I walk on shaky legs to the little stand at the back of her office. The colorful pattern of the carpet swims through a glaze of sudden tears, and the floor tilts beneath me. The whole world just slid to one side, and I’m holding on to an invisible beam, trying not to fall. My hands tremble around the little plastic cup as I fill it with cold water. Mere minutes ago, I was begging not to be pregnant, and now I may never be? My mother was just reassuring me she would still love her grandchild out of wedlock, and now I may never have one to give her…at all?

I gulp the water down along with these hard truths, immediately filling the cup again and draining it before making my way back to my seat.

“So you said restarting my period is the first thing. Can we do that for sure?”

The answer is scribbled across her face like one of her prescriptions, impossible to read. She confirms what I fear, though, with a shake of her head. “There are no guarantees. I’ll leave it to the specialist to discuss likely outcomes, but I would think your chances are good. I’d prefer not to speculate, though.”

My phone dings in my purse. I’m tempted to ignore it, but I don’t have that kind of life. A ding could be a small fire, and if I delay responding, in no time it could be a conflagration, trending on Twitter and ticker taping on every major news outlet.

“Excuse me one second, Dr. Granden.” I fish the phone from my bag to read the text message.

Carla:  Hey. Just reminding you to leave the doctor’s office soon or you’ll miss your two o’clock with Senator Billingsley.

Me:  Cancel Billingsley.

Dr. Granden places a plastic model on the desk between us. I vaguely note a vagina, uterus and fallopian tubes.

Me:  Cancel everything.

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Ezra

“Son, slow down. Your food’s not running from you. Stop chasing it.”

Noah looks up, the expression on his small face abashed, but still eager, as if I spiked his oatmeal with Mexican jumping beans. He deliberately takes his time lifting the spoon from his bowl, opens his mouth exaggeratedly, and stretches his eyes really wide, sliding the spoon between his teeth in extra slow-mo.

Smart ass.

“And don’t scrape that spoon over your teeth,” I add, grinning and mussing the dark wavy hair that spills into his eyes. He begged us to let him grow it out after visiting his cousin Tao in LA, whose hair hangs past his shoulders in a pin-straight curtain. Noah’s won’t be quite that straight or silky, thanks to my genes. He’ll grow up like I did, with hair finer than my father’s and not quite as fine as my mom’s.