Winter, in one last gasp to show who was boss, dumped six inches of snow on the Outer Cape, followed by freezing rain that made the snow impossible to walk on. The Heartbreak Storm, I always called it, because just when spring had finally arrived and the little crocuses and snowdrops were poking out of the ground, Mother Nature got that look in her eye. Every year. Zeus and I slipped and slid on the hard ice, barely able to make it to the beach so he could run. Tonight, it was supposed to be ten degrees out. Ten degrees! Bitter cold, and with a wind out of the north. I hoped my little daffodil buds would survive the cold. I’d planted hundreds over the years, and every spring, it was such a glorious surprise to see them pop, little balls of sunshine on stems.
This summer, I’d be renting the studio out at tourist rates. Ben told me he’d move out by April 15, just two weeks from now. With the amount of debt I had, I knew I should rent out my house, too, but where would Dylan and I stay? I wanted my son to have his home this summer, because soon enough, he wouldn’t have a summer vacation. I wanted that glimpse of life as it had been, at least one more time. This past summer had been so fraught, so off balance and distressing that I hadn’t been able to enjoy it.
“First world problems, Lillie,” I reminded myself, zipping up my parka. Even so, owing more than $300,000, without the income to make a dent into it, made my knees wobble in fear. If I kept the house, I’d go under. If I sold the house, I’d rip my heart in two, let alone what it would do to Dylan. This house was his legacy, and whether or not he settled here as an adult, the plan had always been that he’d inherit it.
I’d just have to figure it out.
Ben had not only plowed on his way out, he’d scraped my car clean of snow. As I made my way into work, I decided to invite him over for dinner. Without Dad this time. Just him and me. Almost like a date. Maybe an actual date, in fact. I knew I wasn’t ready for a real relationship. But a friendship with chemistry . . . that might be nice. I mean, we’d kissed twice. Three times, actually.
When I got to work, Wanda’s car wasn’t in its usual space. “She’s running late,” Carol announced as I walked in. “Shoveling her driveway as we speak.”
“Not a problem. Who’ve we got?”
“Karen Henderson is back, surprise, surprise. Another UTI. Sex addict,” Carol said, smiling. “Melissa Fairchild in for her eight-month checkup.” Carol scrunched up her cute little face. “Can I tell her we made a mistake and she’s actually due in August?”
“No, you cannot,” I said with a smile.
I hadn’t seen Melissa since our inadvertent sleepover (seeing her in my son’s pajama bottoms and one of his T-shirts stretched tight against her enormous, fertile boobs had compelled me to toss those items).
Ophelia had texted me that she’d be staying in Wellfleet and that her mother had left. When I asked if she was okay with that, she answered, Totally.
Wellfleet OB/GYN had a policy that pregnant women were prioritized over more routine patients, so I called Melissa in. Weighed her, didn’t comment on the seven-pound gain (because I was a kind person) and had her sit on the exam table.
“First, do you have any questions, Melissa?”
“I wanted to thank you again,” she said. “Things . . . things are better. Ophelia’s staying with me. My sister signed away her parental rights.” She flushed. “Ophelia’s legally my daughter now.”
Wow. “Um, great. I really like Ophelia.”
Her eyes welled. “Me too.”
Was Brad now Ophelia’s adoptive father? If so, he didn’t deserve that kid. She was special. But I didn’t ask.
“Any questions about how you’re feeling or where the baby is, growth-wise?”
The tears spilled out of her sea-glass-green eyes. “I have a beard now,” she whispered. “I shave every day.”
Yes, and she’d missed a patch. On the left side of her mouth was some significant fuzz. “That’s actually a good sign,” I said. “Your hormones are working. That’s the androgen, which contains testosterone. The new hair should fall out after you give birth.”
“Can I do anything about . . . leakage?” she asked.
“Kegels. But don’t hold in your pee. You don’t want a UTI.”
“What about these?” she asked, gesturing to her chest. “This isn’t normal, is it?”
I couldn’t suppress a laugh. “Totally normal. Just your body getting ready to feed the baby.”
“I’m not going to nurse!” she said.
“Well, you may change your mind. I’ll give you some information about it.”
“You nursed, I suppose.” There was a little resentment in that statement.
“I did.”
“Bradley loves to tell me what a perfect mother you are. It’s like he’s telling me to be more like you.”
“How irritating for us both,” I said, and I swear, she shot me a glance of . . . of gratitude.
Strange, to feel a pang of sympathy for the other woman. “Let’s check your blood pressure and see if the baby is head down yet.”
Her BP was fine, the baby’s heart rate was perfect, the fundus was just as big as it was supposed to be, and yes, the baby was head down. I checked her hands and feet for swelling—she did have cankles, but it was more from her sixty-three-pound weight gain than retained fluids. I asked if she had headaches—pregnancy headaches can be a harbinger of preeclampsia or HELLP syndrome, but she had no signs of either. I reminded her to eat well and drink lots of water and told her the difference between Braxton-Hicks and real contractions.
“You don’t . . . you don’t schedule cesareans, do you?” she asked.
“Not unless there’s a reason to,” I said. “If the baby’s breech and we can’t get it to turn, we do, or if the baby is so big that we’re concerned it won’t make it past the pubic bone. Otherwise, it’s for emergencies only. Both mother and baby do best that way in almost every case.”
She nodded glumly.
“Are you taking childbirth classes at the hospital?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . . because I think the whole thing is absolutely disgusting, and I don’t want to know more than I have to, and . . . and because I’m . . . scared.” Those green eyes welled again.
Again, my heart squeezed in sympathy. “I think you’d be less scared and less grossed out if you knew more, Melissa. It’s the most amazing process a body can experience.”
“I’ve seen some videos on YouTube,” she said, wiping her eyes. “It’s horrifying.”
Those were the videos I watched to feel good about humanity. “Come on, now. It’s nature at its finest,” I said. “Don’t worry. You’ll do fine. Your body will know what to do.” I hesitated, then added, “You have my number.”
“I do?”
“I called you when Ophelia was at my house.”
“Oh, right.”
“Call me or Wanda if you have questions, okay? We’re always available. You can get dressed now.” I gave her a professional smile and turned to the door.
“Do you hate me?” she asked suddenly.
I froze. Turned around and looked at her.
“I did,” I answered. “Sure. But it’s hard for me to hate a pregnant woman.”
“If we weren’t in this office, and I wasn’t pregnant, you would hate me, though?”
I sighed. “I don’t know, Melissa. Last year at this time, I thought my family was rock solid. You and Brad . . . you broke that. The three of us will never be together the same way again. All of our family traditions, not to mention the future we’d planned. My son has to deal with this huge swerve. I loved Brad’s parents like they were my own. More than my own. Neither of you cared about that. Obviously, I have feelings about it.”
She nodded and swallowed. “When my sister came to take Ophelia back, I was . . . terrified. I didn’t really know how much I loved Phee till I thought she’d be taken away from me. So . . . I guess I can relate.”
“Ophelia seems glad to be staying here,” I said.