Molly’s nerves are jangled as she drives, and she fiddles with the radio. She thinks about Hunter. This is their third round of IVF—their fifth embryo transfer—and she needs it to work. She still doesn’t understand why it was so easy with Stella the first time and why it’s so impossible now. After their first transfer, several years ago now, Molly did get pregnant, but she lost the baby almost right away. A “silent miscarriage,” as Dr. Ricci referred to it. The blood test showed adequate HCG levels, but then there was no heartbeat at the ultrasound. And Molly hasn’t been able to get pregnant since. She doesn’t think she can bear the news of another negative test or miscarriage, or the look on Hunter’s face when she informs him of yet another failed attempt.
Molly lands on SiriusXM’s Coffee House station playing a George Ezra song; she can’t remember its name, but it’s one she’s used often in her yoga playlists, and the beat steadies her. She inhales through the nose and exhales out the mouth, the way she teaches her students. The song ends too quickly, and another begins. In an instant she knows it, the catchy, too-familiar rhythm of the intro—she would know it in her sleep, in her death, probably. But it’s different from the original—raw, unaltered by synthesizers. An acoustic version, from the sounds of it, one she hasn’t heard before. And there it is, flashing across the media screen above the center console: “Molly’s Song （Acoustic）。”
She feels a sharp stab of annoyance.
“How are people still playing that fucking song?” she says—almost yells—aloud to no one.
She wants to switch the station, but her arm is frozen on the steering wheel. She lets herself listen, surrenders to the nostalgia that squeezes her heart like a fist at the sound of his voice.
Five days ago I didn’t know
The feelings in me now
It’s not even a good song, she thinks as she speeds through a yellow light, all the while knowing that, on the contrary, it is a good song. It’s a great song, the best song Danner Lane ever released and the only one—five years after the band split—that still gets played on the radio.
The gentle plucking of the guitar slows as the song fades out. Molly isn’t prepared for what comes next, as the radio show host’s voice fills the car.
“That was Jake Danner, everyone, with his recently recorded acoustic version of the old favorite, ‘Molly’s Song.’ Beautiful, isn’t it? I’m lucky enough to be here with Jake this afternoon, who’s kindly agreed to say a few words to our listeners. Jake, great to have you on today. How’s it going?”
Molly turns numb, her heart in her throat. She pulls into the parking lot of Dr. Ricci’s office and slows the car to a stop, her whole body prickling and hot. And then Jake is speaking, the sound filling the Audi.
“Thanks, Aaron, thanks for having me on the Coffee House. I’m doing well. Just happy to be here talking about music.”
“You know how much we all loved ‘Molly’s Song’ when it came out in—god, was it 2014? Anyway, it’s a real treat to hear you perform it again, and this acoustic version is so raw. Now, I’ve heard some rumors, but can you tell us if a solo album might be in the works?”
Jake laughs softly, passively, and Molly imagines him brushing a hand through his hair. She wonders if he still wears it long or if he succumbed to a crew cut. “Oh, I don’t know about that, Aaron,” he demurs. “I suppose time will tell, won’t it?”
Molly kills the engine and bolts out of the car, unable to stomach the familiar pitch of Jake’s voice a second longer. The sound of him is an invasion, an assault on the years she’s spent pushing the past as far back as she can.
As usual, Dr. Ricci’s waiting room is packed. Molly finds the only open seat, wedging herself between two women flipping through glossy magazines. She fiddles with her wedding ring, agitated, the lyrics of “Molly’s Song” on repeat in her mind.
Your beautiful mind, your secret smile
Change me, won’t you change me
Molly glances around the room at all the tired, stressed-looking women—many of whom appear older than she does—and tries to shift her anxiety toward gratitude. So many of these women would kill for a daughter of their own, and how lucky is she to have Stella? Only one of her fellow patients sits straight and alert, and she is staring in Molly’s direction. It takes a moment to place her—perfect posture, bright green eyes. Yes, it’s the woman who took Molly’s yoga class two Sundays before.