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I didn’t think, after Anna, that I could evengetpregnant again. Clearly, I was an idiot. I’d been blinded by lust and unprepared. Irresponsible.
I relied on the pill when I wasn’t even taking it as prescribed. A few hours late here, skipping a day or two there.
Shit.
I hadn’t heard from Dexter in a month. A whole month of silence. And in that month, I managed to finish most of my artwork for the showcase. While Miranda knew better than to cheer at my heartbreak, she was pleased.
She was also on the phone, screaming. “I know it isn’t becoming of a lady to jump up and down, so I’ve locked my office door. Oh, darling. I’m so happy.”
I couldn’t feel anything besides horror and panic. Horror at having to face the exact same situation, and panic at the idea of it ending the same way it had before. I voiced my concern to Miranda.
“We can’t think like that. You’re a healthy young woman, Noa.” She stopped, waiting for me agree.
I didn’t. I couldn’t. “What do I do?”
“You have that baby,” she said. “I understand why he’s upset. I told you to tell him. But handle it this time the way you should’ve last time. Find him and tell him, before it’s too late.”
We said goodbye to each other, and for the first time in years, I tiptoed into the spare room. The last person to use this space was Phoebe. I’d hired someone to clear out all the baby’s things and donate them. Whatever I kept fit into that damn box I kept around as if it could bring Anna back. My box of sins, apparently.
Miranda said to contact Dexter, but I’d already tried. No answer. I didn’t have the number for anyone else who might be in contact with him, so I decided it was time to go back home and see what Tracey could do. I booted up my laptop and scheduled the flight. It would be the same day of my first doctor’s appointment. I sniffled, wiping the tear that escaped. I was going through it alone all over again. And it was killing me.
I didn’t know how I was surviving without him. After he left, I was a zombie. And the day after, I locked myself in my studio and worked. Wounds—old and new—caused me to work with a feverish sense of needing to complete the project. Miranda said she hadn’t seen me work that hard since we initially met, when I was first dealing with my unresolved Dexter issues.
Funny.
I was right back at square one. And I was pregnant—again.
I was different. It never even crossed my mind to have a drink. I didn’t know if it was because of the warning I received from the Angel of Death or because I didn’t need it anymore; but I woke up each morning, ready to take on the day alone. It hurt like hell. It was terrible. But I did it because I knew life couldn’t stop. And if I got through it once, I could do it again.
Even when it felt like I’d been shot in the chest. Even when I had to stop painting because my tears blurred my vision despite not realizing I was even crying. Even when I reached for Dexter subconsciously, only to remember, with pain in my heart, that we were no longer anything. That he probably hated me. I’d hate me, too.
I battled intense bouts of depression after Anna’s death. My guilt and self-hatred over the situation nearly drove me to my end. But it was hope that kept me going. In my mind, time went on, and if there was more time, there was room for change. Things would get better. And they had.
I went from crying all day to crying every day. Every day to every other day and so on. Until I tucked the memory away in a part of me I only unleashed with the sweeps and strokes of my paint brushes.
I sat on the bed and looked at the light-yellow walls—the only indication this room had been meant for a baby. All things Anna had been sent away. I lay back and cried myself to sleep for the baby I was now carrying.
It was going to be all right. Because I wanted the baby even if Dexter didn’t want me. And time would go on and conceal my wounds—again.
* * *
I was bouncingmy knee up and down when Miranda breezed through the front door.
“You’re fifteen minutes late,” I said through my teeth.
Fortunately, so was the doctor. As soon as Miranda sat, I was called forward. They took my height and weight, and I sighed when I was several pounds over what I usually weighed. I didn’t mind gaining weight for the baby. It wasn’t like anyone would be seeing me naked. That thought made me want to cry.
Miranda saw my eyes watering and rubbed my back.
When the doctor came in, he stuck that terrible wand inside me, and as soon as I saw the flicker of the heartbeat, the hope inside me grew. He told me I was eight weeks along. I tried to mentally calculate when it’d taken place but my moments with Dexter blended into one another. It was a blur of unprotected lovemaking and that fire. That blue fucking fire. We weren’t careful.
Wasn’t he curious at all?
Apparently not.
Miranda mentioned my history, and the doctor told me to take it easy and to call him if anything. He handed me his card with a personal number on the back and left the room. I was cleaning myself up when Miranda grabbed the card.
“Maybe you should give him a personal call,” she said with a smirk.
