7
A rooster crows from somewhere nearby—as in, right outside the window. I sit up, panicked, looking down at my unmanicured
hands, with a thick accumulation of dirt under the nails, before noticing the ring on my left hand. I eye the modest diamond
nestled in an art deco setting. It has the look of a family heirloom—something passed down from a great-grandmother who baked
gingerbread cookies. Obviously, no one Sebastian’s related to.
Sebastian. I gasp, looking around the room. Frankie! I turn to my left, scouring the strange, empty bed—wondering, worrying. I’m not in Paris, nor am I home.
No! Not again! Apparently yesterday’s “bad dream” has morphed into a real-life nightmare —and a recurring one. I catch my breath, scratching the back of my neck, immediately noticing raised red welts along the backs
of my arms. An allergic reaction or stress? I’m not sure, but I’m breaking out in hives .
Cautiously, I climb out of bed and tiptoe to the partially open doorway, peering out to find a staircase leading to the lower
floor. “Hello?” I say, my voice high-pitched and a little mousy. “Is anyone... there?”
I step back when I hear the thud of heavy boots clacking against creaky hardwood floors. My heart lurches as a tall, bearded
man appears in the doorway. “Morning, sleepyhead,” he says with a smile. “I can’t remember the last time you stayed in bed
past eight. Must have needed the rest, I guess.”
“Uh, yeah,” I say, tugging at the edge of my sweatshirt, which is when I realize that I’m not wearing pants .
“I made a frittata,” he continues, clearly unfazed by the state of my half-clothed body. “Come grab a slice before it gets
cold. The weather’s supposed to turn this afternoon—might even hail. We’ve got our work cut out for us today.”
I nod, quickly closing the door behind me, before I run to the bathroom, where I peel off my sweatshirt and have a look at
myself in the mirror. This hive situation is real , but, surprisingly, yesterday’s bruise on my upper thigh is gone. Still, the memories of Paris continue to linger—the ice
sculpture, Jacques whispering in my ear, Madame What’s-Her-Name. I shudder.
Yes, I’m out of that nightmare, but now in another one? I look out the bathroom window, which only ignites more confusion.
There’s a flower garden just below, a red barn in the distance, row after row of trees brimming with white blossoms, and cows
grazing in a nearby pasture dotted with wildflowers. The scene is as charming as it is foreign. In fact, I feel like I’ve
just woken up in a freaking Norman Rockwell painting. Cue the pumpkin pie.
So I’m on a farm? I don’t know any farmers. Wait, I do! I mean, I did . Tall dude with a beard—who are you? He looked vaguely familiar, but my memory isn’t cooperating. Think, Lena, think.
Farmer John. Yes, Farmer John! I mean, his name wasn’t really John, but after a few dates, six or seven years ago, Frankie anointed him
with the moniker, and it stuck. I guess we did, too, somehow?
Nathan! His name is Nathan. We met at a farmers’ market in the city shortly after college, when Frankie and I lived in that fifth-floor walkup in Brooklyn with those awful neighbors who were always slamming their doors. I approached his stand to buy a bag of... apples, I think? Or were they potatoes? No—definitely apples. Anyway, he was sweet, earnest, and, oh, yes, ruggedly handsome. Though not my usual type, after a streak of bad dates with Wall Street men (don’t even get me started on Harry the hedge fund executive, whom Frankie nicknamed “Hedgehog,” though he wasn’t nearly as cute as the mammal of the same name) I decided to do a complete one-eighty. Yes, John, er, Nathan was a breath of fresh air—honest, uncomplicated, hardworking. He’d just taken over his family’s farm in the outskirts of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, if I’m not mistaken—on acreage his ancestors had farmed for generations. I liked him—I really did. But when he texted at the eleventh hour to reschedule what would have been our third date, I was miffed and went dark. That was the end of us—or was it?
“Honey?” he calls from downstairs, just as the insufferable rooster crows again. “You coming down?”
“Um, yeah,” I reply a little nervously, as I scramble to find a pair of pants. “I’m... just getting dressed.”
I survey the closet with a disappointed sigh, sorting through stacks of practical, drab-looking wool sweaters and neatly folded,
heavily worn jeans. My uniform, I take it. I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. My cheeks are rosy, my hair
long, shockingly so (hello, Laura Ingalls Wilder), which is when I notice a jagged scar on my stomach, beneath my belly button.
It doesn’t have the fleshy pinkness of a fresh wound—probably years old. Appendicitis, maybe? Rosie had hers taken out in
her thirties; she’d warned me that I’d probably lose that game of genetic roulette. Fun.
Rosie. I want to call her, desperately, to hear her voice, to have her tell me that everything’s going to be okay, that I’ll snap
out of this, but there’s no trace of a cell phone on the nightstand—not even a charger. Life off the grid, I guess.
I throw my hair into a messy bun, before cautiously opening the bedroom door. Following the mouthwatering scent of breakfast,
I head downstairs and turn right, which leads to the living room. It looks like something clipped from the pages of Country Living , with its river-rock fireplace, overstuffed sofa, and the serene landscape painting hanging on the wall. Just ahead is the kitchen—and, oh, the kitchen! Sunny and bright, with a wall of windows facing out to the garden, polished copper pots hanging over an enormous vintage range. In the center of the room, a large rustic wood dining table holds court, where Nathan sits, sipping coffee.
“There you are,” he says, looking up from the array of kraft paper packets laid out in front of him. “Just getting the seeds
organized.”
“Um, cool,” I say, clutching the edge of a chair to steady myself.
He eyes one of the seed packs, then sets it aside. “I say we ditch the San Marzanos this year. Remember how long they took
to germinate last spring?”
“Yeah,” I say numbly. “Totally.”
He pauses. “And the spider mites didn’t help matters, either.”
I feel a chill running down my spine. A few days ago, I was in San Francisco, running point on earnings for a major Fortunate
500 company, and now I’m a... farmer, dealing with... spider mites?
“Definitely,” I say, doing my best to play along.
Nathan nods decidedly. “All right, then. We’ll ditch the San Marzanos and go with”—he pauses, reaching for another seed pack—“a
mix of Brandywine and Queen of the Night.” He gestures to the stove. “Grab some breakfast, honey.”
I nod, luckily locating a cabinet containing plates on the first try. The cutlery drawer is a bit more of a goose chase; fortunately,
Nathan doesn’t seem to notice.
“You like?” he asks, after I slide into a chair and take a bite.
“Delicious,” I say quickly, eying a shelf stacked with dozens of mason jars on the far wall—an impressive collection of pickled
carrots, cucumbers, and tomatoes. Apparently we’re pickle people.
He seems pleased, and his face relaxes. “We’re a little late on squash. I mean, we do have some starts in the greenhouse,
but I want to get the acorn and sugar pies in the ground today—before it heats up this weekend.”
I nod, completely lost.
“Hate to put this on you, but can you do the cows this morning?”
“Do the... cows?”
“Yeah.”
My eyes widen. “You mean, milk them?”
Nathan laughs. “Yep, that would be the thing.”
“Right, right,” I say with a nervous laugh.
“And the chickens,” he continues.
I nearly choke on my last bite. “Milk the... chickens ?”
He chuckles. “Quite the comedienne this morning, aren’t you?”
Ha ha.
“Well,” Nathan continues, sighing as he rises to his feet, “these seeds aren’t going to plant themselves.” He pauses, reaching
into the pocket of his Carhartt pants. “Oh, I almost forgot. Can you give these to Barb and Babbs?” He hands me a seed pack
with the words “Big Max” written in black ink. “What our kale farmer neighbors want with giant pumpkins is beyond me, but
you know how Babbs is when she gets an idea in her head.”
“Right,” I say, eyeing the coffeepot on the counter. Good old Babbs.
Nathan places both of his strong hands on my shoulders, then kisses the back of my neck, which sends a tingling sensation
down my arms. I can hear Frankie’s teasing voice in my head: “Farmer John is a hottie!” He was and he is .
“Hey, what time will Frankie and Christian be here tonight?”
My eyes light up.
“Uh, I’m not sure.”
“Okay, let me know,” he continues, heading to the back door. “I want to time the carnitas.”
A man who cooks breakfast—and dinner? Why did I ghost this guy, again?
“Good luck milking the chickens,” Nathan says with a grin before slipping out the door.
I down a cup of coffee, then slide my feet into a pair of green boots. “All right, cows, I’m coming for you,” I whisper under
my breath.
Zigzagging through the garden, I pause to admire rows of flower beds, munching a sprig of mint from a terra-cotta pot—at least, I think it’s mint. A butterfly lands on a rosebud as I breathe in the fresh morning air and gaze out at the orchard in the distance with dense rows of apple trees clustered with pale pink blossoms that look like cotton candy. What a contrast from yesterday, in Paris, with my thousand shades of self-loathing. I may be far from home, out of my element, and more lost than I’ve ever been in my life, but there’s something comforting about this place. The light-green shoots bursting from the ground! The fresh air! The chickens roaming around. I pause, watching one particularly plump hen feast on an enormous... earthworm. I cover my mouth, squelching the shriek that nearly erupts from my mouth. It’s nature , I tell myself. It’s just nature.
I find the cows in the barn, happily chomping on bales of hay in their individual stalls. All right, this isn’t rocket science , I tell myself . Find a pail, grab a nipple, milk the cow! Easy peasy, right?
I square up beside Maybell, at least that’s what her tag says, rolling up my sleeves. “Hi,” I begin, lowering myself onto
the stool in her stall. “I’m Lena, and I’m going to, um, be doing the milking today.”
Maybell lets out a long, dissatisfied moo, as I lean in. “I know this is a little uncomfortable—for us both—but it’ll be fine,”
I continue, feeling a little like a gynecologist before a pelvic exam. “Now I’m going to start the process .” I raise my hand up slowly, reaching for one of her engorged breasts—nipples? I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.
I don’t even have a phone to google it! “Okay, okay,” I say, as she becomes increasingly agitated. “I’m just going to reach
right here, nice and easy, and then we’ll—”
Suddenly Maybell flinches, sending me off the stool and swiftly face down on a bed of hay. “Listen,” I say, picking bits of
straw out of my hair. “I know you don’t like this. I’m not loving it, either.” I peer into her enormous brown eyes. “But I
need you to cooperate.” Tentatively, I take my seat on the stool once more. “Let’s make a deal: You hold still for a few minutes, and I’ll get out of your hair. After that, we don’t have to see each other again. Cool?” I nod to myself. “Cool.”
I place the pail underneath her and cautiously get back to work. Fortunately, she upholds her end of the bargain, but not
before I somehow manage to squirt milk directly into my left eye. “Not so bad, right?” I say, laughing as I wipe my face with
the edge of my sleeve. She moos as if to say, You know it.
“Okay, you can tell I’m nervous, can’t you? You know I’ve never done this before.” I nod to myself. What I need is a poker
face. Lady Gaga’s song pops in my head, and I bolt out a few stanzas, humming along. Maybell’s apparently a pop music fan,
because by the time I finish the song, the pail is nearly full, which gives me a strange sense of relief and accomplishment.
I may be a city girl who works in corporate America, but I can do this.
The next six bovines aren’t nearly as cooperative, but somehow I manage to finish the job and funnel my harvest into a nearby
refrigerated holding tank before moving on to the chickens, at a complete loss about my impending task. No milking, fortunately,
but what?
I peer inside the coop, where a bevy of animated hens startles. Eggs? I don’t see any, just piles of fresh excrement. I cover
my mouth, nearly losing my breakfast, but fortunately the two women waving across the pasture from the other side of the fence
give me the courage I need to hold it together, or, at least, pretend.
“Um, hi,” I say, leaning my shovel against the coop before walking over to them.
The pair of fifty-something women in overalls smile as I approach, and I remember the pumpkin seeds Nathan handed me earlier.
These must be the kale farmers.
“Hi, sweetie,” the taller one says, her graying hair cut short. “Nice day, isn’t it? Cooler than usual, but the kale sure
loves it, right, Babbs?”
The other woman nods. Wearing a pair of denim overalls and a flannel shirt, she proudly displays a woven basket piled high with greens. “The first of the lacinato! It’ll be in the salad we bring by tonight.”
I reach into my pocket. “Oh, I have... seeds for you—from Nathan.”
“Wonderful!” Babbs exclaims, obviously thrilled.
Her partner folds her arms across her chest, less enthused. “Babbs has this cockamamie idea to do a pumpkin patch for local
children this year—you know, bales of hay, bobbing for apples, that kind of thing. I keep telling her we should stay in our
lane. We’re kale farmers, not pumpkin people.” She shrugs. “But, happy wife, happy life, right?”
I love them already. “Right,” I say, grinning.
“Hey,” Barb continues, a little cautiously, “how are you feeling... about tonight?”
“Tonight?”
The two women exchange a knowing look. “You know, seeing Frankie’s... baby for the first time?”
Frankie’s... baby? I steady myself as I take in her words. My best friend is a... mother? The same best friend who’d never once talked about
having babies? The same one whose job working for a nonprofit sometimes meant so much to her that she chose service over her
own husband’s birthday last year? All facts, but even if this is true, why are these women looking at me as if I’m an antique
teacup on the verge of cracking? Sure, I’m surprised, but why wouldn’t I be anything but happy for Frankie?
“I know it’s been hard for you, honey,” Babbs adds, “given all you’ve been through.”
“She’ll do just fine,” Barb interjects. “That baby is going to love her auntie Lena.”
Frankie has a baby girl? I force a smile, at a loss for words, but Babbs quells the awkward silence.
“I don’t think I’ve ever told you how difficult things got shortly after we met.” She pauses, smiling at Barb for a beat. “The two of us were both passionate about organic farming—and each other.” She laughs. “We were toiling away at our jobs in the city, each with our own agricultural dreams. Little did we know that we’d applied for the same highly competitive government grant to pursue farming in Lancaster County. Anyway, when Barb called to tell me she was chosen, it felt like an arrow to the heart. Here was this person I was falling in love with, and I should have been happy for her. But the truth is, her good news only amplified my own disappointment—that is, until I came to my senses and willed myself to see the bigger picture.” She smiles at Barb, then looks out to the surrounding property. “Losing that grant hurt—it did. But it was a blessing in disguise, not only because it gave me the dose of humility I obviously needed, but it also opened my eyes to the unexpected joy that can grow out of disappointment. That grant of Barb’s was the beginning of this beautiful life we’ve shared together—I was just too thickheaded to see it in the moment.”
Barb nods. “You’re probably experiencing your own version of this, sweetie,” she adds. “But you’ll see, good things can grow
out of the weeds. I promise.”
I smile politely. These sentiments are sweet, for sure, but they’ve read me entirely wrong. “I’m okay,” I say with a nervous
laugh. “Really. I’m thrilled for Frankie and Christian. Honestly, I have zero interest in motherhood.”
Babbs and Barb exchange a curious look.
“Seriously, no diapers for me, please.”
“Well,” Babbs says, eyeing her pack of seeds. “We should probably get back to work before the rain starts.” She smiles strangely.
“See you tonight, sweetie.”
I swallow hard. Clearly, they know something I don’t.
While Nathan is out in the garden beds, I retreat inside, where I find a phone charging in the kitchen— yes! —and immediately call Rosie.
“Hi, dear,” she says, her familiar voice calm, natural.
I clutch the phone as if squeezing Rosie’s hand, tears stinging my eyes. “I miss you so much.”
“My dear girl,” she continues, sensing my distress. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything,” I say, half laughing, half crying.
“Ah,” she says knowingly. “Did a coyote storm the chicken coop again?”
I swallow hard, shaking my head. “No, no...” I whisper. “Not that. It’s just that... Rosie, I’m scared.”
“Scared of what, dear?”
“This is going to sound crazy,” I begin, exhaling deeply. “But... hear me out, okay?”
“You’re not crazy, and I’m listening.”
“Rosie, I’m stuck . Something’s happening to me, and it all started when I came home to see you and fell asleep in the guesthouse.”
She’s quiet for a long beat, processing all I’ve just said. “When did you say you were here—in the guesthouse ?”
I pause, struggling to recall the passing of time. “A few days ago? I don’t know—it’s all a blur.”
“Okay, honey, listen to me, and listen to me carefully —”
The connection suddenly glitches, and Rosie’s voice sounds pixelated before I lose her entirely. When I try dialing her again,
I can’t get through.
Deflated, I sink into the sofa in the living room, scrolling through photos on the phone. “Hey,” Nathan says, breaking my
reverie as he slides onto the sofa beside me.
I look up nervously, before turning back to a photo of the two of us on our wedding day. I’m dressed in a simple white satin
gown, he in a suit. We’re standing beneath a tree brimming with white blossoms.
“Best day of my life,” he says, looking over my shoulder. “Well, that and the day you said yes. Gosh, I was a nervous wreck,
remember?”
I nod, pretending to follow along.
“I wasn’t sure what you’d think of my grandmother’s ring.” He pauses, smiling. “Especially after Christian proposed to Frankie with that enormous rock.” He sighs. “I was so worried you’d be disappointed, but then I saw the way your eyes lit up when I slipped it on your finger—it made me love you all the more.”
I glance at the ring on my finger, the art deco setting and its prewar diamond, imagining it on Nathan’s grandmother’s hand
as she tended the farm, raised children, kneaded bread dough, and suddenly I’m struck with a strange sense of belonging—to
something bigger than myself, to a past and a family I may never know, but still, for now, they’re mine. It’s both comforting
and disconcerting, but also sort of... beautiful.
“Hungry?” he asks, changing the subject.
I shake my head.
“Me, either. The frittata was pretty filling, wasn’t it?” He glances at his watch. “Besides, Christian texted—they’ll be here
at five, and I should probably get the pork in the slow cooker.”
I nod, continuing to scroll through photos, until one catches my eye—and Nathan’s.
“Honey,” he begins, his eyes filled with worry. “Are you sure you want to... go there right now?” He pauses, sitting beside
me. “You’ve been so happy lately. Why spoil it?”
At first I don’t understand what he means, but then I look closer at the photo—of me—standing on the front porch, cradling
my noticeably swollen belly. My heart seizes. I know nothing of pregnancy, of course, only that I am—or was —pregnant in this photo... in this life. I might have been four, maybe five months along. Bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked,
I look blissfully happy. What happened? Heart racing, I continue to swipe, finding more photos of my pregnant self, which is when it hits me: The scar on my stomach;
my apparent unease about seeing Frankie with her baby tonight; the neighbors’ concerns. Suddenly it all makes sense. A baby
was growing inside of me—our baby—and then it wasn’t.
I have no idea what to wear—both because I’m out of sorts and, well, there’s little to choose from. Come on , I think, staring into the nearly bare closet. You’ve got to have a dress in here—somewhere? I parse through the hangers until I find a simple white linen maxi dress. I slip it over my head, then give myself a long
look in the mirror. Good Lord, I need highlights, and some concealer—stat.
I’m still reeling from the photos when Nathan smiles at me from the kitchen. I feel the instinctive urge to put on my boots
and run, though I realize it’s a dumb idea. Where would I go? A neighboring farm? Hail down an Amish man pushing a plow? And
then what? Call the police and tell them that I woke up married to a man I didn’t marry, and that this has happened twice ? As real as this is to me, I realize how crazy it sounds. No, the only way out of this is through . I must stay the course until I find my way home.
“You look pretty,” Nathan says, looking up from the stove, where he’s stirring a simmering pot. Do I? I wonder. Plain would be a better word to describe my appearance, and yet Nathan smiles at me with adoring eyes, which momentarily puts me
at ease, until I remember that Frankie and Christian will be arriving any moment. I should be thrilled to see my best friends,
so why do I feel a pit in my stomach? Why do I sense that a storm is brewing?
“Do you need any help?” I ask, willing myself to get a grip.
He shakes his head. “No, honey. I’ve got everything handled.” He pauses, smiling tenderly as I walk to his side. “Maybe pour
the wine?”
“Sure,” I say, catching a whiff of his freshly washed skin—musky and masculine. I feel a flutter in my stomach as he points
to the bottle of white on the counter. After locating a corkscrew in a nearby drawer, I get to work, pouring us each a glass.
“Cheers,” Nathan says, clinking his glass against mine before we each take a sip. Our eyes linger for a long moment as we stand together in the kitchen, emotions coursing through my veins. This man might have been the father of my child. It’s bizarre and heartbreaking and beautiful—all at the same time. He feels it, too, I can tell: the weight of it all, this wound that will always be ours, and ours alone. But is it love that binds us together, or only pain? I take a step closer, longing to know if this is—or was—the great love of my life. Lost in the moment, I touch Nathan’s face, but he immediately steps back and rubs his forehead. “I... I’m sorry, Lena...” He turns back to the pot on the stove. “I... need to finish dinner. We don’t have much time until our guests arrive.”
“Right,” I say awkwardly, leaning against the kitchen counter. What just happened? Why did he pull away?
Nathan sighs. “Sorry. I... just want this dinner to be perfect.”
As his voice trails off, I eye the elaborate spread on the countertop: homemade tortillas and various delicious-looking accompaniments
for the carnitas. I want to say, Uh, you’re amazing. You know that, right? But then I see his face, awash with anguish and pain, but also something else: distance. After we lost the baby, did he simply
shut down? Or did he shut me out?
“Nathan,” I say, searching his face.
“Oh,” he says, the pained expression on his face shifting to practical. “Do you mind picking some flowers for the table? I
meant to do that, but it slipped my mind.”
“Sure,” I say, reaching for a pair of scissors on the kitchen table. Outside in the flower garden, I snip some early-blooming
roses and a bit of rosemary for greenery. I think about how Nathan had bristled at my touch a moment ago. Maybe we’re both
just out of practice after experiencing such an enormous loss? Or is it something else—something bigger? I’ve read about couples
struggling through their shared grief, marriages swallowed up by pain, but it’s an entirely different thing to live it.
Nathan nods approvingly when I hand him the flowers just as the doorbell rings.
I head to the entryway—my heart beating faster with each step. On any other day, I’d be excited to see my best friend, but today I’m a bundle of nerves, though immediately relieved to find Barb and Babbs on the front porch.
“Hi, sweetie,” Barb says, handing me a chilled bottle of white wine.
Babbs kisses my cheek, before setting the aforementioned kale salad on the dining table. “It smells amazing in here. Nathan
working his magic, I see.”
I grin, pouring them each a glass. When the doorbell rings again, my smile disappears.
“You’ve got this,” Babbs whispers, squeezing my hand.
I take a deep breath as I open the door, smiling hesitantly at Frankie, Christian, and the adorable baby girl in his arms.
Frankie, baby on her right hip, practically tackles me with a side hug. “I can’t believe it’s been this long,” she says, her
eyes welling up with tears. “How are you... doing?”
“Uh, well,” I begin, feeling the urge to bring my best friend up to speed on what’s been happening to me, but I hesitate when
the baby coos.
“Emma, meet your godmother, Auntie Lena.”
Emma is, in a word, perfect. She looks just like Frankie, and Christian, too, in the weirdest way.
“Can you believe she’s already six months old?” Frankie exclaims, eyeing me cautiously. “Do you want to hold her?”
I shake my head. “I... don’t know anything about babies.”
Frankie laughs. “Well, they eat, and they poop—repeat. That’s about all you need to know.”
I smile, catching Christian’s eyes for the first time. He looks exhausted—and thin.
“And they also have a knack for robbing their parents of sleep,” he adds, grinning.
Frankie lifts Emma from her husband’s arms. “Christian’s been amazing with her,” she says. “He’s the only one who can get her down at night. He sings her songs and reads her books and does all the voices.”
Christian smiles proudly. “She’s Daddy’s girl.”
Frankie turns to me, lowering her voice. “He freaking loves her.”
I smile, watching the two of them with their daughter as Nathan appears and greets our guests.
“You okay, sweetie?” Frankie asks, sidling up beside me while rhythmically bouncing up and down and side to side, baby Emma
strapped to her chest in a complicated-looking contraption.
“Yeah, totally,” I say quickly.
“Emma had colic for the first three months,” Frankie continues. “She’s out of the woods— thank God —but I guess I got used to the bouncing. It was the only way we could get her to sleep. Christian used to have to sit on one
of those exercise balls and bounce her until she dozed off.” She laughs, turning to her husband. “Remember that, honey?”
He grimaces. “All too well.”
“Wow,” I say, taking it all in. “Sounds... challenging.”
“To say the least. But she’s so much better now—only wakes up two times for feedings.”
I practically choke on my wine. “I’m sorry, did you say she wakes up two times in the night?”
“Yeah,” Frankie replies. “But it sure beats five!”
“Right,” I say, a little stunned as she takes my hand and leads me to the living room sofa.
“Is this weird for you?” she asks, continuing the bouncing while I sit. “I mean, I know it must be, and I hate it. Lena, I’m
so sorry that...” Frankie shakes her head. “I don’t even know what to say.”
I don’t know what to say, either. I want to tell her about my situation—about everything—but she’s too busy with Emma, who’s
just tossed her pacifier on the floor and is beginning to fuss. I pick it up and hand it back to Frankie.
“Have you two been... trying ?” she asks.
“Trying?” My eyes get big. “Oh. As in, like, trying to make a baby ?”
“Yeah.” Frankie bounces more vigorously when Emma starts to fuss again.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I... guess.”
“Well,” she continues, “maybe it’s time to consider some alternatives .”
I lean back, sighing.
Frankie moves closer. “I mean... there’s always IVF,” she says, lowering her voice, “or maybe, even... adoption?”
“Adoption?” I shake my head, as Frankie lifts Emma out of the contraption and nestles in beside me on the sofa.
She tugs the edge of her shirt to pull down her bra, revealing her enormous left breast. “You don’t mind, do you?” She smiles
as she wedges Emma’s mouth against her nipple. “I think she’s just hungry. Poor thing—that long drive from the city was a
lot for her.”
“No, no,” I say quickly, as my pulse races. “I... I...” Tears sting my eyes. “I mean, it’s totally cool.” Suddenly my
hands are clammy, and my heart feels like it might spontaneously combust. “I’m just going to... run to the bathroom.”
I close the door behind me and gasp, looking at myself in the mirror as I fight back waves of emotion. I don’t deserve to
cry. There’s no reason for me to feel grief about something I didn’t even experience—that I didn’t live. So why does it hurt...
so much?
“This kale salad is amazing,” Frankie says, bouncing Emma on her lap between bites. “I’m definitely going to need the recipe.”
Barb and Babbs smile, pleased, then Christian launches into a story about Emma’s first few months, with Frankie interjecting
every few sentences. Parenthood sounds brutal, but also surprisingly beautiful. The two of them are like soldiers who went
through war together and came out on the other side with battle wounds but also medals of bravery and a deep bond.
“I’m sorry,” Frankie whispers, when Nathan abruptly changes the subject. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” I reply, forcing a smile. “Really.”
“Really?”
Well, it’s not really fine , I want to say, especially when I catch Nathan’s pained expression. True, I don’t exactly know Nathan at all, but it somehow
feels as if I do. We’ve also been through war together, but our battle wounds cut deep. Without thinking, I reach my hand
under the table to find Nathan’s, but whatever tenderness I feel in the moment disappears when he pulls his hand away and
reaches for the wine bottle to refill Barb’s glass.
After everyone’s gone, Nathan inches toward me in the darkness, where I’m curled up in bed. “I know tonight wasn’t easy for
you,” he says. “But you handled it all with so much grace.”
“Thanks,” I say, shifting my head on my pillow.
He rests his hand on my stomach, lovingly tracing the scar beneath my belly button. I don’t flinch or pull away, mostly because
I can barely feel his touch. The skin around my incision is numb—maybe I am, too. Maybe both of us.
“It’s been such a long road,” he whispers. I can hear the pain in his voice. “But I wonder if we’re finally reaching the light
at the end of the tunnel.”
I reach for his hand under the covers. There probably won’t be a tomorrow, at least not for the two of us. If today is anything
like yesterday, I’ll drift off to sleep and wake up beside someone new, in another strange life filled with its own land mines
and complexities. But right now I can’t stop thinking about this one: the cows in the barn, the quirky kale farmers on the
other side of the fence, my handsome farmer with his delicate heart—the life we built with our hands and the baby we made...
and lost.
There are so many things I should say to Nathan in what will likely be our final moments. I want to tell him that, despite our gigantic loss and the latent grief that might linger for years to come—forever, maybe—we can rise above it. Like Babbs said earlier today, there’s joy in the weeds—we just need to find it.
I stroke Nathan’s hair as his breathing becomes shallow and rhythmic. He’s a good man, and this would be a good life—cozy, comfortable, happier than most, though far from anything I’d expected or envisioned for myself. Yes, unexpectedly
beautiful, even in its rawness and grit. And yet, here we are, not only crippled by our grief, but also unequipped to face
it.
I yawn, listening to the rhythmic pounding on the roof overhead—hail, just like Nathan predicted. But there’s no barometer
for what’s next. If I stayed—if this was my forever—how long could I endure? Would we find a way to push through the pain
and come out on the other end? Would time heal us, make us whole? I don’t know. I don’t know anything. But maybe tomorrow
it’ll all make more sense.