I launch into Prokofiev’s Sinfonia Concertante. My breath comes hard and fast as my body detaches from my brain and knows just what to do. I finish, gasping. I open my eyes and the hazy landscape returns, the images of my real life here, as a mother. A widow. A cello teacher.

After running through scales once more, I put the cello away and go to my computer to check emails and Facebook. I sift through the various messages and junk and pause on a Facebook request. VoiceOver says the name: Jake Donovan. My body responds before my brain. My fingers hungrily navigate to his page and scroll to a recent photo. I wait for the audible description. “May contain man, tattoos, motorcycle, tree.” In spite of myself, I smile as an entire world comes crashing back: hotel rooms; long, romantic dinners; kisses that made my knees weak; the promise of forever; then the crushing grief of our sudden breakup when he got transferred. Over the years, I wondered if he’d ever get in touch, but Jake is chivalrous. If he knew I’d gotten married, then he would respectfully keep his distance. And he had.

Before I know what I’m doing, I audibly like the photo, then log off and do a quick cleanup of the house. I lose myself in a podcast. I feed Jackson and put him in his Pack ’n Play. When I open the fridge to grab a bottle of wine to bring to Jess’s, something bites into the edge of my palm.

“Ow.” I retract my hand. I carefully reach in and remove the serrated knife from earlier, my fingertips gliding over the handle. I turn in a slow circle, knife in hand. Did I mistakenly put it in the fridge? I mentally retrace my steps then slide the knife back into the butcher block. The blade zips into the slotted wood.

I walk around the counter to Jackson and lift him into my arms. I kiss his soft cheeks. “Mommy’s just tired,” I insist. “Right?” I bounce him until he laughs, my thoughts scattered, my pulse erratic. I gingerly put him down and continue with my pre-party dinner. I scoop noodles into a bowl and pour the meat sauce on top, but I can’t mute the worry.

I crank up the podcast, slide my bowl to the edge of the bar, and get lost in someone else’s world, but I can’t answer the single question that hammers my mind:

What is happening to me?

8

BEC

Two hours later, I ring Jess’s doorbell. The symphony of bells trills through the house before someone opens the door.

“Holy hell.” Rob whistles. “You look sensational.”