She didn't feel humiliated, but that was beside the point.
Carlo did not respond to her words.
Annette went back to reading, her amusement taking a sudden nosedive when she reached the terms outlining her responsibilities and rights with Jo-Jo. As she read the final clause, her heart stopped in her chest and then started pounding again. So fast, she thought she might faint from the blood rush.
In the event of the death of both of Jocinda's parents, the second party (Annette) agreed not to sue for custody of the child.
Everything inside Annette froze. "You put it in writing." She was so upset, her words came out in a hoarse whisper from the strain of pushing them past a tight throat. "That they coulddie."
She surged to her feet and glared down at him, tears already burning in her eyes. "You put it in writing! How could you do that?" Nowhere near whispering now, she swiped at the tears already running down her cheeks. "How could you say that? They aren't going to die!"
Joyce couldn't die. It wouldn't be fair. Life wasn't fair. But this was Joyce. The one person in Annette's life who truly loved her. A woman who was finally ready to be a mom and bond with her baby when fate had sent her to the hospital in a coma instead.
Suddenly, Annette could not breathe. The walls of the huge room were closing in on her, the fire so hot sweat prickled along her spine.
Spinning away, she ran from the room.
Carlo followed, calling her name.
Annette ran faster, rushing up the stairs, her eyes blinded by moisture. She tripped, falling backward, terror gripping her as she swung her arms wildly, trying to catch hold of something.
But it was Carlo who caught hold of her, stopping her fall. She wrested herself from his arms.
He put his hands out again. "Be careful,bèdda mia!"
She ignored him, turning and continuing her headlong rush toward her room.
"You were supposed to get mad about the other, yell at me. You never do what I expect…" Carlo's voice trailed after Annette, but she was no longer listening.
Her need to find the solitude and privacy of her room had morphed to an acute physical emergency. If she didn’t get to the en suite, she would throw up all over her sister's plush carpet.
Annette made it to the toilet just in time, losing her lunch and then a dry heaving that resulted in nothing but pain and difficulty catching her breath. Carlo was there the whole time, offering her a glass of water, trying to calm her with words that didn't matter.
The only words that mattered were the ones he'd put in that darned contract.
A cold cloth settled on the back of her neck, a hand rubbed circles between her shoulder blades. The heaving finally stopped and Annette could drink the water, but first she rinsed her mouth and took in several deep lungfuls of air.
Carlo squatted beside her, finally silent.
She turned to glare balefully at him. "They aren't going to die."
"We have to be prepared for—"
"No," she cut him off without mercy. "We don't. We believe for them. We have to."
He nodded, looking like he was observing a particularly volatile creature, he wasn't sure how to deal with.
"I thought the stress nausea was gone. No thanks to you for bringing it back."
"Stress nausea?" he asked carefully.
"When I first got here. Things were rough. I was nauseated all the time, but it got better when Joyce got better."
"That was a little over three months after the Christening?" he asked, his tone curiously flat and his expression blank.
"Yes, I guess so. Does it matter?"
"Probably not." He shook his head, like he was clearing it. "I've been imagining all sorts lately."