If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(89)

“Did Erin call back?”

“Not yet.” She dug through her purse and pulled out a pack of gum. “I swear, lately everything is hanging by a thread. We’re good people. Why are these bad things happening?”

Having already exhausted my own supply of self-pity, I didn’t answer right away. The two of us had spent most of our lives determined to avoid walking in the kinds of shoes now shoved on our feet. For a long time, I’d believed my way of navigating life had made me smarter than others, and that that would protect me from this kind of fate. Now I knew better.

I wasn’t smarter than anyone, and no one gets through life unscathed.

I glanced at my mother, who still clung to childlike notions of fairness. “Most people are good people, yet bad things happen every day. You and I? We aren’t unique victims. Erin’s right—we need to learn to roll with life’s punches. We didn’t deserve what’s happened, but if we’d been less prideful, we might’ve seen it coming. Being gossiped about won’t be fun, but worse things could happen, like Willa coming two months too soon.”

“Don’t even say that, Amanda.” My mom shot both hands out. “Please lie there and relax while you hydrate. From now on, you have to pay more attention to your health.”

If I’d hoped my perspective affected her, I’d be disappointed. My mother was who she was—a flawed woman who’d nonetheless been devoted to doing her best as a wife, mother, and librarian. I couldn’t recall her ever trying to view herself or her behavior in a different light. Maybe at a certain age you don’t want to make changes, or maybe becoming a widow had been all the change she could handle. I didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. I could control only my own way of handling life, which meant I had to let go of my need for perceived perfection.

The monitor tracking Willa’s heartbeat—strong and steady—suggested that she’d be a fighter, like Erin. “I thought reading all the parenting books would make me a good mother. But look at me. Floundering on my own and not even managing to get the pregnancy right. I know parents make mistakes, but what if I screw everything up?”

My mother got out of her chair and stroked my hair. “You won’t screw it up. And you’re not alone. Erin and I will help you in every way we can.”

A firm hug signaled a détente, and I almost wept from relief. This situation had brought out the worst in my mother, but throughout most of my life, she’d given me a secure home and solid family, a sense of right and wrong, and much praise. On the whole, she’d been a loving mother, and I loved her despite her shortcomings, exactly as I hoped my daughter would see past mine.

Then Dr. Wyler walked into the room with my chart. “Amanda, how are you feeling now?”

My mother stayed at my bedside, holding my hand.

“I don’t know. Am I in preterm labor?” I asked.

Dr. Wyler read the monitor. “I’m pretty sure you’re experiencing Braxton-Hicks—or false labor—contractions, but let’s do a quick pelvic exam to confirm. How long have they been happening?” She disappeared from view while doing the exam.

“On and off all day.” I stared at the ceiling.

My mom patted my hand reassuringly.

“Have they gotten stronger or come closer together since they started?” Dr. Wyler asked.

“They’ve been sporadic, but I had a busy day, so I wasn’t paying close attention.”

Dr. Wyler pushed back and removed her gloves, smiling. “You aren’t dilating, and the data collected since you arrived confirms your account.”

“Thank God.” The wave of relief slackened my muscles. “So what’s happening, exactly, and how do I make it stop?”

“Braxton-Hicks are commonly brought on by too much activity or by dehydration, so make sure that you’re drinking enough water and getting lots of rest.”

I had been screwing it up. Better hydration would be easy, but rest might be tricky given my plans to help the FBI. “When you say rest, do you mean bed rest? I have travel plans this month.”

“Where to?”

“The Caribbean . . . Puerto Rico.”

Dr. Wyler frowned. “You’re not on bed rest, but we discourage international travel around this point in the pregnancy, especially to countries with a high risk of Zika. Puerto Rico’s slow recovery from Hurricane Maria means you could face additional risks with its water and such. I strongly advise you to reschedule those plans for next year.”

Zika!

“I hadn’t thought of that!” I wouldn’t put Willa at risk, but now my mom’s chance of a full recovery of her money dropped to nil. We couldn’t catch a break.

“The good news is you should be fine if you keep hydrated and take it easy. Don’t push yourself too hard.” Dr. Wyler smiled at my mother and me. “I’ll see you at your next appointment. When the IV is empty, the nurses will have you sign some paperwork before you can go home.”

“Thank you,” I said. After the doctor left the room, my mother’s pleasant expression vanished. Uh-oh. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing.” She smoothed her skirt, averting her eyes.

“Mom.” I stared at her to force a conversation, refusing to simply appease her.

She sighed, still looking at some distant spot. “I knew counting on the sting operation would be a mistake, and now we have nothing.”