I jerk my head. They’re not memories. They’re dreams. They’re just dreams. It’s not real.
He is real, though. He was standing there, mere inches away from me, as solid as the cement floor beneath me. The entire episode feels like a scene from a suspense flick. Like I was outside of it, watching it, breath bated, startled by each turn of events. And then it occurs to me that the most shocking thing of all was also the most mundane.
He’s married.
It feels wrong. Like wearing a dress to swim in the ocean. Or a pair of too-tight shoes. It doesn’t fit.
But there they were, two peas in a pod.
And they’re going to have a baby.
A charcoal pencil is sticking out of an open bin near me, a silver HB etched into its side. I reach for it without moving my body, my fingertips barely touching the tip. I pluck it out and the sudden, familiar urge to create—to make something out of nothing—overcomes me, but there’s no paper nearby. I start drawing on the floor. First one line that slowly morphs into a tiny finger, and then a hand, no bigger than a quarter.
I put down the pencil and cover the hand with mine. It fits perfectly beneath my palm.
Then somehow, I fall asleep.
* * *
It’s dark when Harrison comes in. But instead of telling me I need to get up, or even carrying me back to the house, he lies down beside me on the floor, his head next to mine, his dark eyes glistening in the moonlight. I turn on my side to face him, the tips of our noses almost touching.
“Dios Mia,” he whispers.
I blink, long and slow. His cheek is resting on the hand I drew.
“Our baby,” I whisper back. “You’re lying on it.”
His eyebrows rise above his glasses and he sits up a bit, then squints at the ground, until he can make out the slightly smudged, impossibly tiny charcoal fingers in the dark.
“Shit,” he says. “I knew I would be a terrible dad.” It’s an awful joke. Too soon. But it makes me giggle. And I love him for it.
He lies back down, shifting his head this time so it’s not on the drawing. And I love him for that, too.
“Can I tell you something crazy?” I whisper.
“Of course,” he says.
“You know that guy today—in the waiting room? With your patient—with Caroline?”
“Yeah.”
“I had this déjà vu feeling when I saw him. Like I recognized him.”
“You mean from the Giant?”
“No. I mean, I do remember seeing him there. But only because I had the same feeling then, too.”
Harrison waits for my explanation and I search for the words.
“I’ve seen him before.”
“I’m sure you have—Hope Springs is a small town.”
“No. I’m trying to say . . .” I pause, and then say it: “I’ve dreamt about him. Before.” The second it comes out of my mouth, I realize how ridiculous it sounds.
Harrison squints. “What do you mean, like you’ve had a dream about someone that looks like him?”
“No. Him. I think. He was so familiar. Like I knew him, even though I’ve never met him.”
“Because you’ve dreamt about him,” Harrison repeats.
“Yeah.”
“Huh.” We sit in silence for a few beats.
“Do you think I’m crazy?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says.
I tap his chest. “Hey.”
His face softens. “But it’s one of the things I love most about you.”
I know he doesn’t think it’s a big deal, and I could try to explain it more, how long I’ve been dreaming about Oliver, how shocking it was to see him in the flesh, but suddenly I’m exhausted.
He puts his hand on my shoulder, gently cupping it, and rubs the pad of his thumb back and forth across my skin.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “About the baby.”
The sorrow in his eyes mirrors mine and I breathe deeply, feeling something loosen in my chest, as if his very presence is helping relieve the burden of my grief. I feel so connected to him in this moment.
Which is why I can’t believe what he says next.
“Maybe,” he whispers, “it really is for the best.”
Stunned, I stare at him.
“I didn’t mean . . .” he says, and then stops.
A tear slips out of my eye, down the slope of my nose and onto the floor between us.
“What do you mean?” I whisper.
He pauses, collecting his thoughts. “That we tried,” he says. “That maybe it’s not in the cards for us.”
I snicker lightly, but without malice. “I thought you didn’t believe in fate.”
He repositions his head where it’s lying on his elbow. “It’s just, the other night—I don’t know if I can watch you go through that again. That I can go through it again. You could have . . .” He doesn’t finish the sentence.
I close my eyes. I know he means died. I could have died. But I don’t know how to tell him part of me already did. Every baby that has left us has taken a piece of me with it. And while having a baby won’t give me those pieces back, not having one might end me for good.
Finally, I open my eyes. “I want to go to the fertility specialist.”
It’s a statement, not a question, but still, I expect him to respond. To acquiesce as he usually does when we disagree. Or to argue, tell me he’s not ready yet, that he needs more time.
But Harrison remains silent. And we stare at each other, our faces bathed in moonlight, the tiny hand of our baby lying between us.
Chapter 5
Harrison
“What on God’s green earth did you put your rook there for?” Foster asks, pouring the black liquid from the carafe into his mug and nodding toward the chess game set up on the table.
Harrison glances at the board, trying to remember his last move.
“I’m just gonna take it with my rook,” Foster continues. Thirty years Harrison’s senior, Foster Moretti is one of the founding partners of the Fordham Health surgeon group, and the only one still practicing. He’s as old-school as they come, preferring physical exams—touch, look and listen—to technological devices. It’s a common joke that he doesn’t even know what floor the MRI is on. He only works two days each week, one day for patients in the clinic, one day for surgeries, but he just can’t seem to stay away from the office.