Quinn placed her hands over her belly and said a desperate, wordless prayer. A wish, really, that she released with a sigh so soft it hardly existed at all. This time, she thought.
Of course, there was no way to know. Not yet. Her doctor in California warned her that the medication she was on could produce a false positive. A theory she tested more than once only to be bitterly disappointed when that hopeful pink plus sign dissolved into her period just days later. It was almost too much. Her body—each curve and angle and even scent that she had called her own for well over twenty years—was foreign soil. The hormones rendered her so strange and unfamiliar she sometimes felt as if she had experienced a sort of incomprehensible exchange. A bait and swap. Switcheroo. Who was this woman with full hips, hair so thick she could barely fit a ponytail holder around it twice, skin as smooth and flawless as molded plastic? Quinn didn’t recognize herself and she certainly didn’t expect Walker to.
Which was why last night was such a gift. They made love, a far cry from the clinical, scheduled sex that was supposed to result in a baby the size of a pinpoint. Walker had been so intense, so passionate that Quinn had forgotten all about her final dose of Gonal-f. But now, she knew. The timing was perfect. Or, close enough. Besides, wasn’t this exactly the way it was supposed to happen? They were taking fertility treatments, but this baby had been conceived in love.
The door to Lucy’s bedroom was still closed, so Quinn turned her attention to coffee. She felt as if she stood at the center of a teeter-totter, balanced between despair and hope. There was so much to long for she didn’t even know where to start.
Next to the coffeepot, Quinn found a package on the counter, a clear plastic Walmart bag rolled into a tight little bundle with the receipt stuck on top. Walker had left a note of sorts on the back side of the strip of paper, an XO that had been quickly sketched in ink. The O was a mandala design, the intricate lines reminiscent of the patterns he sometimes liked to trace on Quinn’s hands and wrists. Hugs and kisses in detailed art, Walker’s version of a love letter.
Inside the shopping bag Quinn found an assortment of items for Lucy. Walker must have made the trip to town after tucking Quinn in for the night. Lucy had been so fragile the day before, Quinn had known there was no way she could leave her. And taking the girl along on a Walmart run to casually bump into the fine, gossipy people of Key Lake was out of the question. Quinn smiled as she marveled at her husband’s forethought, his kindness, in the things he had picked out for the little girl.
A pair of plaid shorts in bright, cheerful colors, size 5/6. Holding them up, Quinn guessed they would fit Lucy perfectly. There were two shirts to match, a pink chambray and a gray baseball tee. Then, a casual, breezy mint-green sundress and a pajama set with purple hearts. A pair of flip-flops. A five-pack of Fruit of the Loom underwear printed with, of course, fruit. Dancing cherries and round-cheeked apples and smiling bananas. Finally, at the bottom of the bag there was a small stuffed fox and a pad of thick art paper with a box of rainbow pastels. Classic Walker.
Quinn grinned in spite of herself, struck by sudden inspiration. She had applied to be a teacher’s assistant at the Pumpkin Patch, the only preschool in Key Lake, and during the interview the principal had waxed poetic about the role of art and play and nature in the development of a child. Quinn’s degree was in secondary education and the emphasis on finger paints and pinecones seemed childish and just a bit naive. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t gotten the job. But now, with Walker’s unblemished pastels and hope unfurling before her, Quinn decided she’d take another shot at cracking through Lucy’s seemingly impenetrable facade.
? ? ?
Half an hour later, Lucy emerged from her room.
“Good morning,” Quinn said. Lucy looked rumpled and fragile, and there were lines on her pale cheek from the creases in her pillowcase. Quinn had convinced her to wear an old T-shirt as pajamas and the hem came down to her shins. Lucy looked so lost, so vulnerable; Quinn’s heart seized. She wanted to gather her niece up in her arms, study the soft lines of her face, and ask her all the questions that she should know without fail. What’s your favorite color? When is your birthday? Can you ride a bike? Do you know I’m your auntie?
“I’m running water in the bathtub for you,” Quinn said, pushing all those unwieldy questions, those tricky emotions down. She pointed toward the bathroom door. “There are strawberry bubbles and a pair of rubber ducks on the ledge. And I left a surprise on the counter.”
Lucy didn’t respond, but she did wander off in the direction of the bathroom and close the door. Quinn rushed over and listened for the click of the lock. It never came, but a couple of seconds later, she heard the water shut off. She assumed Lucy knew how to bathe herself and had carefully set out everything in advance. A bottle of shampoo and conditioner, a new bar of oatmeal soap. The bubble bath had come from a decorative basket and probably wasn’t supposed to be used, but, oh well. There was a fluffy white towel and a washcloth folded on a stool beside the tub, and on the counter Quinn had arranged the pale gray shirt and plaid shorts. Cherry underwear on top. On the floor, the flip-flops printed with tiny beach balls were set and ready for Lucy’s feet.
A part of Quinn wished that she had been invited inside. She would have gently lathered Lucy’s hair, circled the plush washcloth on her back. Her own mother had been harsh and unbending at times, but baths were almost sacred in the Sanford house. Liz got down on her knees beside the tub and trailed her fingertips through the water while she listened to her kids prattle on. She washed them with care, hands gentle on velvety skin and eyes warm. At what? Their innocence? The delicate curls of their wet hair and scrubbed clean faces? It didn’t really matter. It was a fond memory.
While Lucy bathed (at least, Quinn hoped that’s what she was doing) Quinn pulled the wicker picnic basket from the top shelf of one of the kitchen cupboards. The hamper was fitted with a pair of wineglasses, a corkscrew, and leather straps to hold a wine bottle. But Quinn removed those things and began to layer in more appropriate goods. A gingham blanket, a small bunch of bananas. Peanut-butter-and-grape-jelly sandwiches on thick slices of Walker’s homemade whole-grain bread that she had prepared and wrapped in wax paper while Lucy was still asleep. She wedged two jam jars filled with orange juice and tightly capped into the corners of the basket and topped it all off with the art pad and pastels.