"I couldn't believe what the doctor was telling me nine years ago, when he said that it would be nearly impossible for me to have children. And a couple of months ago when the doctor told me that I was pregnant, again, I couldn't believe that either. I didn't want to believe him either time. Despite the fact that I had tangible proof of the pregnancy in my hand, I still didn't want to believe it."


She wakes from a deep sleep with knots in her stomach. She shoves the linens off her body, and races into the bathroom just in time. She empties the contents of her stomach into the toilet bowl. She feels completely miserable. When she's finished she proceeds to obsessively perform her oral care routine for the next ten minutes. When she finally gets her bearings she fishes out the contents of the brown paper bag sitting on her counter top. She begrudgingly commences peeing on a plastic stick. Five minutes later the positive result stares up at her. She sits on top of the toilet lid, weeping.


"Talk to me," he implores.

"I felt guilty."

"For what?"

She clenches her jaw in an attempt to keep from crying, "All of it."

"You can tell me," he insists.

She swallows hard, keeping her tears at bay, "I felt guilty because I felt as if I cheated on my husband."

"He's dead."

"I know. Somehow I still felt as if I betrayed him, despite the fact that he has been dead for three years."

"Why would you feel as if you betrayed him?"

She shrugs, "I don't know. I guess maybe because it was the only relationship I had ever had in which I hadn't managed to completely sabotage."

"He's dead."

"I didn't say that it was rational," she admits.

"I'm listening," he reassures her.

"The day after I found out I was sitting in the bathroom staring at a positive pregnancy test, and a set of sonogram pictures, and I felt guilty because I didn't want any part of what was going on. Years earlier I had resigned myself to the fact that I didn't want any more children. I had only started to feel some semblance of normalcy in my life after three years. I felt guilty because in that moment I had absolutely no desire to be pregnant. I just wanted it all to go away. My life was already complicated enough, without adding a pregnancy, and ultimately an additional person to the mix. I just didn't want any part of it."

"What made you change your mind?"

"I don't know. At the next appointment I had every intention of ending it, despite the fact that it is completely against everything that I believe it. I mean I believe in the right for everyone to make their own choice, but I never believe that it was an option for me."

"No one would have ever known the difference," he points out.

"I would have. After the second appointment, I decided that I was going to go through with it."

"You still had doubts."

"Mostly, it was more guilt. I felt guilty for not wanting the baby. I was nearly consumed by that guilt for not wanting my own child. Then I thought to myself that if anything happened to them it would be my fault."

"How would it be your fault?"

"I don't know," she shrugs, "the power of suggestion."

"Did you ever consider that you didn't want them because it was mine?"

"Briefly."

"Only briefly?"

"I realized that it didn't matter either way."

"How can you be so certain?"

"Because they're mine."

"Why didn't you tell me this when I was accosting you for not telling me?"

"I didn't know you. I just knew you were some guy that I had a one night stand with, whom I crossed paths with after the fact in a professional setting."

"You didn't like me?"

"I thought you were coming off a little desperate."

"Maybe I was," he admits.

"And I didn't stop you."

"No, we have the proof of that right here," he points to her stomach.

She nods, "They spend all of their spare time dancing on my bladder."

"Dancing? I think that may be an exaggeration."

"You don't believe me?"

"No," he shakes his head.

"Give me your hand," she insists.

He furrows his brow, "I don't know about this."

"I am not going to hurt you," she promises.

He allows her to guide his hand. She places it on her stomach. He shakes his head.

"I can't feel anything."

"I can. It feels like they're doing somersaults in there."

His hand recoils, "I'm not convinced."

"Trust me, I can feel them."

"Why can't I feel them?"

"Probably because they're the size of smurfs right now."

He grins, "You've seen a smurf before?"

"I admit that I have not seen a smurf before."

"So how would you know?"

"They boys have toy smufs."

"How big are they?"

"About four inches long."

"I see."

"What I am saying is that the babies are each under about, and about four inches in length. That's probably why you can't feel them."

"But you can."

"Yes," she nods.

He studies her abdomen, "Don't you think you should be bigger by now?"

"I spent the entire first four months of my pregnancy barfing," she relays.

"There are two of them."

"I can't help that."

"I wonder what they look like?"

She grabs the book of the bedside table, and hands it to him. He furrows his brow.

"I don't usually read mystery novels. I have enough crime, and mystery in my day to day life."

"Open the back cover," she instructs.