As always, it hit Deborah in the shower—the second-guessing about what she was doing. Between diagnosing dozens of patients each week, helping her father run his household without Ruth, being a single mother and having to make sensitive decisions like the one she had just made, she was often on the hot seat. Now she stood with her head bowed, hot water hitting her back with the sting of too many choices, until she was close to tears.
Feeling profoundly alone, she turned the water off and quickly dressed. The clothes she wore for work were tailored, fitting her slim frame well and restoring a sense of professionalism. Makeup added color to her pale skin and softened the worry in brown eyes that were wide-set, the adult version of Grace’s. But when she tried to fasten her hair in a clasp so that it would be neat and tidy as her life was not, it fought her. Shy of shoulder length, the dark waves had a mind of their own. Accepting that there was no going back to her orderly life, she let them curl as they would and turned her back on the mirror.
Mercifully, the rain had stopped. Sun was beginning to break through the clouds, scattering gold on trees whose still-wet limbs were just beginning to bud. Grateful for a brighter day, she went down to the kitchen, set out cereal for the kids, then phoned the hospital. Calvin McKenna was in recovery, soon to be moved to a room. He hadn’t talked yet, but he was listed in stable condition.
Reassured, she skimmed her Post-its on the fridge: pay property tax—Dylan dentist at 4—tennis camp deposit. Then she logged on to her e-mail and phoned the answering service. Had there been an emergency, she would have been called. The messages she received now—the flare-up of a chronic ear infection, a stubborn migraine headache, a severe case of heartburn—were from patients the receptionist would schedule when she arrived at eight. Her nurse-practitioner would examine the earliest to arrive.
Deborah was usually at her office by eight-fifteen, after seeing the kids off to school, stopping to have coffee with Jill, and checking on her father. He was booked to see his first patient at eight-thirty. These days, it was Deborah’s job to make sure that he did.
Her sister, Jill, though perennially at odds with the man, respected that. She appeared at the house this morning at seven-thirty on the nose. Having come from work, she wore jeans and a T-shirt. The T-shirt, always either red, orange, or yellow to match the bakery’s colors, was red today, and her boy-short blonde hair was rumpled from whipping off her apron. She had their mother’s bright, hazel eyes and the shadow of childhood freckles, but the fine lines of her chin mirrored Deborah’s.
As soon as Grace and Dylan were in the backseat, she passed them each bags with their favorite pastries inside. She had a bag for Deborah, too, and a hot coffee in the cup holder.
Picking up the coffee, Deborah cradled it in her hands and inhaled the comforting brew. “Thanks,” she finally said. “I hate taking you from work.”
“Are you kidding?” Jill replied. “I get to have my favorite people in the car. Are you guys okay back there?” she called into the rearview mirror.
Dylan was. He ate his glazed cinnamon stick as though he hadn’t just had a full bowl of cereal. Grace hadn’t eaten much cereal, and she only picked at her blueberry muffin. She uttered a high-pitched moan when they passed the spot where the accident had been.
“It was here?” Jill guessed. “You’d never know.”
No, Deborah realized. You never would. Only a small piece of yellow tape remained, tied to a pine to show the police where to look this morning. If there had been skid marks on the road, the rain had washed them away.
She tried to catch Grace’s eye, but the girl refused to look at her, and, in the end, Deborah didn’t have the strength to persist. Sitting back, she sipped her coffee and let her sister chat. It was a ten-minute respite from responsibility.
All too soon, they reached the middle school, and Dylan was out of the van. “I’m getting out here, too,” Grace said, tugging on her jacket and collecting her things. “No offense, Aunt Jill, but, like, the last thing I want is to pull up at school in a bright yellow van with a totally identifying logo on the side. Everyone’ll know it’s me.”
“Is that so bad?” Jill asked.
“Yes.” Leaning forward in her seat, she said in a voice that was urgent and low, “Please, Mom. I’d really rather not be at school today. I mean, I’ve missed maybe two days this year. Can’t I stay with Aunt Jill?”
“And have the truant officer after me?” Jill countered before Deborah could speak.
Plaintive, Grace turned on her aunt. “It’s going to be so bad for me today. Everyone’s gonna know.”
“Know what? That your mother had an accident? Accidents happen, Grace. It’s not a crime. If you’re in school today, you can tell everyone how bad you feel.”
Grace stared at her for a minute, muttered, “Yeah, right,” and climbed out of the van, but when Jill might have called her back, Deborah put a hand on her arm and Grace stalked off. Her spine was rigid for the first few steps but steadily softened until she was hunched over her books, looking impossibly small.
Worried, Deborah said, “Should I have kept her home?”
“Absolutely not,” Jill replied. “If nothing else, you need her busy.” She put the van in gear and pulled away from the curb. “Are you okay?”
Deborah sighed, leaned against the headrest, and nodded. “I’m fine.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
“Good. Because I have news. I’m pregnant.”
Deborah blinked. “Cute. A bit of humor to lighten things up.”
“I’m serious.”
“No, you’re not, because, A, there is no guy in your life right now, B, you’re working your butt off at the bakery, and, C, it would be one thing too many for me this morning, and you wouldn’t be that cruel.” She looked at her sister. Jill wasn’t laughing. “You’re serious? But pregnant by whom?”
“Sperm donor number TXP334. He has blond hair, is five-eight, and writes children’s books for a living. A guy like that has to be compassionate, creative, and smart, doesn’t he?”
Deborah struggled to take in the information.
“I need you to be happy,” Jill warned.
“I am. I think. I just … didn’t expect … a baby?”
Jill nodded. “Next November.”
The date made it real. Loving babies and loving Jill, Deborah didn’t know what else to do but open her arms, lean over, and give her sister a hug. “You really want a child.”
“I always have. You know that.”
“What about work?”
“You did it.”
“I had Greg. You’re alone.”
“I’m not alone. I have you. I have Grace and Dylan. I have … Dad.”
“Dad. Oh, boy.” Major complication there. “And you haven’t told him.”
“Absolutely not.”
Which meant one more secret to keep. “If you’re due in November—”
“I’m eight weeks pregnant.”
“Eight.” Deborah was belatedly hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I didn’t trust you’d let me do it.”
“Let you. Jill, you do your own thing. Always.”
“But I want your approval.”
Deborah studied her sister’s face. “You don’t