3

THIS SHOULD NOT BE that hard.

I’d made my decision. The best decision for me. Now all I needed to do was schedule my appointment. The right appointment this time.

But it was difficult to get out of bed, to shower, to get dressed, and to get to work on time—much less make a simple phone call.

The brief images I’d seen on the ultrasound replayed in my mind over and over. A tiny leg. A glimpse of a foot.

The echoes of Dr. Gray’s voice accompanied the memories, no matter how I tried to override them with work details.

“There’s the leg . . . and the baby’s foot. . . . We can get a good image of the baby’s face at this far along if you’re interested—”

When I tried to fall asleep at night, it was as if the baby’s heartbeat filled my bedroom like some sort of unwelcome background music.

What I was about to do—my choice—would silence that song forever.

I’d always believed in the freedom, the power, of choice. The rightness of choice. But I’d never connected choice to a life before. To a baby.

I slipped my hand beneath the opening of my white lab coat and rested my palm against my abdomen. Still separate but connected.

My choice would sever our bond forever.

Choice implied I had options. That I could choose something else.

What else could I do?

Go through with this pregnancy and give the baby up for adoption?

No. I’d live the rest of my life as the designated birth mom to my child with limited to no rights. I’d be straddling some invisible but explicit line between mother and stranger, having no real influence in my child’s life.

I’d never lived like that, controlled by the actions of others . . . well, not in a long time.

I closed my eyes. Waited. Nothing. No movement beneath my hand. I didn’t even know what sensation to expect.

It was ridiculous to sit here and wait for something to happen. I needed to decide about my future.

I had made my decision, but Dr. Gray seemed to forget about women standing together, supporting one another. Instead, her choice collided with mine.

Still avoiding the needed phone call, I removed the ultrasound photos from the top drawer of my desk. Blurry images of my son or daughter the receptionist had handed me four days ago as I checked out from my appointment with Dr. Gray, accompanied with a cheery “Congratulations, Ms. Thatcher. Don’t forget your baby’s photos.”

“Johanna?”

Axton Miller’s voice sounded behind me, causing me to slip the photos beneath a file on my desk as I turned to face him. “Yes?”

“I wanted to check on you. You didn’t answer my texts, so we went ahead and held the meeting without you—”

“The meeting?”

“Our meeting with Dr. Lerner.”

My stomach clenched. “I’m so sorry. I completely lost track of time.”

“It’s fine. We dealt with a few things and decided to reschedule. Things come up . . .” He paused as if waiting for my explanation.

I had none.

That wasn’t true. But I wasn’t going to confess to him why I’d missed the meeting. And all the evidence was hidden under the papers on my desk.

“I know this may be none of my business . . .”

Whenever anyone said that, what they said next was guaranteed to be an unwanted intrusion.

“I’m certain breaking off your engagement had to be hard.”

Why on earth was Axton bringing that up?

“If you need to take some vacation time—”

“My missing our meeting has nothing to do with my ex-fiancé.” And that was a lie. “I’m fine. I’m not upset about Beckett. I just forgot a meeting—”

“I can’t help but notice you’ve lost weight, Johanna.”

“It’s what women do, Axton. We’re either losing weight or gaining weight.”

“Fine. I’ve learned not to argue with you. Just know that if you change your mind—” he raised his hands as if to fend off my response—“I said if, not when—then my offer still stands for you to take some time off.”

“We have a lot to do.” I should probably stand if I wanted to continue this conversation, but I couldn’t seem to find the strength. I was tired all the time, but I’d deal with the reason for that soon enough.

“. . . well aware of everything we have to do.” I’d missed the first part of what Axton had said. “But I’m just as aware when my staff is pushing themselves.”

“You’re not pleased with my work.”

He stepped back. “Not going there, Johanna. If you want to talk about something, let’s talk. But I will not let you pick a fight with me.”

My boss was mixing up the boundaries, blurring the lines between professional and personal. He knew I was fine with him being my boss—sort of—but I didn’t want him to be my friend. I didn’t have friends inside—or outside—the hospital. I could barely claim relationships with my sisters.

I stopped my hand as it moved toward my stomach again . . . as if I was protecting something . . . someone . . .

Not that Axton would interpret the gesture as anything significant.

Who was I trying to protect?

How many people would my decision hurt . . . whatever decision I made?

And why were my emotions all snarled up in protecting someone I’d never met or seen, except in an ultrasound?

I shut my office door after Axton left. Kept my back to my desk, trying to ignore the photos that seemed to have some magical pull that held me between “maybes,” despite being hidden from view.

I pressed my lips together. Straightened my shoulders. Took my cell phone from the pocket of my lab coat. Found the number I’d noted a few days ago for a physician who performed abortions. Stabbed the numbers into the call screen.

The receptionist answered on the second ring, her voice a pleasant blend of professional and friendly.

Words clogged in my throat.

“How may I help you?”

Still no words.

“Hello?”

I disconnected the call, pressing my forehead against the office door. Closed my eyes, fighting to stay standing, but giving up.

For an absurd moment, I resisted the urge to call my mother. What would I say? I hadn’t called my mother for help in years.

My fingers gripped the sides of my phone, and then I faced away from the door, pressing my back against the hard wood as I allowed myself to slide to the floor. I drew my legs up against my body, leaning forward so my forehead rested on my knees.

I’d taken care of myself for years—through all sorts of crises, big and small. I’d handle things now, too.

“Maybe I could keep the baby.” My words were a whisper, muffled against my knees. “My baby.”

For the first time, I allowed myself to say out loud the thought I’d been evading.

Being a single mother had never been part of my dream.

Of course, I’d never dreamed of being passed over for a promotion.

Or Beckett cheating on me.

Or having to break off our engagement.

Or discovering I was pregnant.

But this was not the time to scroll through a life of disappointments.

I lifted my head. Straightened my shoulders, pressing them into the door behind me.

I could be a mom.

Because if I didn’t have an abortion, no one else was going to raise my child.

Like everything else I did, I’d do it myself . . . and I’d have to live with this decision for the rest of my life.

“One advantage to getting married? People gave us some of the new board games we had listed on our wedding registry.” Payton grinned as she moved her red game piece across the board and then flipped over another card in her pile. “Ta-da!”

“You’re only saying that because you’ve won the last two games.” Jillian checked the small stack of cards sitting in front of her again.

“Sorry, everyone.” Zach shrugged. “I should have never taught her how to play Labyrinth.”

“I’ll take any advantage I can get when it comes to competing against you all.”

“You haven’t won yet, little sister.” I selected a tile at the top of the game board, using it to slide another line of tiles across the board. Mimicking Payton’s movements, I moved my blue game piece across the board to the desired location, then flipped over a playing card. “There you go.”

“Nice. Nice.” Payton nodded. “But that doesn’t mean you’re going to win this time.”

Jillian spoke up again. “What’s the plan, Geoff?”

“To not lose again.”

“Great plan.”

“I thought so. Now to execute it. But everyone else’s strategy keeps messing with mine.”

If Jillian’s husband wanted to complain about other people’s actions complicating his life, he could go right ahead. This was just a stupid board game. Nothing more. When it was all said and done, the pieces would end up in a nice box covered with the lid labeled Labyrinth, and everyone would walk away with their little victories—and no real difference in their lives.

A slight, almost-indiscernible flutter in my stomach interrupted my musings. Was that the baby? I was tired of all the waiting, the anticipating, the trying to guess what I was feeling. Trying to decide what I was doing.

Mom spoke up. “Your dad and I are thinking of making some changes to the house.”

“Do you want me to buy some new chair cushions for the breakfast nook table?” I tried to keep track of the moves everyone else was making. “Maybe some curtains?”

“We were thinking about a more major project than that.”

“New carpet?”

“We want to add a deck onto the back of the house.”

“A new deck?”

“I’ve been talking to Zach about this.” Dad nodded toward him across the table. “He’s got a friend who builds decks, so we’ll be setting up a time to talk.”

“But why a deck after all this time?”

“I like to grill out and a deck would be a nice addition to the house. Improve its resale value. I’m not thinking of anything elaborate.”

Jillian’s focus had shifted to our parents. “Are you and Mom thinking of selling the house?”

“Not now, no. But maybe someday we’ll decide to downsize.”

I couldn’t imagine my parents selling this house. “If you want to add value, then add a room to the house—”

“We’re not interested in that big of a project.”

“Not after watching me and Geoff and the kitchen renovation, right?” A smile colored Jillian’s words.

“Well, there is that.” Dad winked. “We may enclose the porch. We’ll look at different options.”

And now my parents were making decisions without me. That shouldn’t be a problem. They were adults, just like I was. Just because Mom always had me pick out things like curtains and cushions didn’t mean she needed my help or approval to add a deck. This was normal family life. Adults being adults.

The board game was forgotten. No one was making moves—except Mom and Dad, who were making decisions about my childhood home and no longer wanted my opinion.

But then again, I hadn’t asked them for their opinion about their grandchild.

I stood. Backed away from the table. “Excuse me. I’m going to check on dinner.”

“Now? We haven’t finished the game.” Jillian waved her hand across the board.

“Dad, take over for me.”

“Johanna, your father and I are playing as a team.”

“He can cover for me, Mom, and still be your partner.”

On those words, I escaped to the kitchen. I gave a quick glance at the enchiladas in the oven, as well as the black bean soup in the Crock-Pot—Payton’s contribution, to fit her vegan diet. Zach had carried the addition in, plugging the pot in so it would stay warm until we were ready to eat.

The mingled aromas of cheese and beans and spices turned my stomach. At least Mom hadn’t started any coffee yet. Should I force myself to eat? Or just announce I wasn’t feeling well while continuing to avoid Payton’s stare, as I had been doing all day?

“Are you okay?”

Payton’s voice caused me to spin around, my hands gripping the counter behind me. “What are you doing, practicing to be some sort of secret agent or ninja or something?”

“Really?”

“What am I supposed to think when you sneak up on me like that?”

“That I’m a ninja? That’s a little far-fetched. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

She held up my glass of water. “You left this downstairs.”

I wrapped both hands around the glass. “Oh. Thanks.”

“So have you made your appointment?”

Payton was channeling me, getting straight to the point. “No.”

“Why not?”

There was no easy way to explain that a small pile of black-and-white photos was tripping me up. That the echo of a heartbeat haunted me day and night, an uninvited internal serenade.

“Because I’m thinking . . . I’m thinking I might want to . . .”

“To what?”

“I might want to keep the baby.”

Saying the words out loud should have eased the ever-present pressure in my chest. But it didn’t. The heaviness shifted a little but still remained. Having an abortion was no longer an easy option, but keeping the baby made no sense. Considering being a single mother was irrational.

I pressed a fist against my sternum, my heart beating beneath it.

But there were two hearts beating inside me.

I wanted my life back, but there was no returning to who I was before I’d gotten pregnant.

And to go forward, I had to choose.

I faced away from Payton, not surprised when she came to stand beside me. “What changed your mind?”

“For weeks, this was just an inconvenience to deal with. To get past. Then you said something about this baby being Mom and Dad’s grandchild. Being your niece or nephew. And the physician, who refused to do an abortion for me, did an ultrasound. I left the appointment with photos. I find myself wondering, Grandson or granddaughter? Nephew or niece?”

“Have you thought about adoption?”

“No. If I’m going through with this pregnancy, I’m keeping the baby.”

“You’re . . . pregnant?” Jillian’s voice invaded the conversation between Payton and me.

I pressed my eyes closed. Refused to turn toward my other sister. To answer her question.

Payton had more courage than I did. She turned, taking a step away from me. “Jill—”

“I wasn’t talking to you, Payton.” Jillian spit the words out. “Are you pregnant, Jo?”

I faced Jillian, who stood several feet away. “Yes.”

“When were you going to tell me? Payton already knows.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you. I . . . I haven’t decided what I’m going to do . . .”

Jillian’s eyebrows furrowed, her eyes narrowing. “You’re going to make your decision about having a baby—and tell me later. Or maybe not tell me at all?”

“I don’t know.”

I tried to be honest, but it came off sounding so wrong. This was my life. My decision. And now I was facing both of my sisters, being forced to take part in a conversation I never wanted to have. To answer their questions. Would Mom walk in next? What little energy I had seeped out of my body, even as I forced myself to respond to Jillian. I hadn’t started this discussion, but I would finish it.

“I wasn’t planning on talking about my pregnancy today—especially not with Mom and Dad sitting right outside the door.”

That was a slight exaggeration.

“The only reason Payton knows and you don’t is because she thought something was wrong with me—that I was sick—”

“Surely you noticed how Jo has lost weight. How she hasn’t been drinking coffee.” Payton’s laugh was sharp. Out of place. “I was scared. I thought . . . I thought maybe she had cancer like you did.”

The color drained from Jillian’s face.

“She showed up at my house asking me what was wrong.” It wasn’t Payton’s responsibility to explain things. “Made a joke about thinking I was pregnant . . . and I told her I was. That’s the only reason she knows and you don’t.”

Jillian’s attention never wavered from me. “But you’re keeping the baby. You had to tell us all sometime, Jo.”

“I said I might want to keep the baby, Jill. Maybe.”

“And if you don’t keep the baby, then what? Adoption?”

“No.”

Jillian’s eyes widened. “Jo . . .”

I held up one hand, shaking my head. “Don’t judge me, Jillian. This is my decision. Not yours.”

“But you can’t . . . you can’t . . .”

“I can make whatever choice I want. When you get pregnant, you can make your own choice.”

“That’s enough, Johanna.” Payton stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Jillian, who shrank back against her.

I almost apologized—almost. But I couldn’t. I hated hurting Jillian, but an apology would only prolong this conversation. Our relationships were shifting as if the floor were balanced on a beam that was weighted with our words. It wasn’t my duty to keep everybody happy. I’d never worried about that.

At the end of the day, no one was there for me. No one hugged me. No one protected me.

“You two will have to excuse me. I don’t think I’ll stay for dinner—”

“Johanna, don’t be this way.” Payton still held on to Jillian.

“Be what way? Myself?” I shook my head. “I’m sorry if you don’t like how I act, Payton. This is who I am. Don’t expect me to change at my age.”

I didn’t owe my sisters—or anyone else—an explanation of my behavior or my choices. We were all adults. Our choices were our own.