I open my eyes and, even before I’ve picked it up, the two pink lines are clearly visible. The numbness in my legs has now spread to the rest of my body. It’s affected my mind, too. I can’t seem to think straight—there’s just this eerie blankness. I carry the piece of plastic out into the hallway, holding it as if it’s a delicate piece of glass or china, something that must be handled with the greatest of care. I take it into the kitchen and switch the main light on, the one I think is too bright, too clinical, but that right now is exactly what I need.

I rest the stick on the counter and stare at it for far too long. One of the lines is fainter than the other, but it’s definitely there and, according to the instructions, that’s a positive result.

A positive result. I take a few deep breaths. Maybe the way I’ve been feeling lately isn’t about Alice at all. Maybe it’s all been hormonal. In fact, now I come to think of it, that’s a far more likely explanation than the universe having it in for me.

I pick up the stick and take it over to the little sofa by the window, try to focus on what this means. It’s unplanned and scary and life-changing, but I can’t deny this faint pulse of excitement that’s getting stronger by the second. And maybe it’s better this way. We could have waited years before deciding whether to try for a baby and then not been able to get pregnant. Or we could have worried ourselves sick about all the risks and ended up talking ourselves out of it altogether.

My scalp tingles again, just like it did when I was in the study. Except this time Alice isn’t behind me, reading about her death, she’s right beside me, watching me stare at the pink lines. My future. The one we used to talk about. The one Alice will never have.

17

THEN: AFTER

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 1, 2007

“Tell me about the nightmare, Lizzie. The one you keep having.”

Angela Harris’s voice is low and soothing, but something about her worries me. I have the sense that she already knows what happens when I fall asleep, that she, too, can see the pictures in my head and that, somehow or other, she will make me speak about them. And then she won’t believe that it’s a dream. She’ll think it’s what really happened. And maybe it is. Maybe it really is what happened.