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SIXTY-TWO
EMBERLY
Life could be worse.
Every Saturday, I trudge to my Mindful Birth class, knowing I’m the only mother-to-be who lacks support.
Carmel is a pleasant little pocket of New Jersey that’s conveniently far enough from my cousin, so he doesn’t come to visit. I’ve spoken to him several times on video chat, and I’m thankful our association was brief. His burning hatred for the Montesano family makes my skin crawl, as does his unusual fascination with Cesare.
He arranged my fake ID with the law firm and offered me a room in his four-story mansion that adjoined his master suite. I declined his attempt to keep me close, opting to take a live-in job at a hostel.
I only worked there for a few weeks before I overheard my manager talking about a private school that was looking for an assistant to help with classes. I looked up the opportunity online, sent off an application, and days later, I got an interview and a generous offer.
One of the wealthy mothers owns an apartment building within a ten-minute walk from the school. She offered me a discounted rent in exchange for giving her daughter weekly drawing lessons. It was too good to refuse.
I should be happy, shouldn’t I?
I have a stable job which includes medical, a comfortable home, and savings.
But I’m empty, even though I’m growing a new life.
Despite never wanting to become like Mom, I’ve inherited her predicament. I’m pregnant by a mafia boss and unable to shake off the feeling of being watched.
A cool breeze blows through my curls as I approach Carmel’s community hall, which does nothing to soothe my churning stomach. Holding my features in a mask of calm, I ascend the steps and enter through the double doors.
Expectant mothers and their husbands bustle in the lobby, chatting about the class. A few turn around and glance my way, their features softening with pity.
I ignore them and stare at the notice board.
“Kate,” someone says from within the crowd.
It takes a heartbeat for me to remember that I’m Kate Edwards, and I turn to face the voice. It’s Lily, the instructor, who waves at me from the door, wearing a smile as bright as her blonde hair.
“There you are,” she says. “Come to the front with me.”
Lily disappears behind the door, and the crowd parts to let me through. I’m not the only single mother in the class. Those without romantic partners all have siblings, friends, or even parents, but I stand out because I’m alone.
The weight of everyone’s stares bears down on me as I walk to the door, but I keep my head high. I reach the front of the room, where Lily waits on a large yoga mat, surrounded by blocks, bolsters, and blankets.
She pats the spot beside her with an encouraging nod. I sit, trying not to feel self-conscious in the spotlight.
The class is a combination of meditation, stretches, breathing exercises, and comfortable birthing positions. All eyes are on me, since I’m the teacher’s demo partner. To keep my mind off all the attention, I allow my mind to wander.
How the hell did I manage to get pregnant when I always insisted on using condoms? Most of the time, it was me who rolled them onto his dick. Surely he would have said something if one of them broke?
The nausea from knocking Jim’s corpse out of its coffin escalated into daily vomiting. At first, I dismissed what I was feeling as a macabre form of PTSD, but when my breasts became tender, I took a pregnancy test.
“Kate?” Lily’s voice cuts through my musings.
“Yes?” I zone back into the class where all the husbands and other birthing partners are packing up their things.
“You did well today,” she offers me a hand.
“Thanks.” I let her help me to my feet.
Leaning in, she murmurs, “Have you thought about allowing me to support you in the delivery room? It’s no trouble.”
I part my lips, ready to refuse her offer, when a red-haired woman who always seems to hover close cuts in. “Lily! I didn’t know you were a doula. How much do you charge?”
