Wyatt fully relaxes by the time Maeve and Jenn head home, after which he makes me an electrolyte-infused water I’m unsure I can drink, my stomach full of tea.
Can’t have you dehydrated, Tilly, he says, handing me the glass.
Jenn also suggested revisiting my supplements with Dr. Fillia, in case some minor deficiency is to blame.
My supplement bottles are on the bathroom counter, and there are many. It seems a lot to take, except they’re small—about the size of a baby aspirin—and dissolve on my tongue, leaving no aftertaste behind. I gather tonight’s supplements in my palm.
Calcium, choline, C vitamin, D vitamin, folic acid, iron, omega-3 fatty acids…
I soon realize the bottles are lined up in alphabetical order. I didn’t do it, so Wyatt must have. A wave of irritation rises as the pills dissolve on my tongue. But then I tell myself he’s merely looking for ways tohelp, letting me know he’s thinking of me and the baby. At this stage of the pregnancy, there isn’t much he can contribute.
Gratitude, Tilly.
“Coming to bed?” Wyatt calls out, already under the covers. I look to the bottles again.
“In a minute,” I reply.
I move the folic acid to the front of the line and shuffle a few other bottles so they are no longer in alphabetical order. Then I feel it—an itching, burning pain near my ankle. I don’t see anything at first, but when I run my fingers along the spot, a tiny but sharp something snags on my skin.
“Ouch,” I murmur, though it doesn’t exactly hurt. More like when you pull off a burr, and one of its hooks sinks into the top layer of skin.
Setting my foot on the closed toilet lid, I twist my body to better evaluate the skin around my ankle. Squinting, I see something the size and shape of a sliver, dark brown against my pale skin. With steady fingers I grasp the sliver with my tweezers. It comes out easily. When I run my finger over the spot again, it’s smooth.
Holding the sliver up to the light, I see minuscule spikes running its length. They’re uniform and remind me of tiny thorns.What the hell?
All of a sudden, I know what I’m looking at. My stomach clenches and the electrolyte water and tea threaten to come back up.
It’s not a sliver; it’s the slim, barbed leg of a cockroach.
I don’t mention the sliver. I scrub an alcohol pad across the tiny indentation in my skin, reassure myself it can’t be a cockroach leg.A remnant of a stick that Stanley loves to carry on his walks. A fibrous-stalk sliver from one of our garden plants, perhaps. I expect I’ll have nightmares, cockroaches all I see every time I close my eyes. The click-clack of their exoskeletons rubbing together in the swarm, their oily, musty smell that still lingers in my nose. Miraculously, I have one of my deepest sleeps in ages.
You hit your sleep goal, my watch buzzes in the morning. A gold star appears on the screen, spinning in circles.Well done, Tilly!
We have a nice Sunday. Clementine is invited to a classmate’s birthday party. Wyatt and I brainstorm plans for the studio conversion. Shelby and Stanley attend a seniors’ meetup at a local coffee shop. By Monday, I’m well rested, clearheaded, and ready for a productive workday. It’s easy enough to blame dehydration for the unpleasant events earlier in the weekend; I’m glad for the extra electrolyte packets.
I feel good.
While I get ready for work I mull over the tendril, and likelyexplanations. Perhaps a minuscule tear in the canvas, and it came loose…Room D’s robust air circulation causing the flap to lengthen, then lift from the surface…an illusion of purposeful movement. Definitely possible.Don’t overthink it, Tilly. You need to focus. The painting needs your best work.
The house is quiet—I’m the last to leave this morning. Tugging on my underwear and bra, I hear something unfamiliar. Not the usual creaks and sighs our old house makes, but a sound that reminds me of a straw broom brushing across a wood floor.Swish…swish…swish.
I pause, listening closely, holding my breath. Then I realize the swish, or more accurately a rhythmicwhooshsound, is coming from inside me—it’s my heartbeat. Strange to be so aware of it, but I know that during pregnancy the amount of blood pumped by the heart increases by thirty to fifty percent (it was in last week’s MotherWise e-zine). I tap my watch, checking the rate. Seventy beats per minute, the tiny red heart on the screen pulsing in time. Nothing to worry about.
—
When I get the call, I’m still only half-dressed, in the bathroom running a brush through my damp hair. My phone, resting nearby, flashes the incoming call. I touch the speaker icon.
“Hello?”
“Hello there, is this Mrs. Mathilde Crewson?”Mat-hildEE.The voice is male, friendly. Southern, and based on the name he uses for me, someone I’ve never spoken to before.
“Speaking.” I rub in the SPF moisturizer I’ve dotted onto my forehead and cheeks.
“This is Mack Jenkins, from the medical center? I’m with the MotherWise program.”
“Oh, hello, Mr. Jenkins. What can I do for you?”
“Just so you’re aware, Mrs. Crewson, this call is being recorded for quality and educational purposes. May I proceed?”
