Page 98 of Sugar & Shadows

My mind circled around and around as I considered my health, finances, and every other practical element related to the situation.

Over and over, I kept going back to one image.

The flickering heartbeat.

Chapter 25

Sabrina

Sweaty and thirsty, I forced my eyes open and leaned over to sip my water, willing my heart to stop racing.

Chest tight, I pushed the blankets off and reached for the edges of the dream I’d just woken up from.

It was so real. And so strange. I clenched my eyes shut, clinging to the pieces of it.

A little girl. Unruly dark hair and eyes, playing and laughing.

“Mommy,” she said, hands on her hips. “I need a blazer for preschool graduation. You said I should dress to make everyone else fear me.”

She tilted her head for effect, the move eerie.

She talked a mile a minute, her vocabulary exceptional, if what I knew about kids—because of Meg and no one else—was correct. The rest of her diatribe faded, but she’d been there. Sassy and opinionated. Looking and sounding a lot like me.

A strange, impossible familiarity settled in.

I knew this child. Deeply. In my soul. She didn’t have a name, but she was my daughter.

The daughter I was destined to have.

As the thought hit me like a ton of bricks, I snapped my eyes open and pressed a hand to my still flat stomach, searching for evidence that any of what my mind had conjured could be real.

“No,” I whispered into the dark, kept company by only the familiar rumble of nausea.

It reared up quickly. So quickly, in fact, I barely made it to the toilet before I wretched.

When my stomach had stopped spasming, I sat on the cold tile floor, sweaty and gasping.

The dream had been so vivid, so clear.

The voice. The mannerisms. And the crooked smile. Fuck. It was reminiscent of a certain mayor I’d been avoiding.

I splashed cold water on my pale, splotchy face, and as I studied my reflection, I focused on breathing evenly.

What if this wasn’t an epic fuck-up after all, but actual destiny? The shit I’d been through, the years and years of fighting for the life I’d built, pushing and cranking and surviving? Maybe it had all been for a reason.

I thought about that child again. The hair, a stack of bracelets on one wrist. The hip cock and head tilt. Just like so many photos of me from my childhood. The insistence on a killer outfit at five years old.

I laughed.

Wildly, head thrown back. Quickly, though, I dissolved into hiccuping sobs.

This was real.

I put my hand on my stomach again, peering down at it.

How had I not realized?

It was strange, how when Doctor Storrow showed me the ultrasound, a lightbulb had clicked on in my head.