“I tried talking to her, but…” His words fall off and he raises hishands in the air, totally unprepared for the hysterics of a pregnant woman.
We charge past him, Damien only a few steps behind us.
Inside the parlor, Constance fidgets on the sofa. Her breaths are raspy and ragged. Every few seconds, her body trembles with a sob, like a child who has woken from a nightmare. Her jaw is clenched tight, as though she’s trying not to wince in pain.
“Is your foot hurting that much?” I ask.
Ava rubs Constance’s shoulders. She looks at Damien. “Maybe there’s something she can take for the pain?”
He shrugs. “The cut isn’t that deep.”
“Says the person who isn’t bleeding,” Preston says. “She’s hurting. Surely you can do something.”
Inside, I’m screaming for Damien to do something, offer some kind of reassurance, but he is completely useless. I brush past him and sit beside Constance on the sofa, place my hand over her trembling fingers. “What can we do?”
“It’s not my foot. I’m worried about my fall,” she says, her voice shaking. “Do you think the baby is okay?”
“I’m sure the baby is fine,” I say, even though I know little about pregnancy. The most information I’ve received in one sitting was when I accompanied her to that first appointment.
“What if I fell at the wrong angle? This far along, one misstep could cause a miscarriage.” She starts breathing more rapidly. “And stress isn’t good for pregnancy.”
“Come on, man. You’re a doctor,” Preston says to Damien. “Do something.”
Damien sighs and shakes his head. A slick of fresh sweat glistens along his hairline. “There’s no way to tell without a formal ultrasound, but I’m sure you’re fine. Not everything is like you see it on television.”
I shoot him a glare. “Nice bedside manner.”
“You asked for reassurance, that’s the best I can give.” He saunters over to the bar, retrieves the same glass he had before we left for Mrs. Wilson’s cottage. “Time for another drink.”
Ava flicks her retro curls over one shoulder, positions her body tobetter face Constance. When she speaks, her voice is far gentler and kinder than anything Damien had to say. “Have you felt the baby move?”
“I don’t know.” Constance’s breaths hasten again, on the verge of hyperventilation. “I’m freaking out.”
“Breathe. Try to calm down.” Ava places her hands on Constance’s stomach. “The baby can feel when you’re upset.”
Constance inhales through her nose, exhales from her mouth. She’s prone to catastrophizing when she’s stressed. In college, she’d sail through each semester then have an epic crashout during finals, convinced she wasn’t prepared. When we were in Spain, she nearly hurled her drink at a bartender because of a dispute over an inaccurate tab. If something doesn’t go as expected, she slips into panic mode, and I know she wants a healthy baby more than anything.
Several seconds later, Constance’s eyes bulge with enthusiasm. “Did you feel that?”
Ava, her hands still pressed against Constance’s midsection, nods. “See? Everything is fine.”
The relief washing over Constance is instant. I’m surprised that out of everyone in the room, Ava was the one to calm her. Usually it would be me, or Marlowe. It’s a strangely maternal side of my friend I’ve rarely seen, and my heart aches knowing she’s yet to give this kind of love to a child of her own.
“I worry I’m not going to be good at this,” Constance says, eyes fixed on her stomach. The confession is quick and unexpected; I wonder if she meant to speak it aloud. When she looks up, fresh tears shimmer in her eyes.
“You’ll be a great mother,” I say.
“And you have us to help,” Ava says.
A pang of sadness washes over the heartwarming moment as I remember Marlowe is no longer here to experience life with us. She will never get to meet Constance’s child, never help pick a name or hold the infant in her arms. Fate is cruel and unfair and soul-clenching.
“I’m glad you’ve calmed down, Constance, and I’m sorry tointerrupt,” Preston says, rubbing the back of his neck, “but did you find a phone?”
“Yes.” Ava stands and wanders to the fireplace. “It’ll take over an hour for the police to arrive.”
“Thanks to Tippi,” Damien says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I stand, take a step toward him.
