs to tackle the dirty bathrooms, when the doorbell rang.

The smile fled his face when he saw the cop standing on the porch. A New York City Sheriff's deputy, no less. His heart nearly stopped dead. "Oh no, did something happen to Angela, officer?" The cop shook his head. "Mona?"

"No."

He gasped. "Not Mrs. R?"

"Relax, buddy. No one's dead." The cop spat a wad of gum into the bushes. "Are you Anthony Micelli?"

Uh oh, had he and Angela committed some crime during their unwittingly-drunken escapades last month? Play it cool, Tony. "Yeah. But you can call me Tony. The only guy who ever called me Anthony was my pop when I was in big trouble." Tony gave his best approximation of an innocent smile. "I'm not in trouble again, am I?"

"Not with me, Tony. I'm just here to serve you some paperwork." The cop produced a sealed manila envelope and thrust it unceremoniously into his hands. Tony looked at him, waiting. "What?" the cop demanded.

"Aren't you gonna say, 'you've been served?'"

The cop sighed. "Is that really necessary?"

Tony shrugged. "Maybe not legally, but you know, in all the movies and the cop shows…" Was a little flair too much to ask for? "Come on, throw me a bone! This is the 'burbs, pal. This is probably the most exciting thing that will happen all week."

The cop stood at attention, setting his jaw into a hard line. "You've been served, Mr. Micelli." He saluted and turned to leave.

"Was that so hard? Thanks, officer!" he called to the man's retreating back as he tore open the envelope. His lip curled in loathing as he laid his eyes on the contents. A copy of the petition for annulment, Angela's signature jotted tidily at the bottom of the last page, with an enclosed response form awaiting his own autograph. In all the chaos of the last two weeks, with finals, Thanksgiving, putting up Christmas lights, and that nightmarish weekend where both Mona and Sam had gotten dumped on the same day, it had all but slipped his mind.

Wandering back into the house and collapsing onto the couch, he stared at the petition. This wasn't the first time he'd been dumped. But it was the first time anyone had gone the extra mile to spell it out for him in black and white, then have it notarized and hand-delivered for good measure, and demand he acknowledge the insult with a signature. He knew Angela hadn't intended the annulment, or her role as petitioner, as a slap in the face. Yet somehow, his cheek still stung. If he were to look in the mirror at that very moment, he wouldn't have been surprised to see an angry red handprint emblazoned on his skin.

He dearly wished he could remember their wedding. An image of her swearing vows to him, even though she'd decided to take them back, would have done much to soothe his injured heart and pride. Or her acceptance of his proposal. Or had she been the one to propose to him? That would have made an even better happy place to retreat to. As it was, all he could do was stuff the papers back into their envelope, and then bury the envelope at the bottom of his underwear drawer. Surely he didn't need to sign off on it immediately? Angela had said herself that there was no rush. He'd get to it tomorrow. Or maybe on Thursday when the last of his exams were completed. Then again, by the time Thursday rolled around, he'd be hard-pressed to have the papers mailed in time to reach the courthouse before it closed down for the weekend. With that in mind, he might as well wait until next Monday. Slightly cheered, he slammed the drawer shut and went downstairs to check the defrosting fridge for meltwater.

After completing the last of his finals on Wednesday, Tony's stress-induced heartburn had abated, his self-confidence had returned, and his pathological aversion to the number two had disappeared for good. He'd decided to celebrate the end of his ordeal by making bagna cauda. Between the greasy food, the stink of garlic pervading the house, and her mother and children all fighting each other for first crack at the terra cotta pot, the decision to skip dinner and go to bed early was an easy one for Angela.

Though she'd tried to slip away discreetly, Tony had noticed her departure and caught her halfway up the stairs. "You okay, Ange? You've always loved bagna cauda. If you'd rather eat your share out of the line of fire, I can bring you up a tray," he offered.

She shook her head. "No, I'm just not having much of an appetite today. Eating breakfast has really been throwing me off my usual schedule. I end up eating my lunch late, and then I'm not hungry by our usual dinnertime."

"Won't you at least stick around for dessert?" he cajoled. "I made cannoli with extra chocolate chips."

Angela chuckled. "Sam will appreciate that."

"So will Jonathan. Since the fork incident, he's been giving her a wide berth." They laughed together.

"No, I think I'm going to turn in early tonight. I've got an early meeting tomorrow." It wasn't a lie, but she wasn't about to tell him with whom said meeting was. It would only worry him. Besides, he had a big mouth and she didn't want him worrying her mother or the kids.

"All right." He still looked a little worried. "Pancakes and sausage okay for breakfast?"

"Actually, I'm going to be skipping breakfast tomorrow."

"Angela, I know you're looking to get back to your usual schedule, but skipping two meals at a stretch ain't healthy." He gave her a playful poke in the ribs. "You don't wanna end up back in the ER with another IV in your arm. Them things hurt when your blood volume's low."

"Stop that, you know I'm ticklish!" She swatted his hand aside. "I'll be fine. My early morning meeting is a brunch meeting, and I'm saving room for that."

"Oh." He relaxed. "That makes sense." Tony nodded at the kitchen door. Well, I'd better get back to playing ref in there, before Sam starts using her fork in anger again." There was a loud yelp of alarm from the kitchen. "Duty calls. Goodnight, Angela." He leaned in toward her cheek, as if to kiss her goodnight. At the last minute, he turned his head and pretended to be looking at her earrings. "Wow, I haven't seen those before, they're real pretty. Are those real diamonds?"

It was all she could do not to slug him for that one. Really, Tony? Think enough of me to come up with a better excuse than that! "Um, no, Tony. These stones are aquamarines. They are aquamarine in color. Diamonds are white, or occasionally blue, or yellow, or black, or brown or olive. Basically any color but aquamarine."

"Imagine that." Another angry cry from the kitchen gave him a badly-needed out, and he bolted for the door without another word. "Coming, kids!"

Morning found her sitting on a hard plastic chair, the stink of bleach and disinfectant hanging thick and acrid in the air. "So," the chubby, middle-aged nurse began, closing the door behind them. "I understand you're here to see us regarding some persistent digestive issues secondary to acute alcoholic gastritis?"

"Yes. I'm not a drunk," Angela was quick to let her know. "I was at a frat party and the punch got spiked."

The lady raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Don't you think you're a little old for frat parties, hon?"

"No. I think my mother's a little old for them, but she's never cared for my opinion on the matter," Angela replied. The nurse's other eyebrow shot up to join the first. "My husband went back to school recently," Angela explained. It was technically true, and the judgement in the woman's eyes was getting on her nerves. "I was there to support him."

"Oh." The nurse nodded, all sympathy now. "Yeah, I wouldn't have wanted my man going to a kegger without me to keep an eye on him, either."

Angela bristled at the nurse's spin on the situation. She hadn't been keeping an eye on Tony, exactly. As she'd said, she'd been there to support him. The fact that supporting him also put her in a good place to make sure he didn't do anything too hedonistic without her, well…that had just been a nice bonus. "He drank the same horrible concoction I did, but he seems to be completely recovered now, while I've hit a plateau." She thought bitterly of him last night, happily chowing down on a pungent crock of anchovies, garlic and oil, while she pushed her chair away from the table and fought to keep her lunch down. "My stomach is still delicate, with occasional vomiting, and I think I might be dehydrated either again or still. I'm having bad headaches and occasional dizzy spells."

The nurse jotted her symptoms down on a clipboard. "Are you fasting?"

"Yes, just as you asked when I scheduled the appointment." It hadn't been difficult, she'd woken up nauseated again.

"Good. Dr. Thomas is likely going to want to run some labs." The woman took her vitals and a vial of blood, sticking a smiley-face band-aid over the injection site. "I'll let the doctor know you're ready. It'll be just a few minutes."

With doctors, "a few minutes" usually meant fifteen or twenty, so Angela was pleasantly surprised when he showed up in less than five. "Good morning, Angela. What brings you by? Is it another flare-up of the old yeast infection?"

"No!" Angela snapped, then felt bad when the small, elderly man jumped in surprise. "I mean, I've been cutting back on my sugar intake, as you suggested, Dr. Thomas. It seems to be doing the trick."

"Excellent." He glanced down at his clipboard. "Oh, that's right. Nurse Yvonne filled me in. You're having some digestive distress secondary to alcoholic gastritis." He skimmed the nurse's notes. "Intermittent nausea, headaches, dizziness…any fainting spells? Loss of consciousness?"

"Not for a few weeks."

Dr. Thomas nodded absently. "Any fatigue?"

"In spades, Dr. Thomas." Angela sighed. "The other day, I fell asleep at my desk and drooled all over some very important paperwork." She'd had to tell the client her non-existent dog had been responsible for the drool stains. Luckily, said client was a maker of puppy treats, so the lie had gone in her favor.

The old man chuckled. "Any breast tenderness?"

Angela frowned. "What does that have to do with the price of tea in China?"

"Is that a no?"

Angela blushed. "Actually, now that you mention it, they have been a little sore. Probably just PMS."

"That brings me back to my next question. Can you tell me the date of your last menstrual period?"

It finally dawned on her why he was asking these questions. "Oh, I see what you're getting at, Dr. Thomas. But, no, I'm not pregnant. I'm still taking the Pill every…" Every day, except of course for the two she had lost in Niagara Falls with Tony. But she'd doubled her dosage for the next two days, as her gynecologist had instructed her to do for any missed doses when she'd started on them five long years ago.

And then she had vomited up her stomach contents so thoroughly it had landed her in the hospital. And proceeded to spend the next week hunched over a toilet. All told, she had probably not had the chance to absorb any of her medication for at least seven straight days. Her heart plummeted into the pit of her stomach, and she thought back to her seventh-grade sex education class for the first time in decades. How long did it take an embryo to implant, again? she wondered frantically. It can't be… The sterile white room around her began to spin, and then faded to black.