“Honestly, Tilly,” Wyatt says with a heavy sigh. He looks pissed off, and wan. Neither one of us slept a wink at the hospital last night. “Please tell her that’s not a good idea, Ana.”
The nurse shrugs. “I don’t see why she can’t work, at least for a few hours a day.”
Wyatt frowns, displeased.
“From what I understand, the work isn’t overly taxing or stressful. Mostly desk work, it says here,” Ana adds, reading off her tablet.
A harsh laugh explodes out of Wyatt. Yep, he’s pissed off. “Who told you that?”
“Please, Wyatt.” I turn from him, back to Ana. “It’s an important project.Criticallyimportant.I can’t afford to lose momentum.”
Ana raises a brow. “Critically importantsounds both taxing and stressful.”
“Thank you!” Wyatt’s quick to say, but Ana stays focused on me.
“Look, Mathilde. I think you can probably still work.Some,” she says. “This is a case of prove to me you’re fine, or work is the first thing to go.”
I glance at Wyatt, who stares up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly, his right hand clenched into a fist. Seeing Wyatt emotional isn’t easy for me—he is typically so steady, and that makes me steady. I swallow hard around the knot in my throat, knowing what he holds in his fist.
See, I was wearing Poppy’s ring on my necklace when I cut out my tattoo.
It was Christmas—of course I was wearing it.
But in the chaos and panic of the ambulance, I forgot to take it off before going to the hospital. Wyatt was shaken (shocked) to see Poppy’s ring alongside Clementine’s when he helped me change into a gown—Where did you get this?and then before I could explain,Why in the hell are you wearing this?We both know my ring for this baby won’t arrive for weeks yet.
There was an outside chance we could be fined. “The last thing weneed is another bill to pay, Tilly,” Wyatt had angry-whispered at me, though I knew it was fear more than anything. However, I suspected Poppy’s ring had deactivated years ago, which I whispered back to Wyatt.
What if they cancel our MotherWise contract?Wyatt worried next, which felt irrational to me, for how were the two connected? “What about the twenty-four seven medical care, then? What if something’s really wrong with you?”
He quickly pocketed Poppy’s ring before the intake nurse noticed, and I believe he’s still holding it hours later. As though it’s the only safe place for it to be. There’s a difficult conversation coming, but not until after we’ve both slept, I hope.
“You’ll need to wear your watch day and night,” Ana says. “Otherwise we can’t be sure of accuracy.”
I touch the watch face. There’s a new app installed, tracking a list of biometrics. All of which are being fed directly to Ana and MotherWise. Oh, and Wyatt.
“As long as you don’t overdo it, keep your hydration levels up and your stress levels down, I think we’ll be just fine.”
For the first couple of weeks under Ana’s watchful care, nothing happens.
Wyatt and I talk about Poppy’s ring, and I tell him the truth about why it’s important for me to keep. He understands (I miss her too, Tilly), and simply asks that I don’t wear it outside the house. I tell him I won’t, and I mean it.
I follow the rules. I worksome(a couple of hours a day), I rest, I go to my MotherHelper meetups with Kat, where I learn about upcoming events, including a new meditation class specifically for the third trimester, and a baby-clothing exchange.
New Year’s Eve is fun. Maeve and Jenn are in California visiting family for the holiday, so we have Kat, Nick, and the kids over to celebrate. We go to bed too late, after playing board games, sipping bubbly things, and enjoying the hopefulness and excitement that a new calendar year brings.
Everything is on track—no blips in the system. I’ve had no hallucinations, and no further sightings of my mother. Maybe it was all those nuts, and a simple zinc sensitivity, after all?
But then I lose time again.
It’s midday, and I’m in my studio. Ana left an hour ago; my vitals and blood work are “spot on.” Wyatt’s at work and Clementine’s back at school after the holiday break. Shelby’s at the vet for Stanley’s checkup. Suddenly, I come to on the stool in front of the painting. I’m woozy and dreamy, like I’ve awoken from a deep sleep. I’m holding something in my right hand—my nail clippers.
Then I notice the blood. There’s a throbbing in my left-hand fingertips, as though I’ve caught them in a slamming drawer. At first I don’t understand what’s happened, even though it should be obvious.
Nail clippers. Throbbing fingertips. Dried blood in semicircles under what’s left of my nails. I’ve cut them to the quick; I have no recollection of doing so.
Tiny crescents of nails form a small pile in my lap—translucent white against the black fabric of my dress. A jolt moves through me. I hold my hands in front of me, the fingernails on my right still intact. They are decently long, and I keep them filed into an oval shape. On my left, there’s no white remaining at the tips. Instead, only the semicircles of dried blood at the top of the nail bed. The throbbing in that hand increases.
My eyes shift to the canvas under my still-outstretched hands, scanning its surface for…what, I’m unsure. Up close now—the slight smoky odor making its way through the mask—I squint and scan, landing on a speck of something that rests in a textured swirl of black paint. Something that wasn’t there when I last worked on this area.
