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And somehow, I get the impression that she’s completely wrapped up in something she isn’t prepared for.
“Why don’t you try again?” I ask her gently.
“Excuse me?” She tenses.
The baby starts to wiggle and fuss a little bit, and she looks down at him.
“He needs a bottle,” she says. “Here.” She shoves the kid into my arms, and I hold him as she makes a bottle. I look down at the little guy and I can’t help but smile at the way his fingers wrap around mine. He’s tiny: probably only a few months old.
Is this what my son might have looked like?
It’s a dangerous method of thought. I know that. It’s a bad idea to wonder about what might have happened or what could have happened if things had been different, but that’s me. I’m not always the cleverest person in the world.
“How old is your baby?” I ask.
Hesitation.
“Um,” she says.
I look over and see her staring at the bottle.
“You’re either the world’s worst mother or the world’s worst liar,” I tell her.
“Excuse me?” She whirls around, hands on hips, and glares at me. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me,” I say. “Alexis.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she says. She turns back to finish making the bottle.
“I think you do,” I say.
I can see how tense she is. Hell, I can smell the anxiety and the frustration wafting off of her. Something is wrong, but she’s either a part of it or she doesn’t know how to ask for help.
She turns around and for the first time, she looks scared.
“Are you one of them?” She asks. “How could you be one of them?” Her eyes dart to the door and back to me. She’s thinking of running. Is that it? I’ve got the baby though, and besides, she won’t make it very far in the storm.
“One of who?”
“Them,” she says, and her voice sounds scared.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about, but I want to help you.”
She just shakes her head.
“Why don’t we start with your real name?” I ask her.
She looks up at me. Tears start streaming down her face and I can see how it must be completely overwhelming to her. No matter what happens next, everything is about to change. She’s about to change. It’s all about to change. I don’t know what she’s running from or what she’s running toward, but one thing is for certain: this woman isn’t Alexis Cantor.
“Polly,” she finally says.
“Okay, Polly, why don’t you tell me why you’re running around using the name of my dead fiancé?”
Her entire body stills, and she shakes her head.
“No,” she whispers.
“I consider myself to be pretty patient, but this entire shock-and-awe factor is kind of wearing thin,” I tell her. “No? Again? What’s with that?”
