Chapter 23
“Please, Tilly, let’s get you and the baby checked out.”
Wyatt leans against the island, watching me. His voice is low, so as not to be heard over Clementine’s music. Clara the Cloud released a series of sing-along songs, and Clem has been playing it nonstop.
I’m tossing the salad and have already told him, three times, I don’t need to go to the hospital. The health check on my watch came out normal, and my heart rate has stabilized. It’s been hours since the incident.
“There’s no need,” I say again. “Please drop it, okay? There’s nothing to worry about.”
He presses his lips together, and there’s a mild hollowing out of my insides. We both know that “there’s nothing to worry about” is true only once the baby arrives earthside, pinked up and screaming her little lungs out.
I don’t want to think about sad, awful things tonight. Besides, I’m still trying to reconcile what happened. Wyatt’s concern, and scrutiny, is adding to my apprehension.
Turns out there were no cockroaches in my NourishBox.
Or anywhere in the kitchen, or on my body.
Even Clementine’s book holds no sign of the crushed insect when I inspect it later.
Regardless, I call MotherWise to report “a cockroach inside the box…yes, it was highly upsetting…,” wanting this particular NourishBox out of my house.
The service replaces it immediately, no questions asked. The drone has already made the switch.
Walking around my still-worried husband, I place the salad bowl on the table, which Clementine is setting. She hums along to the music—Clara is singing about how a cumulus cloud can both float in the sky and weigh hundreds of tons. I’ll end up humming this tune for days.
“We need knives, Clem.” The fish fillet is broiling in a baste of avocado oil, fresh lemon, and dill and parsley from our garden.
I’m so hungry I’m nauseated, and want to focus on getting dinner on the table versus what happened earlier.
I can’t think about it without a full-body shudder, my gag reflex kicking in.
Close the door. Turn the lock. Walk away, I think, visualizing leaving the cockroach nightmare behind that door. It’s a trick I learned from Maeve to deal with ruminating thoughts. It works about fifty percent of the time, which isn’t great, but I’m desperate for a reprieve.
“Okay, Momma,” Clementine replies, opening the silverware drawer. “And spoons for dessert?”
“Yes,” I reply, applying a mental padlock to the door in my mind for good measure.
I smile at my daughter, and she grins back.
Clementine loves dessert, and Shelby’s rhubarb custard—on tonight’s menu—is a favorite.
Rhubarb is drought-resistant and easily grown in most gardens here.
We like it Nana-style: stewed with honey, nestled over vanilla custard.
“Tilly.” Wyatt’s sharp tone forces me to look his way, thoughts of sweetly honeyed rhubarb instantly replaced with scurrying cockroaches. Damn it.
“Wyatt,” I reply in the same tone. Then I offer a tepid smile, the best I can do.
Close the door. Turn the lock. Walk away. “The plum is good, I promise. Let’s eat.”
—
“Did you lose consciousness?” Jenn asks. She’s taking my vitals with her MedAlert glasses. Wyatt’s cleaning up after dinner but listening closely to our conversation.
“I think she did,” he says, then calls over his shoulder. “Mom, did Tilly pass out?”
Shelby’s playing cards with Clementine and Maeve in the living room.
“No, not really,” she replies.
“Go fish,” Maeve says, after Clem asks if she has a queen. My friend glances over at us and gives me a reassuring smile. I explained how unnecessary this visit was when I called her.
Wyatt won’t leave me alone about it, I said. Is Shelby’s rhubarb custard enough to make a house visit worthwhile?
Dessert is a bonus, Maeve replied, after conferring quickly with Jenn that they could pop over. We’ll be there in fifteen.
“ ‘Not really’ or ‘no,’ Mom?” Wyatt’s tone is harsh, and I shush him with a quiet “Stop it, Wyatt.”
“She was awake the whole time, Wyatt,” Shelby says. “Confused but awake.”
“Do you have a ten?” Clem asks.
“I do, you lucky girl!” Shelby hands her the card.
“Before everyone else weighed in on my experience”—I roll my eyes for Jenn’s benefit, and she chuckles—“I was about to say, no, I did not lose consciousness.”
“Okay, good,” Jenn says, scrolling through the vitals reflected in her glasses. “Everything looks great to me, Tilly.”
“Did she tell you she passed out yesterday? At work?” Wyatt wipes his hands on a tea towel, then sits at the island across from me. I think about this counter covered in cockroaches and resist the shudder. Easy, Tilly. There were no bugs, remember? It was a hallucination.
Like the tendril. A dehydration-induced hallucination. Nothing more.
Lock the door, lock the door, lock the door…
“Yes, she did,” Jenn says. I didn’t tell her, but I appreciate the little white lie. Besides, I gave Jenn access to my chart, so there was no need to relay yesterday’s incident. “Notes here say it was dehydration related?”
Jenn looks at me over her glasses, and I nod.
“That’s what the PA said,” I reply. “Too much coffee and not enough water.”
“Well, I don’t see anything concerning.” Jenn turns off the MedAlert glasses. “Likely a holdover from yesterday. Sometimes our system takes a couple of days to get back online. You’ve upped your water, had some electrolytes?”
“They sent me home with a few packets, and I got more in my delivery.”
“Anything else we should do?” Wyatt asks. “We” again.
“Relax? That’s my professional opinion.” Jenn stands and puts an arm around Wyatt. “I’ll write her a script for forest bathing. She can even do it VR, if you guys don’t have time to take the day trip.”
Wyatt gives Jenn a look that says he doesn’t appreciate the humor. But it’s mostly put on, and I can tell he’s more at ease after her assessment.
“Seriously. She’s okay, Wyatt. I would send her in if I thought otherwise. I’m more stubborn than she is.” Jenn smiles my way, and I return it.
“See, babe, I’m fine. Dr. Jenn says so.”
He nods, sighs deeply, and offers a half smile. “I really appreciate this, Jenn,” he says. “I just needed to be sure.”
Jenn squeezes Wyatt into a side hug. “I would expect nothing less.”
“Now, how about some sugar? I think we could all use a dopamine hit, and Shelby’s custard and rhubarb is a surefire way to get that flowing.” I wink at Wyatt, and he lets out a small laugh, raising a hand.
“You had me at sugar,” he replies.
“So, who else wants dessert?” I ask the group, and a gleeful Clementine shouts from the living room, “Meeeee-eeeee-eee!”
We all sit down, and Shelby doles out custard and stewed rhubarb while Wyatt makes another pot of coffee, for the “nonpregnant adults.” I dream of sneaking a cup of it later after everyone’s in bed, imagine guzzling it down cold, the lovely lift of caffeine.
Clementine keeps up nonstop chatter with Maeve and Jenn, who indulge her like they always do.
I sit, smiling as I listen to Clementine, sipping a barely palatable herbal tea that tastes like bark and blueberries.
My other hand rests under the table, unseen, absentmindedly touching the spot on my stomach where the bruise used to be.
—
Wyatt fully relaxes by the time Maeve and Jenn head home, after which he makes me an electrolyte-infused water I’m unsure I can drink, my stomach full of tea.
Can’t have you dehydrated, Tilly, he says, handing me the glass.
Jenn also suggested revisiting my supplements with Dr. Fillia, in case some minor deficiency is to blame.
My supplement bottles are on the bathroom counter, and there are many. It seems a lot to take, except they’re small—about the size of a baby aspirin—and dissolve on my tongue, leaving no aftertaste behind. I gather tonight’s supplements in my palm.
Calcium, choline, C vitamin, D vitamin, folic acid, iron, omega-3 fatty acids…
I soon realize the bottles are lined up in alphabetical order.
I didn’t do it, so Wyatt must have. A wave of irritation rises as the pills dissolve on my tongue.
But then I tell myself he’s merely looking for ways to help, letting me know he’s thinking of me and the baby.
At this stage of the pregnancy, there isn’t much he can contribute.
Gratitude, Tilly.
“Coming to bed?” Wyatt calls out, already under the covers. I look to the bottles again.
“In a minute,” I reply.
I move the folic acid to the front of the line and shuffle a few other bottles so they are no longer in alphabetical order. Then I feel it—an itching, burning pain near my ankle. I don’t see anything at first, but when I run my fingers along the spot, a tiny but sharp something snags on my skin.
“Ouch,” I murmur, though it doesn’t exactly hurt. More like when you pull off a burr, and one of its hooks sinks into the top layer of skin.
Setting my foot on the closed toilet lid, I twist my body to better evaluate the skin around my ankle.
Squinting, I see something the size and shape of a sliver, dark brown against my pale skin.
With steady fingers I grasp the sliver with my tweezers.
It comes out easily. When I run my finger over the spot again, it’s smooth.
Holding the sliver up to the light, I see minuscule spikes running its length. They’re uniform and remind me of tiny thorns. What the hell?
All of a sudden, I know what I’m looking at. My stomach clenches and the electrolyte water and tea threaten to come back up.
It’s not a sliver; it’s the slim, barbed leg of a cockroach.