by Kira Peikoff
I point down at my sopping underwear, too shocked to be embarrassed. A painful hardness flares through my lower back and stomach. I double over with a moan.
“Lie down,” he commands. I fall onto his bed as the contraction eases.
“I’m going to check to see how dilated you are. I’ll be right back.”
Sweat is gathering at my temples when he returns with his gloves on and inserts two fingers into me.
“Wow,” he says. “You’re already at four centimeters and a hundred percent effaced. Good job!”
“I can’t,” I groan into the sheets. “I want—an epidural …”
“You can.” His arms wrap around me from behind, and I find myself being spooned against his chest. “You’re so much stronger than you think.”
The contractions are relentless. It’s a good thing nature won’t allow women to give up, because otherwise no one would be born. Over the course of hours, I think, or maybe days, they assault me with steadily worsening pain, closer and closer together. I writhe and scream and sway on my hands and knees. I pace the bedroom and roll on the floor. I lose track of time. He holds me through each one, murmuring about how well I’m doing, even as I shriek that I’m going to die.
After some amount of time, he announces that he’s going to check my cervix again. “They’re every ninety seconds now.”
I gasp in response, unable to form a coherent thought. The pain can’t be quantified on any human scale. It’s like a spear on fire is gouging out my womb, like my baby has sprouted talons dipped in acid. Part of me feels detached, like a bit player in a perfectly choreographed drama. Somehow my body knows exactly what to do without any guidance from me.
“Claire?” he prompts. “I need to check.”
I wrench myself onto my back and slide my legs apart while he checks again, his fingers wedging painfully into me.
“Almost show time!” he says brightly. “Nine centimeters. We’re about to meet that beautiful baby!”
I moan as another contraction intensifies, culminates in a jaw-grinding peak that lasts and lasts, then starts to back off. Now I have only seconds to catch my breath between each one. The bed sheets are covered in mucus and blood, but I don’t have the energy to care or cover myself up.
“How—soon?” I pant.
“Very. Your labor is progressing fast.”
His excited tone lends me some reassurance, even though a fetal monitor, an IV, and anesthesia are nowhere in sight.
“Are you sure—I shouldn’t just go to—the hospital?” My previous worries about being recognized seem distant and unimportant compared to my current distress.
“You won’t make it in time.”
Abruptly I feel an urgent need to push, so urgent that my body bears down of its own accord, riding a wave I’m powerless to counteract.
“Good,” he coaches. “Hold your breath for ten seconds while I count. Ten, nine, eight, seven. Don’t give up! Keep pushing!”
His enthusiasm penetrates my fog before another wave slams through me. He inserts his gloved fingers once more to feel my cervix.
“Go, go, go!” he exclaims. “Don’t stop! I feel the baby about to—” His fingers abruptly stiffen.
“What?”
“It’s a foot. She’s breech.”
I go blank; the next unstoppable contraction swells. No!
The baby’s head was engaged in my pelvis as recently as last week.
“She flipped,” he mutters. “It must be because of your placenta …”
A noise that doesn’t sound human escapes my throat—it sounds like an animal dying in the wild. I gather my wits and scream at him.
“Take me to the fucking hospital!”
He shakes his head, grimacing.
“I don’t care about the cops; call nine one one!”
“It’s not that,” he says. “She’s coming right now …”
A shriek erupts from my rib cage as I feel my most sensitive region split apart, shredding millions of nerve endings I never knew existed. My eyesight briefly flickers to black.
His demeanor is scarily calm. “Claire, you’re going to deliver this baby. I saw breech maneuvers done during my training. Just push like you’ve never pushed in your life!”
A sudden clarity penetrates my haze. I know what I must do. I grit my teeth and channel every ounce of strength into my lower half.
“Good,” he encourages, wedging his fingers deep inside me, twisting her body. “Keep going. Legs are out, the cord’s pulsing, just the shoulders and head now! Another big one; you can do it!”
My sight dims again with the excruciating effort and I’m so close to fainting I can see spots, but I push through it, harder this time, hard enough to expel whatever is left in my body, organs and all. I feel him jiggering the baby little by little, loosening her shoulders from the rigid confines of the birth canal. Then her big round head squeezes through, and like a dam breaking, the pain floods out. Relief engulfs me; it’s like weightlessness after being crushed.
“You did it!” he cries.
I open my eyes to the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard—an angry wail. The baby’s body is gray and covered in white vernix, but rapidly blossoming to pink. He places her belly-down on my chest, the veiny blue cord still pulsing between us. A sob wracks me as we lie skin to skin. Her tiny heart beats against mine.
We made it. From now on, forever—we.
She whimpers as I stroke her. Then her two dark eyes squint up at me. She looks nothing like me or Ethan. Her nose is more delicately sloped, her face heart-shaped, her hair strangely reddish.
Nash hovers behind my shoulder. “She’s perfect.”
I’m surprised to see that his cheeks, too, are wet.
“Welcome to the world, Abigail Grace,” I whisper.
She hungrily puckers her pink lips, and I cradle her face to my breast. When she latches on, immense gratitude washes over me. It was all worth it. Every loss, every hardship. I watch her serene face as she suckles, half closing her eyes in pure contentment.
The sun pokes through the curtains, catching the copper in her hair, and all too soon, I remember the hostile world awaiting us outside. Then I realize this is only the beginning.
I peer up at Nash. “What do we do now?” I ask.
“The only thing we can,” he says. “We love her.”
PART THREE
ABBY: NOW
In exactly two hours and fifteen minutes, when the bell rings for lunch, I am finally going to meet up with her: JH0502. I don’t even know her real name. I’ve thought a lot about those letters and numbers but can’t make sense of them. We don’t have any H last names on either side of my family, going back to my grandparents. And 0502 could be May 2nd—her birthday?—or just random numbers. So many questions with no answers.
Mrs. Miller is up at the board demonstrating 3-D perspective with a sketch of train tracks, but I can’t concentrate. All I can think about is what the stranger might tell me, and why it’s such a big deal that my mom can’t know. Just the thought of my mom stresses me out. I feel like she’s on the verge of some epic breakdown. I mean, rolling down a hill after a fantasy of my dead brother? It’s, like, insane.
“Dude,” the boy behind me hisses. “Wake up.”
“Hmm?” I snap to attention to see Mrs. Miller frowning at me, holding out a fat piece of chalk. “Abigail, do you want to demonstrate how to draw a rectangular prism?”
“Sure,” I agree.
Thank God for an easy class.
When the bell rings, Riley and I head toward our lockers together and I tell her about the upcoming meeting.
“Today?” Her eyes go wide. “Wow. This is gonna be huge.”
“I know. She wanted to come meet me in person.”
“How come?”
“To tell me everything. Whatever that means.”
“And you have literally no idea who she is or what she looks like?”
“Nope.”
Riley flicks her locker
open and puts her books inside, then squints at me. “I don’t know about this, Abs.”
“It’s not like I’m gonna get kidnapped or something.” I snort, but don’t mention the tightness in my chest. “Anyway, aren’t you the one who kept telling me to contact her again?”
“I didn’t think she was going to show up in real life!”
“Even better. We’ll finally get the truth.”
“Just be careful.” She lowers her voice as other kids swarm the locker area. “Didn’t your parents tell you she was some random stalker?”
I shrug. “Yeah, but maybe they’re lying.”
“Either way”—she slams her locker shut—“I’m keeping an eye on you. Okay?”
“How?”
“Simple. You’re meeting at the drop-off area, right? I can see it from Mr. Harrison’s classroom. I’ll just have lunch in there.”
I want to hug my kickass bestie, but I also don’t want to show her how nervous I am.
“Thanks,” is all I say.
“Of course. I’ve got your back.”
* * *
When the bell rings for lunch, the other kids rush to the cafeteria to be first in line for barbecue mac ’n’ cheese while I struggle upstream through the crowd toward the front doors. As I slip out, Mr. Harrison shows up behind me, walking next to Mrs. Miller.
“Well hello, Abigail,” he greets me. His height, thick beard, and bushy eyebrows make him seem gruffer than he really is.
Mrs. Miller waves, looking pretty beside him in her tight skirt, black pumps, and silky shirt. She smiles at me awkwardly.
OMG, are they going on a lunch date? I can’t wait to tell Riley later.
“Is your mom picking you up early?” Mr. Harrison asks me as we all step outside.
“Um, no. I’m just meeting a … friend.”
My face heats up, but I have no reason to be embarrassed. I haven’t done anything wrong. I call out, “Gotta go,” and hurry to the circle of benches at the drop-off point.
“Have a nice lunch,” he calls, as they walk off together to the parking lot. I watch from a distance as they get into separate cars. So, I guess it wasn’t a date. Oh well.
I can feel Riley’s eyes on my back, though I can’t see her through the dark-tinted glass of the classroom. The parking lot is busy. A bunch of cars are coming and going, but no one seems to notice me. My stomach growls, since I forgot to pack a lunch, but there’s no way I’m going to risk missing this for mac ’n’ cheese, so I wait it out. Five minutes go by, then ten. We only get forty-five minutes for lunch. Where is this person?
A shiver crawls down my arm. I whirl around, but nothing is there except the pink rose bushes underneath the school windows.
The sound of a car coming makes me perk up.
Never mind. It drives past the school.
I bounce my knees. I stand up and sit down. I jump on and off the bench, twirl my fidget spinner, and eventually shrug at the tinted windows, where I know Riley must be as confused as I am.
When thirty-five minutes have passed, I know this flake isn’t going to show up, and if I wait any longer, I might be late for my math test. I can almost hear Riley’s voice in my head: She blew you off? What the hell?
I rise in frustration, both disappointed and a little relieved.
The questions continue to pile up, unanswered.
Did she change her mind? Or does she have something else in mind?
CLAIRE: NOW
I am not crazy. As I limped around the house with my throbbing ankle all weekend, it was the mantra I kept telling myself. I wish I believed it.
The worst part is that Rob believes I’m losing it. Or should I say, Michael. Even after this whole decade of living a lie, I still have not fully mastered the habit of thinking of him by his alias, or of responding to mine, Lisa.
It was another lifetime ago that we suffered through the uncertain early months of Abby’s life in hiding until he phoned in a desperate favor to one of his wealthiest former patients, the wife of a hedge fund manager. She had borne twins thanks to his assistance after years of infertility, so she leapt at the chance to help him. She spotted him ten grand in cybercurrency to purchase social security numbers and fake passports for us on the dark web, complete with new identities as Michael and Lisa Burke. The documents were passable enough for us to open bank accounts and get driver’s licenses so we wouldn’t have to live off the grid.
But without his old identity, he could no longer work as a doctor. “Michael Burke” lacked proof of medical school attendance as well as board certifications in any specialty. Rob agonized terribly in those early months about how he would earn a living to support us, since my career as a journalist was also a no-go. “Lisa Burke” had no connections at any media outlets and no clips to show potential editors.
We had to start from scratch. When Abby was an infant, I decided early on to focus all my energies on motherhood—in part because I couldn’t envision leaving her for the day to take on any kind of job, and in part because adding childcare to our considerable burden of expenses was simply not feasible. So it all fell on him.
In the beginning, he found work as a construction laborer, helping to lay foundations for new houses all over the Hudson River Valley. The job was backbreaking, but it paid in cash each day off the books. He would come home with black dirt caked under his fingernails, covered in sweat, aching for the old days—his lab, his patients, his glamorous clinic facing Central Park West. But if he hated every minute, he rarely complained.
He became quite skilled at building things with his hands. Then one day when Abby was fifteen months old and learning to walk, she bumped her head pretty badly by colliding with the sharp edge of our glass dining room table. I told Rob we had to get rid of it, but we couldn’t afford a replacement, as we were still living month to month at that point. Matter-of-factly, he announced, “I’ll build one myself.” And that was how his woodworking hobby started.
He set up a workspace in our garage designing and making custom furniture on the weekends for fun. Over several years, he honed his craft. I think it gave him an outlet for creativity that he sorely lacked without the ability to pursue research. The pieces were amateur at first, but they were undeniably stylish. He sought exotic woods with attractive amber patterns and swirls, like African bubinga, poplar, walnut, and red cherry. Our house began to fill with his pieces—a new round kitchen table, a toy box for Abby, a jewelry box for me.
By the time Abby turned four, his skill had reached new heights, and I urged him to list a few items on Etsy, the online marketplace for handcrafted goods. It was just a lark—we hoped for a few extra dollars—but what happened was nothing short of remarkable. In the span of just six months, his Etsy store for custom woodworks began bringing in more cash than his construction job. A wait list developed for his kitchen tables, at a thousand dollars a pop. He realized he could make two per week if he quit his day job, which is exactly what he did next. He also found no shortage of customers for coffee tables, end tables, desks, and small gift items like cutting boards, iPad stands, and small nightstand boxes.
We remained in our modest two-bedroom home long after we could afford something nicer, just so we could build up our savings—and eventually pay back the ten thousand to our original rescuers. Finally, when Abby was eight, we felt financially stable enough to upgrade to our current place—one acre of land with a detached in-law suite in the backyard that he converted into his working space. His online store is still going strong; the best part is that he loves the work, and he’s able to make a decent living anonymously, from home. The Michael Burke of today is a veteran craftsman with strong, dusty hands, a couple of splinters, and a long list of satisfied customers who are ignorant of his complicated past.
Even though we have technically been Michael and Lisa for a decade now, we are still Claire and Rob to each other—our real names have become private terms of endearment, to be whispered in our bedroom after Abby’s gone to sleep.
But he hasn’t called me Claire for the last few nights, since I showed up at home crying and covered in mud. I guess I don’t blame him. I must truly seem insane.
As soon as I confessed my hallucination to him, the ground beneath us shifted, just as I’d feared it would. His eyes whirred with cold clinical analysis, assessing the severity of my relapse. He used to say he didn’t hold my history of mental illness against me, but I never fully believed him. Sure, we grew close quickly in the early years, developing a romance in spite of—or maybe because of—the extreme isolation we had to maintain. Abby brought us together on a deeper level. Raising her as two equal partners, as the only mother and father she’s ever known, sealed our commitment for life. Though we never had an official ceremony, we’ve long considered ourselves married—happily.
And yet.
Under many layers of practiced normalcy, the stigma of my mental breakdown has remained. Perhaps I’m paranoid, and he’s denied it, but I sense that he’s been on guard all these years, watching me carefully for the return of any troubling symptoms. I’ve worked hard to defeat that instinct in him, to prove that I’m a steady partner worthy of his trust. For a decade, I’ve reliably taken care of Abby, managed our home life, and maintained my health to the best of my ability—growing our own organic produce, cooking nutritious meals, swimming, meditating, and doing yoga.
Then in one short conversation this weekend, I managed to obliterate all my gains. In a few breathtaking minutes, I reverted from wife back to patient.
But the truth is, my hallucination has also rocked me to the core. Colton at the park seemed impossibly vivid, just like the vision a few months ago at the museum. That first one sparked a private, distracting obsession that left me distant and moody. On any given day, I’m filled with intense longing, cursing myself for indulging a fantasy, and aching for “him” to return. I blame myself for the latest episode. In a moment of weakness on my birthday a few weeks ago—fifty!—I literally wished for this to happen. I wished to set eyes on Colton one last time.
Then, sure enough, he materialized. I was alone at the park last week, meditating. I looked down, and there he was at the far edge of the field. His blond hair was whipping in the wind as he skipped beside a row of tall fir trees. It was an aspirational version of Colton, the healthy kid he should have been and never was.
