This summer, I’d be renting the studio out at tourist rates. Ben told me he’d move out by April 15, just two weeks from now. With the amount of debt I had, I knew I should rent out my house, too, but where would Dylan and I stay? I wanted my son to have his home this summer, because soon enough, he wouldn’t have a summer vacation. I wanted that glimpse of life as it had been, at least one more time. This past summer had been so fraught, so off balance and distressing that I hadn’t been able to enjoy it.
“First world problems, Lillie,” I reminded myself, zipping up my parka. Even so, owing more than $300,000, without the income to make a dent into it, made my knees wobble in fear. If I kept the house, I’d go under. If I sold the house, I’d rip my heart in two, let alone what it would do to Dylan. This house was his legacy, and whether or not he settled here as an adult, the plan had always been that he’d inherit it.
I’d just have to figure it out.
Ben had not only plowed on his way out, he’d scraped my car clean of snow. As I made my way into work, I decided to invite him over for dinner. Without Dad this time. Just him and me. Almost like a date. Maybe an actual date, in fact. I knew I wasn’t ready for a real relationship. But a friendship with chemistry . . . that might be nice. I mean, we’d kissed twice. Three times, actually.
When I got to work, Wanda’s car wasn’t in its usual space. “She’s running late,” Carol announced as I walked in. “Shoveling her driveway as we speak.”
“Not a problem. Who’ve we got?”
“Karen Henderson is back, surprise, surprise. Another UTI. Sex addict,” Carol said, smiling. “Melissa Fairchild in for her eight-month checkup.” Carol scrunched up her cute little face. “Can I tell her we made a mistake and she’s actually due in August?”
“No, you cannot,” I said with a smile.
I hadn’t seen Melissa since our inadvertent sleepover （seeing her in my son’s pajama bottoms and one of his T-shirts stretched tight against her enormous, fertile boobs had compelled me to toss those items）。
Ophelia had texted me that she’d be staying in Wellfleet and that her mother had left. When I asked if she was okay with that, she answered, Totally.
Wellfleet OB/GYN had a policy that pregnant women were prioritized over more routine patients, so I called Melissa in. Weighed her, didn’t comment on the seven-pound gain （because I was a kind person） and had her sit on the exam table.
“First, do you have any questions, Melissa?”
“I wanted to thank you again,” she said. “Things . . . things are better. Ophelia’s staying with me. My sister signed away her parental rights.” She flushed. “Ophelia’s legally my daughter now.”
Wow. “Um, great. I really like Ophelia.”
Her eyes welled. “Me too.”
Was Brad now Ophelia’s adoptive father? If so, he didn’t deserve that kid. She was special. But I didn’t ask.
“Any questions about how you’re feeling or where the baby is, growth-wise?”
The tears spilled out of her sea-glass-green eyes. “I have a beard now,” she whispered. “I shave every day.”
Yes, and she’d missed a patch. On the left side of her mouth was some significant fuzz. “That’s actually a good sign,” I said. “Your hormones are working. That’s the androgen, which contains testosterone. The new hair should fall out after you give birth.”
“Can I do anything about . . . leakage?” she asked.
“Kegels. But don’t hold in your pee. You don’t want a UTI.”
“What about these?” she asked, gesturing to her chest. “This isn’t normal, is it?”
I couldn’t suppress a laugh. “Totally normal. Just your body getting ready to feed the baby.”
“I’m not going to nurse!” she said.
“Well, you may change your mind. I’ll give you some information about it.”
“You nursed, I suppose.” There was a little resentment in that statement.
“I did.”
“Bradley loves to tell me what a perfect mother you are. It’s like he’s telling me to be more like you.”
“How irritating for us both,” I said, and I swear, she shot me a glance of . . . of gratitude.
Strange, to feel a pang of sympathy for the other woman. “Let’s check your blood pressure and see if the baby is head down yet.”
Her BP was fine, the baby’s heart rate was perfect, the fundus was just as big as it was supposed to be, and yes, the baby was head down. I checked her hands and feet for swelling—she did have cankles, but it was more from her sixty-three-pound weight gain than retained fluids. I asked if she had headaches—pregnancy headaches can be a harbinger of preeclampsia or HELLP syndrome, but she had no signs of either. I reminded her to eat well and drink lots of water and told her the difference between Braxton-Hicks and real contractions.