I gestured to the stack of books on the table. “Well, friends, I need to do my implantation meditation.” (Yes. I was visualizing the embryos implanting. What could it hurt?) “And then I think I might dive into one of these amazing books and take a little nap.”

Parker jumped up. “Can I get you anything? Are you hungry? Thirsty? Do you need the TV remote or anything?”

“Honey,” Trina said, raising her eyebrow, “you’d better take him up on this while it lasts.” She paused. “And trust me. It doesn’t last long.” I shooed them both out of my room. I closed my eyes, visualizing the babies implanting, the way my stomach would grow over the next nine months or so, how I would give birth to these two big, happy, healthy babies. As my visualization continued, though, Parker wasn’t taking them home from the hospital alone. I was there, too.

I was feeding them and bathing them and putting them in their cribs. When Parker came up behind me, put his arms around me and kissed me as we watched them sleep, I sat straight up in bed. This wasn’t a part of the plan. Not at all.

And I realized that, while my mind was visualizing what Parker and I had agreed on, my subconscious might be thinking of something else entirely.

Parker ONE MINUTE

I HADN’T STEPPED FOOT IN a doctor’s office since Greer’s death, and now, in the midst of IVF, it seemed like all I was doing. I tried to bury it. But every time I walked through the doors of a doctor’s office—even this small, hometown one that couldn’t have been more different from the upscale Palm Beach ones—I couldn’t help but think of her. My heart sank, but I smiled at Amelia as she climbed up on the brown table with the white paper sheet on top.

The only thing that Greer made me promise, when she agreed to keep living, was that I wouldn’t let her get translucent and veiny and bald and allow people in to see her. When we had gone back to the doctor together after she found out the cancer wasn’t responding, she had offered more treatments. Greer had said, “What are the chances that these treatments, which I assume will make me sick and bald, will work?”

The doctor had looked at her, resigned, and said, “Less than ten percent.”

I was a mess, but Greer didn’t skip a beat. She stood up, held out her hand, and said, “Dr. Taschel, I am most appreciative of your help. But I’m going to go home to enjoy the time I have left.”

The doctor protested. “Even if you don’t accept further treatment, we need to monitor the progression of the disease.”

I agreed for some reason, like I needed to know, via a scan, when she was dying.

“I’ll come back when I need hospice,” Greer said.