by Kira Peikoff
“What does that mean?”
The doctor grimaces. “This can happen sometimes spontaneously, especially with advanced maternal age. You’re lucky; the abruption is minor—for now. Aside from delivering the baby, which I don’t think is necessary, there’s not much we can do except put you on strict bed rest.” He frowns, imparting the solemnity of his order. “And I mean, strict. The slightest exertion could cause a hemorrhage.”
“Oh God.”
“Do you have someone at home who can help you?” He glances at my left hand, where my diamond ring still glitters. I haven’t had the heart to take it off. “Your husband?”
I clear my throat. “I’ll be fine.”
His brows knit tighter. “Are you sure? You look white.”
“Yes,” I say, thinking of Nash. “He’s on his way here now.”
“Oh, good.” He seems relieved. “It’s very important that you not overdo it. If you can make it through two or three more weeks, you’ll be full-term.”
Right at the start of the trial. How can Nash possibly stay?
The doctor pats my hand with fatherly calm. “Everything will be okay, Mrs. Page. Before you know it, you’ll have a newborn, and then life will really get crazy.”
I force myself to smile. “I can only imagine.”
* * *
The doctor makes me undergo a non-stress test and wear an external fetal monitor until he is satisfied that the baby’s health is okay. Then I’m finally allowed to return to the waiting room in a wheelchair. I instantly spot Nash hunched in a chair wearing a puffy black coat; a small carry-on suitcase lies at his feet.
“You’re here!” I exclaim, grinning despite everything. I’ve never been so happy to see him, even though he looks pale and tired. His chin has a week’s worth of stubble, and his cheeks are thinner than I remember.
He rushes to my side. “I took the first train out. Are you okay?”
“Sort of.” I explain my diagnosis, aware of the eavesdropping nurse who is wheeling me. “I’m going to need a lot of help at home.”
“Let’s get you into bed then. I’ll go call a cab.”
As he disappears outside, the nurse pats my shoulder. “Your husband seems like he’ll take good care of you.”
“Yes.” I feel myself relax. “I think he will.”
She pauses. “I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere before.”
“Oh really?” I stare at the hospital’s revolving glass doors, willing him to hurry back and whisk us away. “Probably because he looks like that one actor. What’s his name …?”
“What’s he in?”
I scramble to divert her. “That one movie … with the spaceship.”
The nurse shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “I’m not sure which one you mean.”
“Oh well.” I make a show of clutching my stomach. “I just got another weird cramp.”
She kneels beside me. “Do you want me to call Dr. Morris?”
I wince and shake my head. How long does it take a cab to arrive in this small town? Of all the things I miss about the city, transportation at the wave of a hand is high on the list. “I don’t think so. I just need—a second.” I cover my face and draw a few steady breaths. “Okay. It’s going away.”
“Sounds like Braxton Hicks. I got them nonstop from twenty-eight weeks on with my first.”
“Oh, you have kids?”
It’s the magic question. Her face lights up, and I know we’re back on solid ground. Talk of her three children keeps us busy until a car pulls up outside and Nash’s towering figure appears in the revolving door.
“Oh, there he is!” I announce giddily. As he strides in, I wrap my scarf several times around my face.
“It’s bitter out there,” the nurse notes, handing the wheelchair over to him.
“Sure is,” he says. “Now let’s get you home.”
* * *
When we’re safely tucked into the back of the cab, I take his hand with profound gratitude. “Thank you so, so much. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“Let’s get one thing straight.” His voice is quietly angry. “You have screwed things up beyond belief.”
“I know. You can’t imagine how shitty I feel.”
“I’m only helping you because I can’t in good conscience not.”
“You hate me, don’t you?”
He sighs. “No, I made a mistake and now I’m owning it.”
His words suck my breath away. I can’t speak for a few minutes.
Finally, I blurt out, “You mean it was a mistake to trust me?”
He gestures to my stomach. “To do any of this.”
“You’re wrong. That’s not true.”
Tears sting my eyes. He stares out the window. We sit in painful silence as the car winds along the narrow country roads. Eventually, we hit a red light, and he faces me sadly. “I had a life, Claire. A good life, before you came along.”
I lock onto his gaze. “And thanks to you, someone else will have a life soon, too.”
* * *
Once I’m confined to bed at home, he springs into action. A dutiful companion, he prepares our meals, does my laundry, and goes grocery shopping at the rural Walmart nearby under cover of his winter jacket and new facial scruff. Cash, thankfully, is in plentiful supply. In the several days before his arrest, he withdrew five thousand and then four thousand from his account just in case. He deliberately kept it under the ten-thousand limit that might invite federal scrutiny, and now the money is secreted away in the suitcase he brought.
A stiff routine emerges to order our days. We’re living in the same house, if not quite together. Though he’s helpful and efficient, he won’t spend voluntary time with me. He eats separately and sleeps in the second bedroom. If I try to make small talk, he grunts or mumbles a one-word response. It’s clear he’s resigned himself to being my caretaker, but nothing more, so I stop trying after the first few days. I guess I deserve it.
The bed is my prison, and time passes slowly. All the time, I wonder when the looming trial will draw him away. I know he told Jillian he would be back “soon,” after he handled my emergency, and that she wouldn’t be able to reach him in the meantime. At my request, he took apart his cell phone to disable the GPS tracking feature. Deep in the woods, we’re all but cut off from the world. His entire life hangs in the balance of the next few weeks. And still day after day, he chooses to remain here with me.
As the baby’s due date nears, I sense his excitement building despite the tension between us. Each night, he listens to her heartbeat with his Doppler. It’s the only time his tense face relaxes into a genuine smile. Even if he is furious with me, his affection for the baby is clear. She is his life’s work personified. I’m planning to name her Abigail Grace, after my mother and grandmother. I like to think they would have been proud of me for risking everything to bring her into the world.
In the second week of his stay, I am so restless that I get up to do the dishes, but he scolds me when he finds me. “Don’t you dare,” he says, carrying me gruffly back into bed. “You’re not supposed to be on your feet.”
I begin to hope that he might stay for the birth, even as the trial nears. We don’t mention it, but its ticking clock might as well be audible throughout the house. Sometimes I catch him sighing out of nowhere or pacing the house like a trapped tiger, and I cringe, remembering his words: I had a good life before you came along.
After sixteen days of our cohabitation, I’m still showing no signs of labor, and only one snowy evening remains until the zero hour. If he doesn’t arrive tomorrow morning at nine AM sharp at the Lower Manhattan federal court in Foley Square, a warrant will go out for his arrest, and any chance of him dodging serious punishment will disappear.
Do I really want that for him?
When he enters my bedroom with a tray for dinner, I force out the words: “Just go. Please. I don’t want to be responsible for wrecking your whole life.”
He se
ts down the roast chicken and steamed vegetables on the bed. “Whatever happens, it will be my decision. Period.”
“It’s fine,” I say, more confidently than I feel. “I’m sure I can get myself to the hospital when the time comes.”
“I thought you wanted to avoid going back there.”
It’s true. If someone recognizes me the next time, the hospital could notify the authorities and seize the baby. But I’m not about to attempt labor alone at home. And if he stays to help me, what will happen to him? A citation for contempt of court? A warrant for his arrest?
“I’ll do what I have to do,” I insist. “Whatever will keep her safe.”
“You can’t even get up. And you think you’re going to cook? Do a wash?”
“I’ll manage.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I’ll ask a neighbor for help.”
“Good idea.” He flashes a sarcastic thumbs-up. “Just walk a mile to the next house in the snow.”
“I’ll figure something out.”
“You need me, Claire. Admit it.”
“I can call someone else.” I think hard, trying to determine whom I trust enough and who will drop everything to come help me. Not Ethan anymore. Not my work friends at Mindset. My parents are long gone. My Mighty Mito friends, like JohnsMom111, only know me online. I don’t even know where they live. And my actual friends from childhood and college tiptoed away one by one after Colton’s death; the body armor of my grief repelled everyone, eventually. What relationships do I have to show for my thirty-nine years?
The answer leaves me speechless.
Nash is scowling. “If you start to bleed and can’t get help in time, you’re fucked.”
“And if you don’t show up tomorrow, so are you. She’s going to freak out if you ditch her.” My heart speeds up nervously. “She doesn’t know where we are, right?”
“No, not that it matters.”
“Are you sure?”
“Claire.” He touches my hand. “You’re being paranoid.”
I snatch it away. “I am not!”
He recoils in surprise. “Whoa, calm down.”
“Sorry, I …” I trail off to catch my breath.
“You what?” he says, confused. “What’s wrong?”
I almost confide in him but think better of it. “Nothing. I just don’t trust her.”
It’s impossible to overlook the sneer of her lips and the ambition in her eyes; she seems like a woman whose cunning knows no bounds. I remain haunted by her declaration back at the Tangled Vine:
We will know that child. That I promise you.
The baby squirms in my womb then, filling me with dread.
Her baby, too.
ABBY: NOW
As soon as Dad brings me home from school on Monday, I race past Mom on the living room couch, where she’s resting with her sprained ankle, and climb the stairs.
“Hello to you, too,” she calls after me. “How was school?”
“Fine,” I shout down. “I just really have to go to the bathroom.”
Upstairs, I grab her laptop from her room, sneak into my bathroom, and lock the door. Then, for the first time since the museum, I log into MapMyDNA with my old username and password. A shiver of excitement flies through me when the orange-and-blue welcome page loads. My email request worked! I’m still sharing DNA maps with all the same people from school … plus the stranger who shares my DNA: JH0502.
I open our message history to send her a new note. I type it quickly before I can chicken out: I think my mom is lying about you, but I don’t know why.
Then I turn on the shower, in case my parents start to wonder why I’m in here for so long. The hot steam is not very relaxing, though. It keeps fogging up the screen every time I refresh the page for her reply. While I’m waiting, I kill some time scrolling through my Instagram feed, liking some funny memes and my friends’ selfies.
I’m checking out Tyler’s pictures of his new guitar when my MapMyDNA inbox pings with a new message:
I will tell you everything, but can you meet in person, alone? I’ll come to you.
Whoa. Alone? What’s up with that? I imagine my parents locking me in my room forever if they found out.
But if I meet her at school, what could go wrong? It’s not like I’m going to get into her car. Come on. Who would be that stupid? I notice a green dot next to JH0502’s screen name. She’s online now.
OK, I write back. Can you come to my school tomorrow? It’s the Garrison Union Free School. We have a break from 12:15 to 1 for lunch.
Her reply comes fast: Perfect. Where should we meet?
We can talk on the benches in front of the parking lot. It’s against the rules to go off-campus.
For a minute, there’s no response. I’m afraid she’s unhappy with this plan, but then she pings me again:
OK. But don’t tell your mom. Or you won’t get to hear my side of the story.
I reply right away: Don’t worry. I wasn’t going to.
JILLIAN: BEFORE
ONE WEEK TO GO
It’s 8:55 AM, the packed courtroom is buzzing, and Nash is about to march in any second—I’m sure of it. It’s been seventeen days and two hours since I woke up to find him gone, and now there’s only five minutes left on the clock. I’ve been counting the seconds until this deadline for these last two excruciating weeks, when every attempt to reach him has failed.
Sitting beside my lawyer at the defendants’ table, I crane my neck toward the doors and avoid eye contact with the spectators who have come to gawk at the downfall of “Mrs. Frankenstein.” Never mind my Harvard doctorate. The idiotic tabloid media doesn’t even have the decency to call me Dr. Frankenstein—only Nash gets that dubious distinction. I’m merely an underling, an afterthought. It’s bullshit. Anyone who thinks sexism is a myth has never been a woman in science.
But where the hell is he?
Adding insult to injury, his whereabouts have been the source of incessant gossip; he and Claire are said to be secret lovers who conspired all along to create the Frankenbaby and then escape together without me.
But it’s not like he chose her over me. He simply couldn’t ignore his professional duty to the baby; I get it. Any minute now—it’s 8:58 AM—he’ll walk in and set the record straight. Even if he hasn’t made a formal commitment to me, our future together is real. It’s been his implicit promise every time he’s pressed his lips to my naked body. We’re going to make it through the trial as a team, impervious to public scorn.
But a toxic voice seeps into my thoughts.
Why hasn’t he called?
I close my eyes and curse my doubt.
What we share is special. It’s scary to admit, but I’m in love for the first time.
Of course he can’t call. It doesn’t mean he’s purposefully avoiding me. His phone is a liability that could be tapped or traced. He’s probably dying to see me again.
All will be fine as soon as he walks in. It’s 8:59.
“Hey,” whispers my lawyer, a rail-thin man with greasy hair and a fast mouth. “Don’t look so nervous. Juries can smell guilt like dogs.”
I peel my eyes away from the door in time to see the somber judge enter the courtroom, her black robes draped around her diminutive frame like a witch’s cloak.
“Everyone, please rise for the Honorable Patricia Clark,” the bailiff announces.
Any second now. I glance back at the door again, but the lawyer nudges my foot under the table, and I climb to my feet a disrespectful beat late.
Come on!
“This court is now in session.” The judge taps a gavel, the strangers in the jury box eye me with suspicion, the prosecutor flashes me a vengeful smile; but I barely notice them. I am transfixed by the empty chair beside me. For the first time, I consider the possibility that he’s not going to come.
That bitch must have trapped him. As if she hasn’t fucked everything up enough. Something heavier than lead descends into the pit of my sto
mach: rage.
* * *
CLAIRE
Propped up on three pillows, we live-stream the start of the trial on my laptop. Nash lies beside me with his arms folded behind his head. Surprisingly content, I think, for someone who is officially now a fugitive.
As the beak-nosed prosecutor launches into an opening statement about the sanctity of human life, Nash rolls his eyes. “Can’t say I’m sorry to miss it.”
“She sure as hell is,” I tell him. “You left her high and dry.”
On the screen, Jillian’s fury is unmistakable; she’s sullen and red-faced, her shoulders pinched and her arms tightly folded. Nash’s vacant chair beside her is a glaring rebuff.
“I know. But they would be just as vicious if I was there.”
“Wasn’t there something … between you two?” I’ve long wondered but lacked the opening to ask.
He hesitates. “There was.”
“Past tense?” My pulse pounds; I’m not sure why the answer matters, but it does.
“It wasn’t really going anywhere,” he says. “I wasn’t looking for anything serious, even though I’m pretty sure she was.”
“Honestly?” I shift my massive belly to face him. “I didn’t trust her from day one.”
He seems surprised. “Why not?”
“Just a sense. She’s only out for herself.”
“But she has an exceptional mind. She might be the smartest researcher I’ve ever worked with.”
“So? She would have blackmailed you in a heartbeat.”
He winces. “Maybe so.”
The prosecutor, who is pacing in front of the jury box while delivering his statement, stops short on the screen.
“Bottom line, the case against Dr. Hendricks and Dr. Nash is as tight as a drum,” he says. “Forensic data experts uncovered a deleted recording on her cell phone, which had been backed up to the cloud, that revealed a conversation between them strategizing about exactly how they were going to pull off this conspiracy, combining Mrs. Abrams’ egg with Dr. Hendricks’. The whole thing is as clear as day. The recording will play for the jury now.”
Nash gasps as his own voice begins to fill the courthouse. But Jillian stares ahead blankly, not revealing any shock.
