“I’m fine. I don’t need anything from you people.”

And right on cue, the room starts to swirl and spin. My head throbs, my limbs twitch, and my ears are assaulted by thunderous clangs, clatters, and grinding sounds. My vision blurs and my stomach lurches and then I throw up all over the floor, just barely missing the blanket on my lap.

“Mossy, clean that up and get her settled for the night, wouldja?” Peggy directs. “We know where your mother kept the Javex, and we know how to make a proper cup of tea. And Mossy here sleeps with his eyes open, don’t ya, Moss?”

But Mossy doesn’t answer. He’s already boiling water for tea and rummaging for the Javex.

I look at Char’s baby, sleeping soundly in the back seat of Peggy’s car on the drive into Town, Town for my appointment. I look at Mossy, sitting next to Daktari, an amused smile plastered on his face as he stares at the smear of trees that zips past his window as the car cruises along the monotonous highway. I look at Peg, her eyes watching the road as it rolls out before us, her head swaying to the smooth cryptic croon of Leonard Cohen and his jazzy pop-a-sophical backup singers. And I decide it’s all a little too peaceful. Time to officially get out in front of the story of my own stupidity before somebody hears or says something, and the whole thing is out of my control. Before Peggy officially figures it out.

“I gotta tell you something,” I say slowly, carefully. “I’m —”

“Pregnant? I know,” Peggy says. Casual as all hell.

Mossy giggles.

“I’m not stupid,” Peggy says, glancing at me sideways. “You’re barfing your guts up. You’re starting to show. But I knew before that. Like I said the day of your mother’s funeral, you smell like petrichor.”

“Pregnant women smell like mud puddles?”

“No, petrichor. There’s a difference. Mud puddles are more stagnant and mucky smelling. You smell like a mud puddle when you start bottling up feelings. Or like sour milk.”

“You’re nuts.”

“Am I?”

No, she’s not. In fact, she’s radiating an intensely un-crazy teal halo, strewn with soft violet wisps. Peggy’s nose. It knows.

“Now ask ol’ Mossy how he knew,” Peggy orders.

Mossy sits there, still staring out the window, grinning like the idiot everybody always pretends he is.

“C’mon Moss, spit it out. Tell Crow how you knew she was having a baby.” Peggy cocks her head to the side, articulating each word in a half-shout.

“Answered da phone when the doctor called,” Mossy says, the inner edges of his thick lips smacking together, cushioning the space between words. He giggles again.

“Smarten up, ya clown,” Peggy says. “Tell Crow about the colours.”

“Ohh,” Mossy gasps. “The feels are the thoughts in colours, and babies makes the rainbows.”

“Oh g’wan ya cryptic bastard!” Peggy groans as she flicks off the cassette deck, making me wonder if she’s talking to Mossy or Leonard Cohen. She glances at me again. “How long have you been seeing stuff? Auras, or whatever the New Age hippy crystal rubbers call them.”