“Yes, I know. But you don’t have to relive your parents’ lives.”

I slammed the bottle down. “How dare you.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” His voice was soft and unwavering. “I just don’t think it’s the right time for us.”

“It’s never going to be the right time, Jack.” I stopped wiping, and turned to look into his eyes. “I’m keeping it. With or without you.”

He sighed, stepped toward me, and put his arms around my waist. “Okay.”

Chapter 51

I had my mother’s eyes. Iridescent; a deep ocean blue when my thoughts clung to darkness, lightening only when it lifted.

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be my mother. I often sat at her maplewood vanity. Gazing into one of the three mirrors, I would take her black eyeliner and draw dark circles around my eyes in imitation of her. I would smear her brownish-red lipstick on my lips, overlining them dramatically and smacking them together, pouting and blowing kisses. I would apply coats and coats of mascara until it formed thick clumps that resembled spider legs. I would brush out my naturally curly hair, sweeping it to the side before standing on her bed, mimicking her gestures, smiling and chit-chatting with an imaginary audience.

Melancholy came with her eyes. It would appear in me seemingly out of the blue, looming with destructive silence. For my mother, when it arrived she was confined to her bed, lying in the quiet darkness all day and night. I took a slightly more destructive approach—active in the world, spreading the pain.

I inherited my father’s nose. A small button nose with an upward curve. With this nose, I could smell. I could smell sweet lilacs and grass in the summertime, and the heat of Jack’s skin after a day at the beach. I could smell the saltwater clouds that lingered before a storm, and the scent of whiskey on Jack’s breath, just like my father’s, and my grandfather’s before him. I could smell the half-empty beer that had staled, left out on the kitchen table from the night before.

When I became pregnant, I could smell everything more clearly than ever, and as I pursued redolence, I wondered what Jack and I would unwittingly pass on to our baby.

Chapter 52

Surrounded by sterility, I sat on the examination table in the doctor’s office. The paper crinkled beneath me as I shifted my weight, attempting to alleviate the itch of the blue hospital gown. Jack stood nearby, dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans. There was no paint on his clothes or on his hands. I wondered why; it seemed he had been spending all his time at the studio lately.

The shine of the stirrups caught my eye, and I began biting the skin from the sides of my nails. Jack reached over and guided my hand into my lap. “Don’t do that.”

The action reminded me of my first boyfriend, Ethan, and how he hated when I chewed my nails.