I carry on regardless. “That I was going to lose the baby.” I remember cradling my stomach and the fear that crawled over my skin, the tears spreading down my cheeks.

Kate nods again, prodding me to continue. It’s annoying, like having my hand held by a teacher. I don’t remember being an overly emotional person from before, but now my skin spreads thin, my emotions delicate butterflies that easily whip themselves into a frenzy.

“Dad was right to be scared for me.” I shake my notebook in the air. “But it’s all for the best anyway. What kind of a mother would I have made like this?” Tears sting my eyes, curl my hands into fists that I pound on my thighs. I remember with painful clarity the itchy stretch of skin, taut over my rounded belly. The fullness of my breasts, the rib kicks that woke me every morning. Even now, there is a hollowness inside me that grows when my hand involuntarily moves to touch my stomach, flat and deflated. I inhale, exhale, and read from my notebook to remind myself that ten years ago, I had a seizure when I was pregnant that left me with anterograde amnesia and took my baby girl.

Tears run down my face, the pain I feel as real, as present as if it had just happened. Kate hands me a tissue and waits until my face is dry. “You had eclampsia, Claire. There was nothing you could have done, and you’re lucky to be alive.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. And for the record, I think you would have been a wonderful mother, even like this.”

I meet her gaze, strong and unwavering, and I can see that she means what she says. I give her a small smile, grateful for the sentiment. “Not very professional of you, though. Seems like you’ve gone off script, Kate.”

Kate laughs, leans back in her chair. “I’m always off script when it comes to you.”

Before the moment disappears into the muck inside my head, I record the last few minutes, even my tears. Then I pick up the file folder labeled THERAPIST SESSION CURRENT, and air rushes from my lungs in a relieved whoosh at the organized thoughts and talking points I’ve assembled in the file. There’s a line from my notebook that I’d copied into the file: I wish I could teach again. It’s the reason I think I feel sad. A piece of paper drops from the file, and when I see it, my lips flatten. It’s a flyer with a sticky note on top. Give guitar lessons?? I look at the flyer.

INTERESTED IN BEGINNER GUITAR LESSONS?

CONTACT CLAIRE HINES, APARTMENT 1407

“What’s that?”