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“They said at the time there was no reason your next baby shouldn’t be perfectly healthy,” she reminds me.
“There was no reason last time, either. It still happened.”
“But you are going to keep it, right?”
There are very few people in the world who could ask me that question, and even fewer to whom I would give an honest answer: that part of me has been saying, Don’t. You’re back in the light after so long in a dark and lonely place. Why roll those dice again? It’s the same part of my brain that looks around One Folgate Street and thinks, Why jeopardize all this?
But there’s another part of me—the part that has held a dead baby in her arms, that gazed down on her perfect face and felt the ecstatic joy of motherhood just the same—that could never even consider aborting a healthy fetus because of my own cowardice.
“Yes, I’m going to keep it,” I say. “I’m going to have this baby. Edward’s baby. I know he won’t like the idea at first, but I’m hoping he’ll get used to it.”
THEN: EMMA
When I haven’t heard from Edward in two weeks, I send him a selfie.
I got a tattoo, Daddy. Do you like it?
The reaction is instant. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
I know I should have asked your permission first. But I wanted to see what would happen if I was really, really bad…
In truth, the tattoo is small, quite pretty, and invisible when wearing normal clothes—a stylized representation of a seagull’s wings, just above the swell of the right buttock. But I know how much Edward loathes them.
PS it’s quite sore.
The reply comes a few minutes later.
And going to get sorer. Tonight. I’m coming back to London. Angry.
It’s the longest text he’s ever sent me. I smile as I send my reply. I’d better get ready then.
I take a shower, drying myself carefully, dabbing the tiniest amount of perfume on my skin. I wear the dress and the pearl collar but leave my feet bare. Already my skin is tingling. The feeling of anticipation is delicious, but it’s mingled with nervous excitement. Have I pushed him too far? Can I handle what he’s going to do to me?
I arrange myself on the sofa. Eventually I hear the faint beep from Housekeeper as it senses someone at the front door, then a ping as it grants him access. He strides toward me, his face dark.
Show me, he snarls.
I barely have time to turn around before he’s grabbed both my wrists with one hand and bent me over the sofa, almost ripping the dress as he pulls it up with the other.
He freezes. What the—
I start to laugh uncontrollably.
He shakes my wrists angrily. What in God’s name are you playing at?
It was Amanda’s, I manage to gasp. She got a tattoo to celebrate splitting up with her husband. I went along to the tattooist’s with her.
You sent me a picture of someone else’s ass? he says slowly.
I nod, still helpless with laughter.
I canceled a dinner with the mayor and the regional planning committee to come back here tonight, he growls.
Well, which is going to be more fun? I say, wiggling my buttocks at him invitingly.
He doesn’t let go of my wrists. I’m furious with you, he says wonderingly. You’ve deliberately made me angry. You deserve every bit of what you’re about to get.
I pull away to test his grip, but he has me tightly.
Welcome home, Daddy, I sigh happily.
—
Later, much later, before he leaves, I give him a letter.
Don’t read it now, I say. Read it when you’re alone. Think about it when you’re in your boring planning meetings. You don’t have to reply. But I wanted to explain myself to you.
NOW: JANE
My first maternity appointment. Opposite me, across an ugly NHS desk, sits Dr. Gifford.
A few days ago, I got a computer-generated letter explaining that, although there was no reason to be concerned, my medical history meant my pregnancy had automatically been graded as higher-risk. I would therefore be under the care of a specialist—Dr. Gifford.
Someone obviously realized their mistake, because later the same day I got a call saying they completely understood that I’d want to see a different doctor. I might in any case be aware that Dr. Gifford had tendered his resignation.
They say pregnancy muddles your thinking. So far, I’ve found the opposite. Or perhaps it’s simply that some decisions become easier to make. Finally, I know what the right course of action is.
“The thing is,” I tell him, “I don’t think you should have to resign because of something that wasn’t your fault. And we both know your replacement will be just as overworked as you are.”
He nods warily.
