“I mean it.”
He looked toward the hallway, then back at me. “One person at the elevator, not your door. You won’t see him.”
“That sounds suspiciously like compromise.”
“I’m learning.”
Mara waited until he left before climbing into the chair he had vacated.
“Okay,” she said. “I hate to say this, but he seems less awful than expected.”
“He was never awful.”
“No, he was emotionally constipated and surrounded by criminals. Different category.”
“Mara.”
“What? I’m being supportive.”
I smiled despite myself.
Her expression softened. “Are you okay?”
“No.”
“Good. Honest answer.”
I touched the side of my stomach. “What if she has to come early?”
“Then she comes early, and she will be tiny and furious and loved.”
That undid me. I cried quietly while Mara held my hand and pretended not to cry with me.
Morning brought pale sunlight, another scan, and slightly better news. The blood flow was still concerning, but not worse. Dr. Patel recommended staying admitted for at least another day.
Adrian returned wearing the same shirt, freshly pressed somehow, with coffee for Mara, tea for me, and a small stuffed rabbit from the hospital gift shop.
“It was the least ridiculous one,” he said, placing it on my tray.
The rabbit had one ear flopped over its eye.
“It looks like it knows too much,” I said.
Mara lifted her cup. “A perfect family mascot.”
For a few hours, things felt almost normal. Strange normal, hospital normal, but normal enough. Adrian read pamphlets about premature delivery with the seriousness of a man reviewing peace treaties. Mara knitted half a baby hat badly. I answered messages from the bookstore, telling my manager I had been admitted for monitoring and leaving out the part where my supposedly ex-husband had reappeared like a storm in an expensive coat.