“And when it comes to Charlotte Leclerc, that means it could be anything, including something biological.”
I nod, a strange feeling settling into my stomach, like I drank a glass of something bubbly too fast. I don’t want to think of the wet suction sound, but it becomes intrusive and my mouth fills with saliva. My watch taps me, my heart rate rising along with the nausea.
“I should sign off, Cecil. But I’ll send you the video feed, and then we can regroup. Sound good?”
We exchange goodbyes. I hit “end call” on my tablet, then quickly reach for the wastepaper basket under my desk before being violently sick into it.
The nausea is odd. I had morning sickness with both Clementine and Poppy, for the first eleven weeks, after which it disappeared seemingly overnight. I would throw up once, first thing, and then feel great for the rest of the day. This time is different. It comes on at work—typically at the end of the day, immediately after my conservation sessions—with little warning. A brief moment of that bubbly stomach feeling and then BAM. I’ve started carrying emesis bags in my pockets.
“It’s probably a boy,” Shelby says, when Wyatt and I tell her about the pregnancy, the evening after our first ultrasound. We’ll wait a touch longer to tell Clementine. “Because you feel so different this time. That’s my guess.”
Everything in me tells me I’m carrying a girl.Mother’s intuition, I surmise. Or perhaps it’s merely fervent wishing; the universe rectifying a wrong. Regardless, the sickness is different, and different isn’t reassuring.
Later, after Clementine is in bed and Shelby and Wyatt are watching a movie, I retreat to my studio to review the work session’s video. I remain troubled by the errant fiber, or whatever floated up from thepainting’s surface. Not only because of its presence, but also because of its just-as-sudden absence.
I’ve moved the bioluminescent fig plant into my studio because the glow of it was too bright for our bedroom. The studio is dark except for the low light of the fig leaves, and I slide in earbuds and open my tablet. Sitting at the small desk, I press play, zooming in on the painting—getting as tight as I can to the area where the strand appeared. I switch my glasses to the low-light, infrared setting.
I can’t see myself on the screen, as I’m off to the side and out of frame. There’s no sound, thankfully, so I don’t hear the suctioning that made me turn in the first place. That made me vomit after I hung up with Cecil. But as I zone in on the canvas, I see the tendril release and jut out from the painting—gently swaying. Right above the subject’s waist. Hitting pause, I zoom in again, but it doesn’t provide a clearer view. So I drop the image into GIA’s AI program. The tendril is magnified, but it’s too pixelated for the program to identify.
Frustrated, I push back from my desk, the way I would if trying to get a wider view of an impressionist painting, changing my perspective until the shapes and colors become a familiar pattern or figure. It doesn’t help. I’m no closer to understanding what released from the painting. Also, I blocked the camera when I hunched over the canvas, not thinking about the recording at the time. Because of this I don’t see the tendril retreat on the video.
I keep trying different angles until my eyes burn from the strain. I need to go to bed. Wyatt called more than an hour ago, and my watch has been buzzing me every fifteen minutes, reminding me that my minimum seven hours of sleep goal is at risk. At this point I’ll only get six, maybe less if I don’t fall asleep right away.
I’m so focused on the screen, on those pixelated images, the flicker in light barely registers. Until it happens again, drawing my focus away from the screen. Then one side of my fig plant shifts strangely—a section of leaves darkening, as though shadowed. I pause, staring atthe plant, but the glow is restored.Tired eyes, I deduce, powering down the tablet before heading to bed.
If I had looked closer, I might have seen the southern flannel moth caterpillar, covered in beige down like a teardrop-shaped toupee, nibbling the edge of a leaf. Southern flannel moth caterpillars were native to Georgia but have been mostly eradicated to protect the oak trees—their food of choice. The caterpillars are also highly venomous, and if touched the soft hairs leave spikes in the skin, causing headaches, nausea, shocklike symptoms.Good riddance, Shelby said when the news reported their diminished population.
By the time this southern flannel caterpillar transforms into a moth, I’ll have solved the mystery of the floating tendril. Things that turn out to be much more ominous than they sound.
The fetus needs me to eat every couple of hours.
If I do, the nausea stays away. I’ve replaced the emesis bags with snacks and haven’t had any incidents since. I feel mostly healthy and energetic.
“This agrees with you,” Wyatt says, hugging me from behind while I brush my teeth. I lean into him as he nuzzles into my neck. “Can I tell you you’re glowing without you rolling your eyes?”
“You can,” I say, through a mouthful of toothpaste. I spit and rinse, then pull my nightshirt over my head. I’m wearing nothing underneath, and raise an eyebrow in the mirror as I bend forward, my forearms resting on the countertop. My libido is back with a vengeance too.
Wyatt, grinning, drops his pajama pants and presses into me from behind, his hands and fingers roaming gently.
He knows what I like after all these years. It’s been a long time since we’ve enjoyed each other without the burden of an outcome. The sex is good, great even, and I’m not quiet when I come. Wyatt loves it when I vocalize how much I’m enjoying myself, but with Clementine and Shelby in the house, I usually muffle any sounds with my pillow.
“I’ll say it again,” Wyatt whispers in my ear, still inside me. I shiver as his lips and warm breath caress my sensitive skin. I’m drenched in sweat, my forearms slipping on the bathroom counter. “This agrees with you.”
I smile at him in the mirror, and he closes his gorgeous, long-lashed blue eyes, which I hope the baby inherits, before moving his lips back to my neck.
—
Are you both still good for Saturday night?I ask Maeve and Kat at our weekly breath work class. Wyatt suggested we have my friends and their significant others over for a belated birthday dinner celebration. It can be hard to get our whole group together, between work and kids and life, but we try every few months. My friends say they’re looking forward to it and ask what they can bring.Just yourselves. Wyatt’s handling things. I don’t even know what the plan is!
Wyatt surprises me with a dinner reservation for our party of six at Ciel de Terre, a French restaurant in the city I’ve been dying to try, with a monthslong waitlist. Dale and Curtis know the owner, as Curtis used to work with her, and apparently pulled a string or two.
“We should celebrate properly, Tilly, with everyone who loves you,” Wyatt says when I protest the cost. Going out for dinner to a place like Ciel de Terre is not a regular line item in our budget. “You’re worth it.”
Clementine is dramatically devastated to not be invited. “But I’ve never been to Ciel de Terre!” she exclaims, as Wyatt and I are getting ready to leave.
“Briar has already beentwo times.” She holds up two fingers, pouting for good measure. Her petulance reminds me we are not far from the preteen phase.
“Well, I’m thirty-nine and a grown-up, and I’ve never been either,” I reply, setting my purse over my shoulder.
