8. Millie
CHAPTER EIGHT
MILLIE
The email to the orchestra takes me twenty minutes to write.
It shouldn't. It's four sentences. I fell, I fractured three ribs, I need six to eight weeks off, I'm sorry for the inconvenience.
But every time I read it back, it sounds like I'm making excuses, and I rewrite it three times before finally deciding the third version is just the first version with a comma removed.
I've spent more time on this email than some people spend on marriage proposals. Just send it, Millie.
I send it.
The response comes within the hour. It's professional and kind—they'll arrange a sub for my chair, my position is secure, and take all the time I need.
Exactly what I expected, and it still stings.
By Friday someone else will be in my seat, someone else's bow on the passages I spent weeks perfecting, and the orchestra will sound exactly as whole without me.
The music doesn't wait for broken ribs to heal.
It never waits for anything—and that's what makes it both beautiful and cruel.
I put my phone down and stare at the ceiling.
Tofu is asleep on the arm of Joseph's couch in a patch of sunlight, one paw dangling off the edge, completely unbothered by the fact that her owner's life has been rearranged beyond recognition.
I envy my cat's ability to sleep through a life falling apart.
Adeena texts me around noon.
Adeena
Hey babe, how are you? Are you still in the hospital?
Millie
Got discharged two days ago actually
Adeena
Two days?! Why didn't you tell me? I'm so sorry I couldn't come back after that first visit, Millie. This case has been eating me alive. I feel awful.
Millie
It's okay, really. Don't worry about it.
Adeena
Can I come see you? I'll bring coffee. The good kind from 5th.
Millie
I'm actually not at my apartment right now. Can we meet at a cafe instead? There's one near where I'm staying. I'll explain everything when I see you.
Adeena
"Where I'm staying"??? Millie Martin what is going on?
Millie
Just come. I'll send you the address.
Adeena
On my way. And you better have a good explanation for that ominous text.
She shows up twenty minutes later with a face full of questions she's barely keeping behind her teeth. She apologizes again in person. The case swallowed her whole week, she should have made time, she felt terrible. I wave it off. I sign: It's fine. Nurses love me because I never complain out loud.
She laughs. "That's dark."
That's true.
We head inside the cafe and find a table by the window. Adeena sets her coffee down and gives me the look she gets when she knows I'm holding something back.
I sigh, then I sign to her. I need to tell you something. It's a big deal. So I need you to sign back so people around us won't hear.
She looks at me curiously but nods. We don't usually sign with each other in conversation since I can hear her just fine. But for private things in public places, we switch. It's our version of whispering.
My hands move before I can overthink it.
Remember the one-night stand I told you about?
She nods.
He was my doctor. When I was in the hospital. The one who treated me.
Her hands fly up. She signs: What?! No way. That's insane. That feels like fate bringing you two together.
Oh, you have no idea. I'm not even done.
She leans forward.
So I needed an X-ray, and before they could do it, they had to make sure I wasn't pregnant. Standard protocol. Turns out...
I pause. My fingers feel heavy.
I'm pregnant. It's his.
Adeena stares at me. Her hands stay still for a long time. Too long. The processing happens behind her eyes, the words assembling and disassembling.
Then instead of signing, she shouts. "You're PREGNANT?!"
Three people at nearby tables turn around. A barista looks up. I sign at her frantically: Adeena! Use your hands, not your mouth!
She slaps both hands over her lips. Then drops them and signs, fast, her eyes still wide. Sorry! Sorry. But wait. You're pregnant? From a one-night stand?! Are you even Millie Martin right now?!
I sign: I know. Trust me, I know.
Adeena takes a breath, steadies herself, then signs back.
How far along?
Seven to eight weeks. So basically from that night.
She stares at me. Her hands drop to her lap for a second like the math just hit her.
The only night.
Yes, Adeena. The only night. Thank you for clarifying.
She presses her fingers against her temples, closes her eyes a moment, then signs slowly.
And he's the doctor who treated you? Like, in the ER? He walked in and you were just lying there?
I nod. Her mouth keeps opening and closing, like she's cycling through ten different reactions and can't land on one.
He pulled back the curtain, and we just stared at each other. Like a bad soap opera except I couldn't even deliver the dramatic gasp.
She presses her lips together so hard they disappear. She's trying not to laugh. Or scream. Possibly both.
I tell her the rest. Joseph's reaction. His offer. The spare room. All of it, signed across the cafe table while our coffees cool and the couple next to us has no idea that the two women having a silent conversation are discussing the most chaotic month of my life.
She signs: So you're living with a hot doctor right now?
I nod.
She presses her palms against her face, holds them there for a full five seconds, then puts both hands flat on the table like she needs to physically steady herself before continuing.
She has follow-up questions. A lot of them.
She rattles them off in sign language like a cross-examination, because she's a lawyer and has never once learned how to stop.
That's insane. But he's being so nice about it too.
He is. I pause. My fingers hesitate before the next part. And he said he'd support me no matter what I decided. Then when I told him I'm keeping it, he said we'd figure it out together.
She leans forward. Together? He actually said together?
Yes.
So what are you two? Officially? A couple?
I shake my head. No. We're just... friends, I think. Two people trying to figure it out.
She takes a long sip of her coffee, sets it down, and just looks at me. Her face is doing about six things at once.
So you're having a baby with a guy you had a one-night stand with. And now you're living together under one roof. As friends.
I stare at my own hands. When you put it like that, it sounds insane.
It IS insane, Millie. She holds the sign for a beat. Then her face softens. That doesn't mean it's wrong.
She signs: Your life is a movie.
I sign: It's a disaster.
She grins. Same thing.
She asks about my parents, whether I've told them.
I shake my head. She doesn't push. Adeena knows the shape of that silence better than anyone.
She knows the complicated space between me and my parents.
Adeena knows that loving them and talking to them are two very different skills, and I've only ever been good at one.
I pick up my phone and open the thread with my mom.
The last message was months ago, me telling her I was planning to audition for First Chair.
She never replied. I should tell her about the fall.
The ribs. The baby. The man whose apartment I'm living in.
And let her worry, because at least that would mean she knows.
I type four words, delete them, and put the phone down.
Adeena watches this whole performance. "Hey. Whenever you're ready."
I sign: I know.
There's no rush.
I know.
She lets it go. That's one of the things I love about Adeena. She knows when to push and when to just sit beside me in the silence and let it be what it is.
Adeena asks how Tofu is adjusting to the new place.
I sign: Tofu's life philosophy is sleep, eat, judge. She's thriving. She already claimed the couch.
"In the next life, I'm definitely going to be a cat."
My shoulders shake. Then she leans forward and goes back to signing. Slower now, Millie. What you're doing is big. I want you to know that I see that. And I'm glad he's staying. I'm glad he's there with you. But be careful, okay? Always.
I nod.
And if you ever need help, with anything at any time, you call me. I don't care if it's three in the morning. I don't care if it's something small. You're not alone in this. You have him, but you also have me. Don't forget that.
I sign back: I won't. Thank you, Adeena.
We sit for a while longer, letting the conversation wind down into comfortable quiet. Adeena doesn't try to fill the silence. She never does. She's one of the few people who knows that sometimes the best thing you can do for a person is sit with them and let the quiet be enough.
She walks me to the corner and hugs me carefully, keeping clear of my left side. "Rest. I'll come check on you soon."
I nod. She heads toward the subway, and I walk back to Joseph's apartment.
Joseph comes home around six. I hear him before the door opens. Keys jangling, a muffled conversation with someone in the hallway that ends with laughter. He's one of those people whose presence announces itself before he enters a room.
The door swings open, and he walks in carrying two bags of groceries. He sees me on the couch with Tofu on my lap and the TV on low, and his face breaks into a wide smile, like for a second he forgot I lived here now and is pleasantly surprised to be reminded.
I wave. He sets the bags on the counter.
"Hey. How was your day?"
I stand and walk over to him. I type. Good. I met up with my close friend Adeena. We went to the cafe down the street.
"Oh, nice. How'd that go? I'm assuming you told her everything?"
I nod.
"Did she freak out?"
I type again. She shouted in a public cafe. So yes.
He laughs. "I like her already." He starts unpacking the bags. "How are the ribs? Pain-wise? Scale of one to ten."
I hold up five fingers.
"Five? That's down from yesterday. Look at you. Healing ahead of schedule. My favorite kind of patient."
I type. I'm your only patient who lives with you.