Molly is grateful that Stella is at school; she loves her daughter with her whole heart, but she couldn’t wait for the news with her here, bouncing around the house and asking her endearing but endless questions.
Mommy, how can fish breathe underwater?
Mommy, what did I do when I was in your tummy? Wasn’t I bored?
Mommy, what does “several” mean?
Molly crosses her legs and looks at her watch—it’s been over an hour now—and runs through a mental list of people she could call to pass the time. Nina. Everly. Her mother. Hunter. They’re all at work but will pick up if she calls, she knows. But she doesn’t really want to talk to anybody. She wants these minutes to herself, to wallow in the thin, shrinking space between hope and despair. IVF has failed so many times. Thousands and thousands of dollars down the drain; so much money she’ll lose her mind if she really thinks about it. But this is how it goes for some, she’s heard, she’s read. It fails and fails, until finally it doesn’t. This is the time it will work. This is the time it will work.
Molly leans back into the couch pillows and visualizes the space below her belly button, concentrates to see if she can sense a fledgling life there. Could she sense it with Stella this early on? She can’t remember. In all honesty, it feels like a lifetime ago.
The golden light is strong streaming through the windows, almost too bright. Molly doesn’t know how long she sits there, or how much time passes before her phone rings. But there it is, buzzing on the coffee table that Hunter built from a beautiful piece of black walnut, and Molly’s fingers are sweaty as she swipes to answer it, her gut roiling.
“Hi, Molly.” Dr. Ricci’s voice is neutral and betrays nothing. “I have your results from this morning’s bloodwork.” Deep breath in. “I’m so sorry…”
But Molly doesn’t hear the rest. She feels the phone slip in her hand; she feels her body freeze with shock; she feels the promise of all the tears she’ll cry for the rest of the day and night, wrenching sobs that’ll keep her from sleep. Another crack splits through her heart, deeper this time.
Chapter Six
Sabrina
You seem sad walking into Dr. Ricci’s office. I’ve watched several other women enter the building before you, and they’ve all got a bit of hope in their stride. Not you.
Your blond hair is parted in the middle and runs in long, loose waves down your back. You’ve never taken the plunge and cut it short, have you? It might look good that way. Something fresh. A welcome change. But maybe there’s a part of you that’s stuck in the past. How could there not be?
You’re hunched slightly; your head is bowed so it’s hard to get a glimpse of your face. You’re a woman who’s lost something. It’s not detectable to everyone, but I see it. Believe me, I am someone who knows sorrow, too. I am someone who knows loss.
Your expression changes when I approach you inside the waiting room. Your eyebrows jump and your jaw drops slightly, and I can tell you don’t remember me. I remind you, and the corners of your mouth lift. I wonder if you’re being polite or if you’re genuinely glad to see me again—if I had to guess, I’d say the latter. We hit it off at Yoga Tree; it wasn’t an illusion.
You’re dressed nicely for the doctor. A sage-green cotton dress, gold hoops swinging from your ears, leather sandals that look like they could be from some Grecian market. You’re not as conservative as most of the women in this town. You march to the beat of your own drum, as far as I can tell. Ironically, your style is not unlike my own.
Today, you’ve even put on a little mascara, and your cheeks have that natural pink flush I’ve always observed in pictures. You really are pretty, Molly.
We briefly acknowledge our fertility struggles—an experience that binds us, no doubt. You keep your voice hushed, and I sense this is a topic you’re self-conscious about at the root, but you clearly crave the kind of connection I’m offering. There aren’t a lot of women like me in Flynn Cove, that’s for sure.
So you and I will get together soon, and that will be splendid. I’m looking forward to spending some quality time with you, something beyond the passing pleasantries of thanking you for yoga or the five brief minutes in Dr. Ricci’s packed waiting room.
I’m looking forward to meeting your husband at some point, too. You didn’t tell me Hunter’s name, but I know it, obviously. I know a lot about you, Molly. Much more than you realize. Obtaining all this information hasn’t been easy—after all these years, you still haven’t caved and gotten Instagram. What’s that about, anyway? Are you trying to prove something? Or trying to hide something?