Little Earthquakes: A Novel

April

LIA

I watched her for three days, sitting by myself in the park underneath an elm tree, beside an empty fountain with a series of uneaten sandwiches in my lap and my purse at my side.

Purse. It’s not a purse, really. Before, I had purses—a fake Prada bag, a real Chanel baguette Sam had bought me for my birthday. What I have now is a gigantic, pink, floral-printed Vera Bradley bag big enough to hold a human head. If this bag were a person, it would be somebody’s dowdy, gray-haired great-aunt, smelling of mothballs and butterscotch candies and insisting on pinching your cheeks. It’s horrific. But nobody notices it any more than they notice me.

Once upon a time, I might have taken steps to assure that I’d be invisible: a pulled-down baseball cap or a hooded sweatshirt to help me dodge the questions that always began Hey, aren’t you? and always ended with a name that wasn’t mine. No, wait, don’t tell me. Didn’t I see you in something? Don’t I know who you are?

Now, nobody stares, and nobody asks, and nobody spares me so much as a second glance. I might as well be a piece of furniture. Last week a squirrel ran over my foot.

But that’s okay. That’s good. I’m not here to be seen; I’m here to watch. Usually it’s three o’clock or so when she shows up. I set aside my sandwich and hold the bag tightly against me like a pillow or a pet, and I stare. At first I couldn’t really tell anything, but yesterday she stopped halfway past my fountain and stretched with her hands pressing the small of her back. I did that, I thought, feeling my throat close. I did that, too.

I used to love this park. Growing up in Northeast Philadelphia, my father would take me into town three times each year. We’d go to the zoo in the summer, to the flower show each spring, and to Wanamaker’s for the Christmas light show in December. He’d buy me a treat—a hot chocolate, a strawberry ice cream cone—and we’d sit on a bench, and my father would make up stories about the people walking by. A teenager with a backpack was a rock star in disguise; a blue-haired lady in an ankle-length fur coat was carrying secrets for the Russians. When I was on the plane, somewhere over Virginia, I thought about this park, and the taste of strawberries and chocolate, and my father’s arm around me. I thought I’d feel safe here. I was wrong. Every time I blinked, every time I breathed, I could feel the ground beneath me wobble and slide sideways. I could feel things starting to break.

It had been this way since it happened. Nothing could make me feel safe. Not my husband, Sam, holding me, not the sad-eyed, sweet-voiced therapist he’d found, the one who’d told me, Nothing but time will really help, and you just have to get through one day at a time.

That’s what we’d been doing. Getting through the days. Eating food without tasting it, throwing out the Styrofoam containers. Brushing our teeth and making the bed. On a Wednesday afternoon, three weeks after it happened, Sam had suggested a movie. He’d laid out clothes for me to wear—lime-green linen capris that I still couldn’t quite zip, an ivory silk blouse with pink-ribbon embroidery, a pair of pink slides. When I’d picked up the diaper bag by the door, Sam had looked at me strangely, but he hadn’t said anything. I’d been carrying it instead of a purse before, and I’d kept right on carrying it after, like a teddy bear or a well-loved blanket, like something I loved that I couldn’t bring myself to let go.

I was fine getting into the car. Fine as we pulled into the parking garage and Sam held the door for me and walked me into the red-velvet lobby that smelled like popcorn and fake butter. And then I stood there, and I couldn’t move another inch.

Lia? Sam asked me. I shook my head. I was remembering the last time we’d gone to the movies. Sam bought me malted milk balls and Gummi worms and the giant Coke I’d wanted, even though caffeine was verboten and every sip caused me to burp. When the movie ended, he had to use both hands to haul me out of my seat. I had everything then, I thought. My eyes started to burn, my lips started to tremble, and I could feel my knees and neck wobbling, as if they’d been packed full of grease and ball bearings. I set one hand against the wall to steady myself so I wouldn’t start to slide sideways. I remembered reading somewhere about how a news crew had interviewed someone caught in the ’94 Northridge earthquake. How long did it go on? the bland, tan newsman asked. The woman who’d lost her home and her husband had looked at him with haunted eyes and said, It’s still happening.

Lia? Sam asked again. I looked at him—his blue eyes that were still bloodshot, his strong jaw, his smooth skin. Handsome is as handsome does, my mother used to say, but Sam had been so sweet to me, ever since I’d met him. Ever since it had happened, he’d been nothing but sweet. And I’d brought him tragedy. Every time he looked at me, he’d see what we had lost; every time I looked at him, I’d see the same thing. I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t stay and hurt him anymore.

I’ll be right back, I said. I’m just going to run to the bathroom. I slung my Vera Bradley bag over my shoulder, bypassed the bathroom, and slipped out the front door.

Our apartment was as we’d left it. The couch was in the living room, the bed was in the bedroom. The room at the end of the hall was empty. Completely empty. There wasn’t so much as a dust mote in the air. Who had done it? I wondered, as I walked into the bedroom, grabbed handfuls of underwear and T-shirts and put them into the bag. I hadn’t even noticed, I thought. How could I not have noticed? One day the room had been full of toys and furniture, a crib and a rocker, and the next day, nothing. Was there some service you could call, a number you could dial, a website you could access, men who would come with garbage bags and vacuum cleaners and take everything away?

Sam, I’m so sorry, I wrote. I can’t stay here anymore. I can’t watch you be so sad and know that it’s my fault. Please don’t look for me. I’ll call when I’m ready. I’m sorry . . . I stopped writing. There weren’t even words for it. Nothing came close. I’m sorry for everything, I wrote, and then I ran out the door.

The cab was waiting for me outside of our apartment building’s front door, and, for once, the 405 was moving. Half an hour later, I was at the airport with a stack of crisp, ATM-fresh bills in my hand. Just one way? the girl behind the counter had asked me.

One way, I told her and paid for my ticket home. The place where they have to take you in. My mother hadn’t seemed too happy about it, but then, she hadn’t been happy about anything to do with me—or, really, anything at all—since I was a teenager and my father left. But there was a roof over my head, a bed to sleep in. She’d even given me a coat to wear on a cold day the week before.

The woman I’ve been watching walked across the park, reddish-gold curls piled on her head, a canvas tote bag in her hand, and I leaned forward, holding tight to the edges of the bench, trying to make the spinning stop. She set her bag down on the lip of the fountain and bent down to pet a little black-and-white-spotted dog. Now, I thought, and I reached into my sleepover-size sack and pulled out the silver rattle. Should we get it monogrammed? Sam had asked. I’d just rolled my eyes and told him that there were two kinds of people in the world, the ones who got things monogrammed at Tiffany’s and the ones who didn’t, and we were definitely Type Twos. One silver rattle from Tiffany’s, unmonogrammed, never used. I walked carefully over to the fountain before I remembered that I’d become invisible and that nobody would look at me no matter what I did. I slid the rattle into her bag and then I slipped away.

BECKY

Her cell phone trilled as she straightened her back. The dog gave one sharp bark and trotted away, and the woman with the long blond hair in the long blue coat walked past her, stepping so close that their shoulders brushed. Becky Rothstein-Rabinowitz brushed her curls out of her eyes, pulled the phone out of her pocket, winced when she saw the number displayed on the screen, and replaced the phone without answering. Shit, she muttered to no one in particular. That marked her mother-in-law Mimi’s fifth call in the last two hours. She and Mimi had had a reasonably peaceful détente when Mimi had lived in Texas with the latest in her five-husband series, but the marriage hadn’t lasted. Now Mimi was moving to Philadelphia, and she couldn’t seem to grasp the simple fact that her daughter-in-law had both a job and a baby on the way and, hence, better things to do than just drop by the shop that Mimi’s decorator had recommended and take a l’il look at Mimi’s custom-ordered drapes. Nor did Becky have just a quick sec to drive half an hour to Merion and sneak a peek at how construction was proceeding (her mother-in-law was in the process of building a pillared, gabled, verandaed minimansion that looked, to Becky’s eyes, like Scarlett O’Hara’s abode, if Tara had gotten shrunk in the wash). Becky picked up her bag and walked briskly across the park to her restaurant, Mas.

It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and the little kitchen was already steamy and warm with the scent of braised pork shoulder in a cinnamon-spiked sauce, cilantro and garlic salsa, and roasting peppers for the savory flan. Becky took a deep, happy breath and stretched her arms over her head.

Thought you were off today, said Sarah Trujillo, her partner and best friend.

I’m just stopping by, Becky said, as her cell phone trilled again.

Let me guess, Sarah said.

Becky sighed, looked at the number, then smiled, and flipped the phone open. Hi, honey, she said. They’d been married for two years, and they’d dated for three years before that, but the sound of Andrew’s voice still gave her butterflies.

Hi. Are you all right?

She looked down at herself. Bag, boobs, belly, feet, all present and accounted for. Yeah, I’m fine. Why?

Well, my mother just paged me and said she’s been trying to reach you, but you weren’t picking up your phone.

Shit, Becky thought again.

Look, I know she can be demanding. I had to live with her, remember?

Yes, Becky said. And how you turned out normal is one of the mysteries of the ages, she refrained from adding.

Just humor her a little bit. Ask her how things are going with the move.

I can humor her, Becky replied, but I don’t have time to run her errands.

I know, her husband answered. Becky could hear hospital sounds in the background, some doctor being paged. You don’t have to. I don’t expect you to. Mimi doesn’t, either.

Then why does she keep asking? Becky wondered.

Just talk to her, Andrew said. She’s lonely.

She’s crazy, Becky thought. Okay, she said. Next time she calls, I’ll talk to her. But I have to turn my phone off soon. Yoga.

Sarah raised her eyebrows. Yoga? she mouthed.

Yoga, Becky repeated and hung up the phone. Don’t laugh.

Why would I laugh? Sarah said, smiling sweetly. Sarah had eyes the color of bittersweet chocolate, glossy black hair, and a dancer’s body, although she hadn’t laced up her pointe shoes since she’d blown out both knees at seventeen. She was the reason that Mas’s six-seat bar was packed three deep every week night and four deep on Fridays; the reason that of all the restaurants on Rittenhouse Square, Mas could keep each one of its thirty-six seats full all night long, in spite of the two-hour wait. When Sarah would put on red lipstick and snake-hip through the throng, a plate of complimentary empanadas in her hands and high-heeled sandals on her feet, the grumbles would evaporate and the watch-glancing would cease. What’s the soup again? Sarah asked.

Garlic and white-bean puree with truffle oil, Becky said, as she picked up her bag and surveyed the still-empty dining room, each of the twelve tables set with fresh linen and wineglasses and a little blue glass dish of spiced almonds in the center.

And why do you think I’d be laughing about yoga?

Well, said Becky, picking up her canvas bag. Just because I haven’t exercised in . . . Becky paused, counting the months. The years. . . . in a while. Her last experience with organized fitness had been in college, where she had to pass a semester of phys. ed. before she graduated. She’d let Sarah talk her into Interpretive Dance, where she spent four months waving a scarf around, pretending to be, alternately, a tree in the wind, a child of alcoholics, and resignation. She’d been half hoping that her obstetrician would put the kibosh on exercise and tell her to just stay home with her feet up for the last twelve weeks of her pregnancy, but Dr. Mendlow had been almost indecently enthusiastic when Becky had called for permission to enroll.

You probably think yoga’s for wimps.

No, no! said Sarah. Yoga’s very demanding. I’m impressed that you’re doing this for yourself and, of course, for your darling little wee one.

Becky stared at her friend and narrowed her eyes. You want something, right?

Can you switch Saturdays with me?

Fine, fine, Becky grumbled. She didn’t really mind working Saturday night. Andrew was going to be on call, which, more than likely, meant she’d be abandoned in front of the television set at least once so that her husband could go tend to someone’s inflamed appendix or obstructed bowel. Or, most likely, she would have to field more phone calls from Mimi.

Sarah scraped the jicama she’d been julienning into a bowl, wiped her cutting board, and tossed the towel into a basket in the corner. Becky retrieved it and threw it back to her. Two towels a night, remember? The laundry bill last month was killer.

A thousand pardons, Sarah said, as she started scraping kernels of corn off the cob for the roasted-corn salad.

Becky headed up the back staircase to a tiny room at the top—a converted closet in the old row house that was Mas. She closed the blinds and took another appreciative sniff of dinner coming together—the mole simmering, the spice-rubbed brisket slow-roasting, the undertone of garlic, and the bright notes of cilantro and lime. She could hear the sounds of the dinner crew arriving—waitresses laughing in the kitchen, the dishwashers turning the radio from WXPN to the salsa station. She set her bag onto the desk, on top of the stacks of invoices and ordering forms, and reached into the locker where she’d put her yoga outfit. Loose-fitting, comfortable clothing, the yoga flyer had said. Which, luckily, was pretty much all she ever wore.

Becky pulled off her elastic-waisted black pants, exchanging them for a pair of elastic-waisted blue ones and added an exercise bra that had taken her forty-five minutes on the Internet to find at a site called, God help her, Bigmamas.com. She pulled on a long T-shirt, slipped her feet into her sneakers, and pulled her curls into a bun that she skewered into place with one of the chopsticks Sarah had left on the desk. Gentle, rhythmic stretching, the flyer had said. Creative visualization and meditation for the mother-to-be. She figured she could handle that. And if not, she’d just say something about heartburn and head for the door.

As she stuffed her clothes into the bag, her fingertips brushed against something cold and unfamiliar. She dug around and pulled out a silver baby rattle. She felt around in her bag some more, but she couldn’t find a card or wrapping paper or a ribbon. Just one little rattle.

She turned it over, gave it a shake, then headed down the stairs to the kitchen, where Sarah had been joined by the dishwasher, the sous chef, and the pastry chef. Is this from you? she asked Sarah.

No, but it’s nice, she said.

I don’t know where it came from.

The stork? Sarah offered.

Becky rolled her eyes, then stood sideways in front of the mirror beside the dining-room door for another round of what was becoming her favorite game: Pregnant or Just Fat?

It was so unfair, she thought, as she twisted and turned and sucked in her cheekbones. She’d dreamed of pregnancy as the great equalizer, the thing she’d been waiting for her entire life, the moment when all the women got big so nobody talked or worried about their weight for nine blissful months. Well, fat chance. Pun intended. The skinny girls stayed skinny, except they developed adorable little tight-as-a-drum basketball bellies, whereas women Becky’s size just looked as though they’d had too much for lunch.

And plus-size maternity clothes? Forget about it. Normal-size women get to wear little Lycra-blend sporty numbers that proclaim to the viewing public Hey! I’m pregnant! Meanwhile, any pregnant woman bigger than a breadbox gets to choose from the offerings from exactly one—yes, one—maternity-wear manufacturer, whose stirrup pants and oversized tunics scream Hey! I’m a time traveler from 1987! And I’m even fatter than normal!

She looked at herself in profile, straightening her shoulders, willing her belly to stick out farther than her breasts did. Then she turned to Sarah. Do I look . . .

Sarah shook her head as she sailed toward the deep fryer with a tray of corn fritters that Becky had prepared that morning. Can’t hear you, can’t hear you, she sang, as the fritters started to sizzle. Becky sighed, did a quarter turn, and looked over at Juan the dishwasher, who’d suddenly become very involved in the plates he was stacking. She shot a glance toward the grill and found two waitresses with their eyes averted, busily mixing, chopping, and even, in Suzie’s case, reading over the week’s schedule as if there’d be a quiz on it later.

Becky sighed again, picked up her bag along with a copy of the schedule for the week and the specials for the weekend, and headed out the door to cross the park, walk eighteen blocks east toward the river, and keep her date with New Age destiny.

∗ ∗ ∗

Ladies, welcome. The instructor, Theresa, wore loose black pants that rode just below her hip bones and a strappy brown tank top that showed off exquisitely defined deltoids and biceps. Her voice was low and lulling. Hypnotic, really. Becky stifled a yawn and looked around the studio on the fourth floor of Theresa’s Society Hill town house. The room felt warm and cozy without being stuffy. The lights were dim, but votive candles burned on the sills of high windows that looked west over the city’s twinkling skyline. A fountain burbled in one corner, a boom box in another played the sound of wind chimes, and the air smelled good, too, like oranges and cloves. In her pocket, her cell phone vibrated. Becky hit Reject without looking, felt instantly guilty, and promised herself that she’d call Mimi back as soon as class let out.

She replaced the phone and looked around at the seven other students, who all looked to be somewhere in their third trimesters. On Becky’s right was a tiny girl with a ponytail of cornsilk-fine blond hair and a perky little belly. She wore one of those maternity workout ensembles that came in sizes Small and Smaller—white-striped track pants, black tank top with contrasting trim hugging her bump. She’d given Becky a friendly Hello before spritzing her mat with a bottle of Purell. Germs, she’d whispered.

On Becky’s left was the most beautiful woman Becky had ever seen outside of a movie. She was tall and caramel-skinned, with cheekbones that could have cut butter, eyes that looked topaz in the candlelight, and a drum-taut tummy pushing at a light-brown cashmere hoodie. She had perfectly manicured fingernails and, Becky could see once she’d pulled off her socks, perfectly pedicured toenails and a diamond on her left hand the size of a sugar cube. I know her, Becky thought. She couldn’t come up with a name immediately, but she knew her occupation. This woman—her name was something exotic, Becky thought—was married to the man who the Sixers had just traded a center and a point guard to get, a superstar from Texas with some ridiculously high points-per-game average who also, Andrew had explained during the one game Becky had watched with him, led the league in rebounds.

Theresa sank to the floor without using her hands. As if, Becky thought. Let’s begin, Theresa said in a slow, lulling voice that made Becky feel like curling up and taking a good, long nap. Why don’t we go around the circle. Everyone can share their names, how far along they are, how the pregnancy’s been, and a little bit about themselves.

Yoga Barbie’s name turned out to be Kelly! An event planner! This was her first pregnancy! She was twenty-six years old, and she was twenty-seven weeks along! And she felt great, even though things had been hard in the beginning because she’d been spotting! And on bed rest! Yay, team, thought Becky, stifling another yawn. Then it was her turn.

I’m Rebecca Rothstein-Rabinowitz, she said, and I’m twenty-nine and a half weeks. I’m having a girl. She’s my first baby, and I’m feeling pretty good, except . . . She glanced ruefully at her belly. I feel like I’m not really showing yet, which is kind of a bummer. Theresa gave a sympathetic nod. What else? Oh, I’m a chef and manager at a restaurant called Mas in Rittenhouse Square.

Mas? gasped Kelly. Oh my God, I’ve been there!

Great, Becky said. Whoa. Her own mother hadn’t been that enthusiastic about eating at Mas. But the restaurant had just been written up in Philadelphia Magazine as one of its Seven Spots Worth Leaving the Suburbs For, and there’d been a very nice picture of Becky and Sarah. Well, of Sarah mostly, but you could see the side of Becky’s face at the edge of the frame. Some of her hair, too, if you looked carefully.

I’m Ayinde, the beautiful woman on Becky’s other side began. Thirty-six weeks. This is my first pregnancy as well, and I’ve been feeling fine. She laced her long fingers over her belly and said, half defiantly, half apologetically, I’m not working right now.

What were you doing before the pregnancy? Theresa asked. Becky bet herself the answer would be swimsuit model. She was surprised when Ayinde told them she’d been a news reporter. But that was back in Texas. My husband and I have been here only a month.

Kelly’s eyes got wide. Oh my God, she said, you’re . . .

Ayinde raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. Kelly closed her mouth with a snap, and her pale cheeks blushed pink. Theresa nodded at the next woman, and the circle continued—there was a social worker and an investment banker, an art gallery manager and a public radio producer, and one woman with her hair in a ponytail who had a two-year-old already and said she was a stay-at-home mom.

Let’s begin, said Theresa. They sat cross-legged, palms upraised on their knees, eight pregnant women sitting on a wood floor that creaked beneath them as the candles flickered. The women swayed back and forth. Let the breath flow up from the base of your spine. Let it warm your heart, she said. Becky rocked left to right. So far so good, she thought, as Theresa led them through a series of neck rolls and mindful inhalations. It wasn’t any harder than Interpretive Dance had been.

And now we’re going to shift our weight to our hands, lift our tails in the air, and slowwwly ascend into Downward Dog, Theresa intoned. Becky eased herself onto her hands and feet, feeling the sticky yoga mat against her palms, and sent her tailbone sailing up. She heard Yoga Barbie beside her sigh as she got herself into position and the beautiful woman—AyeINday—groan softly.

Becky tried to lock her elbows so that her arms wouldn’t shake. She hazarded a glance sideways. Ayinde was wincing, and her lips were pressed tightly together. Are you okay? Becky whispered.

My back, Ayinde whispered back.

Feeeeel yourself rooooted in the earrrrth, said Theresa. I’m going to feel myself landing on the earth in about a minute, Becky thought. Her arms wobbled . . . but it was Ayinde who dropped first and rocked backward on her hands and knees.

Theresa was kneeling beside her in an instant, one hand on Ayinde’s back. Was that posture too challenging? she asked.

Ayinde shook her head. No, the posture was fine; I’ve done yoga before. I’m just . . . She gave a small shrug. I’m not feeling right today.

Why don’t you just sit quietly for a moment? Theresa said. Focus on your breath.

Ayinde nodded and rolled onto her side. Ten minutes later, after Proud Warrior and Triangle Pose and an awkward kneeling posture that Becky decided she’d call Dying Pigeon, which was probably a lot easier if you didn’t have breasts, the rest of the class joined her. Shivasana, Theresa said, turning up the sound of the wind chimes. Let’s hold our bellies gently, breathing deeply, filling our lungs with rich oxygen, and send our babies a message of peace.

Becky’s stomach growled. Peace, she thought, knowing that it wasn’t going to work. She’d felt exhausted for her first trimester, queasy on and off for her second, and now she was just hungry all the time. She tried to send her baby a message of peace but instead wound up with a message of what she was going to have for dinner. Short ribs with blood-orange gremolata, she thought and sighed happily, as Ayinde sucked in her breath again.

Becky pushed herself up on one elbow. Ayinde was rubbing at her back with her eyes squeezed shut.

Just a cramp or something, she whispered before Becky could ask.

After Theresa had clasped her hands over her enviably firm chest and wished them all namaste, the women made their way down the twisting staircase and walked out into the twilight. Kelly followed Becky. I just love your restaurant, she gushed, as they walked south on Third Street toward Pine.

Thanks, Becky said. Do you remember what you ordered?

Chicken in mole sauce, Kelly said proudly, pronouncing the Spanish word with a flourish. It was delicious and . . . oh my God! Kelly said for the third time that night. Becky looked to where she was pointing and saw Ayinde leaning with both hands against the passenger’s side window of a tank-size SUV with something white fluttering on its windshield.

Wow, said Becky, either she’s taking that parking ticket awfully hard or . . .

Oh my God! Kelly repeated and race-waddled away.

Ayinde looked at them helplessly as they approached. I think my water broke, she said, pointing at the sopping hem of her pants. But it’s too early. I’m only thirty-six weeks. My husband’s in California . . .

How long have you been having contractions? Becky asked. She put her hand between the other woman’s shoulder blades.

I haven’t had any, Ayinde said. My back’s been hurting, but that’s it.

You might be having back labor, Becky said. Ayinde looked at her blankly. Do you know about back labor?

We were going to take a class at the hospital in Texas, Ayinde said, pressing her lips together, but then Richard got traded, and we moved, and everything just . . . She sucked in a breath, hissing, with her forehead pressed against the car window. I can’t believe this is happening. What if he doesn’t get here in time?

Don’t panic, said Becky. First labors usually take a while. And just because your water broke doesn’t mean you’ll be having the baby soon . . .

Oh, said Ayinde. She gasped and reached for her back.

Okay, said Becky. I think we should go to the hospital.

Ayinde looked up, grimacing. Can you hail a cab for me?

Don’t be silly, said Becky. Poor thing, she thought. Being in labor all by herself—no husband around, no friend to hold her hand—was about the worst thing she could imagine. Well, that and having her midriff appear on one of those Obesity: A National Epidemic news reports. We’re not just putting you in a cab and abandoning you!

My car’s right here, said Kelly. She raised her key chain, hit a button, and a Lexus SUV across the street started beeping. Becky helped Ayinde up into the passenger’s seat and buckled herself into the back. Can we call someone for you?

I see Dr. Mendlow, Ayinde said.

Oh, good, me, too, said Becky. So his number’s in my cell phone. Anyone else? Your mom or a friend or someone?

Ayinde shook her head. We just moved here, she said, as Kelly started the car. Ayinde turned around and grabbed Becky’s hand. Please, she said. Listen. My husband . . . Her forehead furrowed. Do you think there’s a back door to the hospital or something like that? I don’t want anyone to see me like this.

Becky raised her eyebrows. Well, it’s a hospital, she said. They’re used to seeing people come in with gunshots and stuff. Wet pants won’t faze them.

Please, Ayinde said, squeezing her hand even tighter. Please.

Okay. Becky pulled her big black sweater out of her bag, along with a baseball cap. When we get out, you can wrap this around your waist, and if you think you can manage the stairs, we can get to triage that way, so you won’t have to wait for the elevator.

Thank you, Ayinde said. She pulled the baseball cap over her eyes, then looked up. I’m sorry. I don’t remember your names.

Becky, said Becky.

Kelly, said Kelly. Ayinde closed her eyes as Kelly started to drive.

AYINDE

Well, your water’s definitely broken. The young resident pulled off her rubber gloves with a snap and took her umpteenth peek toward the door, as if she expected the great and exalted Richard Towne to come walking through it at any moment. Not an unreasonable thing to wish for, Ayinde thought, smoothing the flimsy blue gown over her bare legs. In the past forty-five minutes, she had left dozens of messages at a dizzying array of numbers. She’d called Richard’s cell and his pager; she’d left messages with his agent and his coach, the team’s front office, the maid at their new house in Gladwyne. So far, nothing. No surprise there, she thought bleakly—it was the first round of the play-offs, and everyone had their game faces on and their phones turned off. Just her luck.

But you’re just one centimeter dilated. When this happens, we generally want to see a baby within twenty-four hours, or the risk of infection goes up. So you’ve got a few choices, the resident said.

Ayinde nodded. Kelly and Becky nodded, too. The resident—DR. SANCHEZ, her name tag said—peeked toward the door again. Ayinde looked away and wished she could put her hands over her ears to block out the chatter coming from the bed next to her own.

Richard Towne! From the Sixers! There was a curtain between Ayinde’s bed and the next one. Evidently, Ayinde’s neighbor had decided that a curtain was as good as a wall, and she was stage-whispering at the top of her lungs in spite of the PLEASE DO NOT USE CELL PHONES sign. Yes. Yes! Right next to me! She dropped her voice incrementally. Becky and Kelly and Ayinde could still hear every word. I don’t know if she is or not. Mulatto, maybe? The woman giggled. Are we allowed to say that anymore?

∗ ∗ ∗

Ayinde closed her eyes. Becky put her hand on her shoulder. Are you okay?

Fine, Ayinde murmured.

Kelly poured her a glass of water. Ayinde took a sip and set it aside.

No, no, not here, yakked the woman in the next bed. I haven’t seen him yet, but he’s got to be around here somewhere, right?

You’d think so, Ayinde thought. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and yanked off her blood-pressure monitor. The ripping sound of the Velcro made her neighbor shut up. The resident managed to turn her eyes away from the door.

Can I go to labor and delivery? Ayinde asked.

Ayinde, are you sure? Becky said. You could go home, walk around, try to take a nap and get some rest in your own bed. You know, studies show that the longer a woman labors at home, the less time she spends in the hospital, the less risk there is of an emergency C-section or the use of forceps or vacuum during delivery.

Huh? asked Kelly.

I’m taking natural-childbirth classes, Becky said, sounding slightly defensive.

I don’t want to go home. I live out in Gladwyne, said Ayinde. It’s too much trouble to go out there and come back again. And, she thought, there’d be no way she could—how had Becky put it?—labor at home in full view of the cook and the maid and the driver who’d be there.

Do you have someone to stay with you? Becky asked. We could come and drive you back to town when you’re ready . . . or you could just come to my house for a while.

That’s very nice of you, but I’ll be all right here. She handed her cell phone to Becky. Would you mind stepping into the hall and calling my house? she asked. Ask to speak to Clara. Tell her that I need my suitcase—it has a yellow ribbon tied around the handle and it’s right inside my dressing room—and then have her ask Joe to drive it to the hospital.

Are you positive? Becky asked. There’s no reason for you to be in the hospital unless you have to. And this could take hours.

The resident nodded. First labors are often on the slow side.

Just come, said Becky. I’m a fifteen-minute walk from here, or we can drive you back in no time.

I couldn’t . . . , Ayinde said.

I’ll come, too, said Kelly. "It’s better than spending another night sitting home reading What to Expect When You’re Expecting."

You’ll be perfectly safe. My husband’s a doctor, Becky said.

Are you sure? Ayinde asked.

You shouldn’t be here all by yourself, Becky said. Even if it’s just for a few hours. We’ll call your husband, and you can try to relax.

That would be my advice, said the resident. If you want my opinion, go with your friends.

Ayinde didn’t bother to correct her. Thank you, she murmured to Becky. Then she took her clothes and disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind her.

Friends, Ayinde thought as she pulled on her pants and smoothed her hair with shaking hands. She hadn’t had a real friend since something like second grade. Her whole life she’d felt out of place; half black, half white, not quite one thing or the other, never fitting in.

Be brave, her parents used to tell her. She remembered them bending over her bed when she was little, their faces serious in the darkness, her mother’s the color of milk chocolate and her father’s the color of snow. You are a pioneer, they’d explain, their eyes shining with earnest good intentions. You are the future. And not everyone’s going to understand it, not everyone’s going to love you the way we do, so you have to be brave.

It was easy to believe them in the nighttime, in the safety of her canopied bed at the center of her bedroom, which was on the second floor of their eight-room Upper East Side duplex. The days were harder. The white girls she went to prep school and boarding school with had been perfectly nice, with a few notable exceptions, but their friendship had always had a kind of cloying undertone, as if Ayinde were a lost dog they’d rescued from the rain. The black girls—the handful of them she’d known at Dalton, the scholarship winners at Miss Porter’s—hadn’t wanted much to do with her, once they got past the exotic name and found out that her pedigree made her more like the rich white girls than like them.

She opened the door. Becky and Kelly were waiting. All set? Becky asked. Ayinde nodded and followed her outside.

She’d known there were risks to marrying a man like Richard, and if she’d had any doubts, her mother, the former Lolo Mbezi, 1970s supermodel, was all too eager to fill her in. You’ll have no private life at all, Lolo proclaimed. Public property. That’s what athletes are. Their wives, too. I hope you’re ready for it.

I love him, Ayinde told her mother. Lolo had tilted her face, the better to display the perfection of her profile. I hope that’s enough, she’d said.

Up until now, she thought, as Kelly started the car, it had been. Richard had been more than enough; his love had more than made up for everything she’d missed during her childhood.

She’d met Richard at work, when she’d been a reporter for the CBS affiliate in Fort Worth, sent off to interview one of Richard Towne’s teammates, an eighteen-year-old third-round draft pick named Antoine Vaughn. She’d gone striding right into the locker room as if Gloria Steinem herself had been holding the door. She almost kept walking, right into an open locker, when the first player ambled by, still wet from the shower with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist.

Just keep your eyes above the equator, Eric the cameraman whispered. She swallowed hard and cleared her throat.

Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m Ayinde Walker from KTVT, and I’m here to see Antoine Vaughn.

She heard silence. Sniggers. Whispers she couldn’t quite make out. They finally got some hot reporters, huh? called a man who was, blessedly, still wearing his warm-up suit.

You replacin’ old Sam Roberts’s tired ass?

Hey, baby, never mind the kid. Come over here. I’ll give you an interview!

Keep it down, fellas, called the obligatory team minder from the corner, a middle-aged guy in a rumpled suit who didn’t look as if he had much interest in keeping the peace, or moving at all.

She swallowed again and squinted through the shifting field of half-clad male bodies. Does anyone know where Antoine Vaughn is?

You can call me Antoine! offered the guy who asked if she’d be replacing Sam Roberts, the station’s sports reporter. You can call me anything you want, lovely!

She shot the guy in the corner a desperate glance, which he pretended not to see.

I’m right here.

She turned . . . and there was Antoine Vaughn, lounging on his back on one of the benches. She recognized him from the picture the team had sent over. Of course, that picture had been just head and shoulders. And he’d been wearing clothes.

See, it’s true, he said, gesturing south and starting to laugh—clearly, he’d had this line prepared—everything is bigger in Texas!

Ayinde lifted one eyebrow and locked her knees so that none of them would see how they were shaking. The whole thing brought back bad memories. At her very exclusive private school in New York, a few of the other girls (whitegirls, she’d thought of them then, just one word) had shoved her into the boys’ bathroom. Nothing had happened—and, really, the boys had been more upset than she was—but she’d never forgotten her initial terror when the door had swung shut behind her. Now, in the locker room, she drew a deep breath, the way she’d learned, so that her words would come from her diaphragm and would carry.

If that’s so, she said, then you must be from out of town.

"Oh,