This Place of Wonder (81)

Terror fills my throat. “I went to rehab ninety-seven days ago.”

She nods and I can’t read her face. “So you might have been three or four weeks pregnant by then.” She hands me tissues and I wipe my belly. Does it look like it might be getting a little bowed? Maybe. My heart squeezes. “I’m going to be as straightforward as I can so you can make good decisions.”

“Okay.”

“How stable is your sobriety?”

Emotion swells through me. “Pretty good. Today,” I say honestly. “One day at a time, and I really want to be sober, so . . .”

“Do you have a good support system?”

“Yes. My mom and my sister.” I squeeze Norah’s hand. “My friends.”

“Good.” She pauses. “The ultrasound is most accurate before fourteen weeks, but I’m pretty sure this is a fetus at nineteen weeks. Since you went into rehab ninety-seven days ago, the window for your drinking continues until about three weeks postconception, and that, unfortunately, is right on the line. At three weeks, a lot of things start happening, and alcohol can interfere.”

A thud hits my heart. “How will I know?”

“You won’t, not until the baby is born.”

“And what kind of problems will she face if she does have it?”

“It’s a spectrum, and it’s different from child to child, but it’s not insurmountable as long as you stay sober. There are many programs to help you and your baby.”

As long as I stay sober. I look at her, the joy of this whole beautiful gift sliding out of my body, pooling in glittery puddles on the floor. Behind it is the shame of my life, the things I’ve done. “Is your recommendation to abort?”

“No!” Something must show on my face, because she takes my hand. “No! Not at all.” Her face is calm. “There is a chance of some problems, but there’s also a chance the baby will be perfectly healthy. There are never any promises, and a lot will depend on what you do from here forward. What do you want?”

“I want the baby,” I say, clearly. “Girl or boy, I don’t care.”

“Good. In that case, congratulations. If you want to choose me, I’ll see you in about a month.”

Tears are pouring from my eyes, making my nose run. “When am I due, then?”

She glances at her tablet. “Right around Thanksgiving.”

“Thank you.”

When she’s gone, I look up at Norah. “I’m having a baby!”

She hugs me. Her hair smells of Herbal Essences. “Congratulations, Maya. You’re going to be a wonderful mother.”

“I hope so.”



Norah wants to go to the library, so I drop her there and then head over to Rory’s house. She’s waiting for me, sending texts every twenty minutes. Meadow’s car is out front, of course—I don’t know why I would have expected anything else. She was so vulnerable this morning that I resolve not to get irritable or weird with her.

Nemo trots out and licks my hand, then leads me to the front door. I rub his silky-soft head as I knock, and then Rory is there. “Why are you knocking? Come in here right now!”

Her hair is down and she’s wearing a printed sleeveless sundress that makes her look about twenty, and I can see what Meadow must have been like as a young woman, all softness and curves and smooth skin. “Nemo!” she cries when he stands in front of her. “Go in the backyard with the girls!”

With a doleful look at Elvis, sitting as always at Meadow’s feet, he obeys. The drama makes me laugh, and I catch the big dog at the door, bending over to kiss his nose and head. “I still love you.”

He slurps my nose, mollified, and jumps down to the patio, shaded heavily this time of day. Again I smell smoke. “That fire is still burning?”

“Uncontained,” Meadow says. “Over fifty thousand acres.”

“There’s not going to be anything left of California,” I say. “Do you have any more of that limeade? It’s so good.”

“Yes! I just made some. Sit! Tell us what the doctor said.”

Meadow is nibbling a cookie, all the way around the outside, which she has done as long as I can remember. Blue circles show through the fine skin beneath her eyes, and the marionette lines around her mouth are pronounced. I touch her arm. “You okay?”

“Yes! Fine.” She injects energy into the words, but it doesn’t touch her eyes.

“Well, you are going to be a grandmother again, around Thanksgiving.”

Rory claps excitedly. “Oooh, perfect! I can’t wait. Girl or boy?”

“I don’t know yet. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.”

“I get that,” she says, and brings me a tall glass of pale-green limeade over ice. “Nathan was dying to know, so we did, but I think it’s fun to keep the surprise.”

Meadow takes my hand. “And the alcohol at the beginning?”

“She said that it could affect the baby, but there’s no way to know until it’s born.”

“Are you prepared to deal with that, a baby who might be deformed or handicapped?” Meadow asks.

The words fall into the world cruelly. Deformed. Handicapped. I gape at her, but before I can say anything, Rory tsks. “Mother! Stop! You’re being so negative about everything. This is a happy accident. Act like it.” She scowls. “Not to mention the hurtful words you chose.”