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my
swollen belly as if it’s a disease he’s loath to catch.
    I
have crossed the threshold from lab rat to Twilight Zone. “You need
help,” I say. “ Serious help.”
    He
lowers his leg and moves closer. “Don’t be like that, Claire-bear.”
    It
hits me that I’ve made an error in judgment. “Get rid of it or don’t,” I
backtrack. “It’s not my concern.”
    His
hand slips into his trousers and comes out with the phone in question, which he
sets to display the photograph I have yet to see. “Go ahead,” he says as I turn
away. “Take a look. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
    As
much as I don’t want to, I must. I may not get another chance to know for sure.
I take the phone into my palm and draw it toward my face, aghast.
    The
rumors are well-founded. Although I know it’s not me, even Tim might disagree.
I look closer, mine for details to bolster my case, sicken at the thought of
dissecting this poor woman—whoever she is—for my own gain.
    Yet
the proof I seek eludes me. I want to believe Eric has Photoshopped my head on
some porn star’s body, but this is not the case. Too many rounded features and imperfections.
Flaws I have seen in the mirror. Then comes the sucker punch: the wallpaper.
It’s the stuff from Cincinnati, room two fourteen.

Chapter 4
    By
July, the only place I can get comfortable is my temperature-controlled office
at work. If hot flashes were a symptom of pregnancy, I’d be first in line for
the cure.
    There
are other problems with this pregnancy too, troubles I didn’t have with Ally: edema,
preeclampsia, a mild case of gestational diabetes. Even the specter of
placental abruption looms, a complication Dr. Patel warns us could threaten the
baby’s life and mine.
    But
Ally is in heaven, her entire summer thus far devoted to a homespun infant
wardrobe in shades of yellow and green. We knew the sex of the blastocysts when
they were transferred: three females and one male. But the baby remains a
mystery.
    “Look,”
Ally says, proudly dangling her latest creation, a tiny pair of zigzag-patterned
mittens, before me.
    The
air conditioner blows squarely at my face as I lounge propped by numerous
pillows, my feet elevated, reading the most recent edition of What to Expect
When You’re Expecting. I look normal, feel normal, am normal, I tell
myself.
    I
outstretch my arms for a hug. “I love ‘em!”
    Ally
sinks into my lap, nuzzles her chin to my neck, splays her fingers over my
belly. “Is it kicking?”
    I
am so aware of this baby’s form that I don’t even have to think. I guide her
hand to the right spot. “Here.”
    Ally
has felt the petite nudges and jolting thrusts before, always responding with
the raw fascination one might reserve for a brush with a tornado or a movie
star. But today the baby plays possum. “I don’t feel anything,” she complains
with an exaggerated frown, her lower lip outthrust.
    “I
think it’s sleeping.”
    Ally
seems as if she may drift off too, revert to infancy here in my arms. I am sticky
enough that I wish to move her, but the tenderness of her touch gives me pause. Savor this, I remind myself. Soon it will be gone.
    I
drag the back of my hand over her brow, clearing the droplets of perspiration I
somehow feel are my fault. “What should we name the baby?” I ask. This has been
a hot topic of conversation between Tim and me, but so far we have kept our
daughter out of it.
    Ally
springs off my lap, glowing with excitement. “I love Gypsy,” she
proclaims, “or Blossom.” She clamps a thumbnail between her teeth and casts her
eyes skyward. “Oh, or Miracle.”
    I
am beginning to share Tim’s worry about Miss Abigail and the threat of Ally
joining the circus. “What if it’s a boy?”
    It’s
obvious she hasn’t given this idea a shred of thought. “A boy? I thought Daddy
said…”
    “There’s
a one in four chance,” I explain. “Three out of four it’s a girl.”
    She
mulls this information.