true impulses as a scientist, in favor of Cream of Wheat sound bites and antiseptic methods!”
“He called you talented,” Eric offers.
“Oh please. Talent is for hobbies. And the audacity to think I’d even want him to sign it. But he did it, anyway, and gave it to me as some insipid thank-you gift when we let him stay with us—for two weeks, might I add, two weeks! He showed up with three suitcases and this book—wrapped in gold paper!”
He stares at the inscription like his eyes could burn it off the page.
“Brennan stayed with us for that long?” I ask.
Ted waves a hand in the air, swatting away the question. “It was during the New England leg of his book tour. And oh, if you think his publisher couldn’t have put him up in hotels, think again. But he just loved to come back here and try to rub it in my face.”
“I don’t remember that,” I say. “I remember—a few days, maybe.”
The awkwardness of Brennan’s forced friendliness, smiling at me over a bowl of cereal, asking me about my favorite subjects in school. The sizzling arguments between him and Ted that always ended with the two of them grinning so wide I thought their mouths would crack.
“Oh, trust me,” Ted barks, “he was here. He’d travel hours sometimes, from some Boston or Connecticut event, and then he’d make a ruckus when he let himself in, just so we’d know he was back from his big fancy reading. There was one night where he had this umbrella, and…”
I lose track of what he’s saying. His Brennan rants are always bloated with superfluous detail, cramped with complaints that no one else would see as an affront. My eyes land back on the inscription, blurring as Ted blathers. When they come back into focus, I register the date beneath Brennan’s name.
“Wait,” I say. I put my finger on the page, drag the book closer. Read it again to be sure. “This date—he was staying at our house then?”
Ted pinches his lips together, annoyed at being derailed from his favorite tirade. He squints at the handwriting above my finger. “That’s the day he got here, I suppose.”
“And he was here for two weeks?”
“He was always in and out, but it was a two-week span, so yes.”
My eyes blur a second time, but now it has nothing to do with boredom. There’s that swirl of nausea again. That balled-up, knocking heart.
“What’s the matter?” Eric asks. He puts his hand on my back—to steady me, I think. Because, yes, I’m swaying. I feel that now. My body is a slow metronome.
I look at Eric, his eyes wide with worry. I look at Ted, his eyes squinty with suspicion. Ted knows what a realization looks like when it sweeps across my face. He wants to know what it is. Despite his appeal on the porch, he wants me back in that chair.
“Nothing,” I say. “I’m—I’m starving. Let’s go to The Diner, okay?”
Ted shrugs. “I wasn’t really feeling a sandwich, but I guess I can—”
“No, Ted. Just me and Eric. Alone.”
* * *
For the second day in a row, I’ve got a corned beef sandwich in front of me. Eric’s got one, too, and he’s just been Pegged. She gushed all over Eric, telling him how “Hollywood handsome” he looks without the beard he was growing the last time we came to Cedar. Rusty’s here, too, sitting at the counter. He came over to shake Eric’s hand as soon as we walked in. Two hard, fast pumps. “You’re a good man,” Rusty told him, “a good man,” though Eric hadn’t done or said anything yet to provoke his praise.
Now I’m staring at my sandwich, picking at the crust. It’s a risk, taking a bite. I can already sense my stomach turning against it. But I’ve barely eaten today, and Eric will know that something’s wrong if I ignore my favorite sandwich. I take a bite. Feel the meat squish between my teeth, chewier than usual. Is this what pregnancy does—drain a little love from the things I adore? Train my body to love the baby best?
Or maybe the baby is punishing me, for making it a secret instead of something to be celebrated. Maybe I deserve these surges in my stomach. Maybe they’re the baby’s roiling wrath.
Parents who get it wrong from the start. Parents who make their children wonder if they’re loved.
“What is it?” Eric asks. He’s on his third or fourth bite. There’s mustard on