Christine felt herself in a sort of shock, stunned enough to let Lauren steer her down the aisle through the mismatched chairs, past the oil paintings on the left, and the windows overlooking the courtyard on the right, with the mural CHERISH THE CHILD.

My number was 3319.

A corrections officer at the door of the visiting room led them in silence up the stairwell and through the metal detector to make sure they weren’t smuggling out contraband, and Lauren guided Christine out of the security room through the locked door and into the waiting room full of men, women, and children, talking among themselves in a variety of languages.

Christine tried to get a grip on her emotions as Lauren took her to the lockers, wordlessly sliding the key from her pocket, opening the locker to retrieve the car keys, then replacing the locker key, only to retake Christine’s arm and guide her out through the dim reception area toward the glass double doors, blinding with sunlight.

“This way, honey,” Lauren said under her breath, just as two uniformed corrections officers walked past them.

Christine raised a hand against the sunlight, taking a deep breath as they walked through the official parking lot, though the humidity made it impossible to breathe.

“You’re okay, Christine.” Lauren squeezed her arm, keeping her in motion, saying nothing more because families were all around them, walking past them to the prison.

Christine nodded, trying to recover as they walked along, trying not to think about what she had just learned, or what she would do about it, or whatever was going to happen next. She took each step as if it were a deliberate action, knowing that each footfall carried her farther away from Zachary, and at the same time knowing that while she wanted to leave Zachary, she also wanted to stay, because she was undeniably connected to him, now. She was carrying his baby.

She spotted her car, the first in the lot because they had gotten here so early, and the sight of it anchored her in reality, taking her outside of her thoughts. It was her car. She paid the car loan every month. She had a life. She had a husband, a mortgage, a dog, and a cat in Connecticut. She had to go back home. She wanted to go back home.

My number was 3319.

But she understood, at the same time, that no external change could alter the inner reality. Zachary was a part of her, fully half of the child she carried inside her very body, and it was that inside-out feeling, that disconnect that was nevertheless connected, which confounded her, bollixed her up, rendered her incapable of parsing any of the feelings she was having, but still she kept moving toward her car.

Christine realized as Lauren aimed the key fob, chirped the car unlocked, and led her to the passenger side, that she was in no shape to drive, and it was then that the tears started to come. Lauren’s timing was perfect and she opened the passenger door, stowed a weeping Christine inside, and even buckled her into the seat, so that by the time they had turned onto Route 29 heading home, the shoulder harness was the only thing holding Christine up.

Chapter Twenty-five

Christine waited for Marcus to come home, finding reasons to stay downstairs, puttering around the kitchen. She hadn’t bothered changing when she got home, and she wasn’t crying anymore because she cried out all her tears, and then some. She could never thank Lauren enough for what a great friend she’d been the whole weekend and told her so when she dropped Lauren off at her house, where they gave each other a final hug. They’d both agreed that it was time to tell Marcus, but only one of them would have to do the telling.

She’d gone through bills, then wiped out the plastic container they kept under the counter for trash, her least favorite task. She’d always try to ignore the stinky smells when she put in a new fresh white plastic liner, and she always bought the scented to try to combat the stink, but she could never bring herself to wash out the actual plastic container the way she did now, awkwardly scrubbing the tall plastic bin in the kitchen sink, then turning it over with difficulty, trying to rinse it out using the spray hose beside the faucet.

The garbage smells made her nauseous, mixing with her hormones, or the dread of what was to come when Marcus got home. It was past nine thirty, which was her pregnancy bedtime, but something told her to stay downstairs. Keep on her feet. Talk to him eye-to-eye, not flat on her back, lying in bed. She felt as if she were in a sort of suspended animation until he came home, felt in the very air as if the entire home held its breath, but that could have been her imagination. Murphy was typically oblivious, curled up at the end of his dog bed, with his butt spilling onto the floor because Lady was hogging the middle in a way that only cats can and only dogs permit.

Christine tilted the trash bin on its side upside down, letting the water run out into the sink, but it went too slowly. It wasn’t worth wasting paper towels for, so she grabbed a sackcloth and wiped down the inside, shoving her arm so far inside to reach the bottom of the bin that she got water on the shoulder of her shirtdress.

Suddenly she heard the front door being unlocked, then opened, in the entrance hall. Murphy raised his head from his paws and swung his nose toward the entrance hall, evidently not sleeping as soundly as Christine had thought, but Lady didn’t stir, only resettled after the interruption.

“Honey?” Marcus called out, then there was the jingling of his car keys tossed onto the console table and the rumble of his roller bag, which he would roll to the bottom of the stairs to be brought upstairs, later. By habit, he did things the same way every time, so that he rarely lost his keys, his wallet, or his phone. Christine didn’t have to wonder how such an orderly man would take such disorderly news, which is what worried her.

“In the kitchen!” Christine spread out a dishcloth flat on the granite counter, so that she could turn the trash can upside down to drain overnight.

“Mmph,” Marcus said under his breath, a soft noise that Christine knew reflected mild surprise that she was still downstairs. She heard the sound of his footsteps coming her way, a tapping that told her he had his loafers on, and the rhythm of his footsteps was steady and slow as usual because he had long legs and a strong stride, so he got wherever he wanted to quickly and never had to hurry.

“Hi,” Christine said, and she was about to turn to face him, but the trash can wobbled on the dishcloth and she jumped to prevent it from falling.

“I can help you with that.” Marcus came over, standing behind her as she hastily righted the trash can. She wasn’t ready to be physically close to him yet, or maybe she knew he wouldn’t want to be close to her after this conversation, and she backed away, turning to him.