She kept mentally scanning her body for pain or problems. Her back still ached, but other than that, she felt okay.

It’s going to be okay, she kept telling herself. It’s going to be okay.

Even though, deep inside, she was pretty sure it wouldn’t.

xii

Your dad said that I needed to get a blood test, to make sure I really was pregnant, which I thought was ridiculous—I was, the test we took in the bathroom said so, plus I could feel it—but I agreed to go for one. Not on campus, I told him, and not with my regular doctor. So we agreed to go to a clinic.

That weekend Hanukkah was starting, and my dad wanted us to come over for a family Hanukkah dinner—me, Rob, him, and Ari. I knew it wouldn’t be like the Hanukkah parties we had when my mom was alive, but he was trying. And Ari and I were trying, too.

“We can go before dinner at my dad’s,” I said.

So we rented a car, and we drove up the Hudson River to a clinic we’d found on Google.

When we got there, three people with signs were protesting the clinic, which also performed abortions. They were shouting at the women who walked in.

I watched the women cringe, rush past. “I can’t,” I said to him. “I can’t walk in with them shouting at me. Even if that’s not why we’re here, I can’t do it.”

“Not even with me next to you?” he asked. “Not even if I cover your ears? If I sing at the top of my voice?”

I smiled for a brief moment but then shook my head. “Not even then,” I told him. I felt shame enough at being young and accidentally pregnant. I wouldn’t face that anger, even with your dad by my side. He looked at me and sighed. He was so patient, trying so hard. “I understand,” he said, finally. “I wouldn’t want to walk through that either.”

“I really am pregnant,” I said. “I told you—I can feel it. And the test we took confirmed it. We don’t need a blood test.”

The windows were up on the car—it was winter and cold out—but we could still hear the voices chanting, though we couldn’t make out the words.

“Okay,” he said, even though I could tell he wasn’t quite convinced. “But if that’s the case, then you do need a doctor. And we really need a plan.”

“I know,” I told him. “But let’s celebrate Hanukkah at my dad’s tonight. We can talk later, when we drive back to the city.” Back then your grandpa still lived in the house your aunt Ari and I grew up in.

Your dad nodded and turned the key in the ignition. “Of course,” he said.