Chapter 1

Now

They say pregnant women glow. You can’t say that about me.

I’m discombobulated.

Disheartened.

Disheveled.

I’m on crutches. My obstetrician prescribed them for me a month ago to help with my mobility, but I still haven’t gotten the hang of them. I awkwardly maneuver them, step by painful step, as I hobble through Starbucks, the one located close to UCLA, one of the most prestigious universities in all of California.

As I stand in line waiting to place an order, tears threaten to fall when crippling pain hits from two sides—a throb in my lower back followed by a stab in my groin. I silently groan. There are only two people ahead of me, but getting to the counter feels like a marathon.

Finally, it’s my turn. The spiky-haired barista, likely a college student, looks appalled by my sorry state. My contorted face and distorted body, not to mention my pallor and the bags under my eyes.

“What can I get you?” she asks, trying to sound cheery.

Always the same. A small decaf iced mocha Frappuccino with almond milk—no whipped cream. As I pay for it with my credit card, another knife-like stab of pain jolts my hips. I almost double over.

The barista’s face grows alarmed while a voice from behind me drifts into my ears. “Are you okay?”

Truthfully, I want to curl up on the floor and die, but instead swivel my head to see a stunning young woman about my height, clad in chic yoga wear, sunglasses, and a baseball cap that holds back her long, platinum-blonde ponytail.

“I’m fine,” I manage, the pain subsiding. My coffee comes and I fumble for the cup, the crutches making it awkward, next to impossible, to walk.

“Here…please, let me help you,” the blonde woman says.

“Th-thanks,” I stammer, grateful that there are still Good Samaritans in this self-absorbed world.

She grabs the plastic cup off the counter as I adjust the crutches under my armpits. My stupid backpack keeps sliding off my shoulders and getting in the way. Frustrated, I mutter an expletive under my breath.

With her free hand, the woman deftly secures the bag on my shoulders.

“Thanks,” I say again, my voice smaller, more contrite.

“You shouldn’t be carrying such a heavy bag,” she gently admonishes. “It’s really bad for your condition, and it could lead to rotator cuff issues.”

Just what I need…another debilitating physical ailment. Hasn’t this pregnancy been punishing enough? I’m convinced I’m paying for my sin… the terrible secret I will take to my grave.

Nodding, I shove my secret to the back of my mind and survey the coffee shop. My shoulders sag. Virtually every table and seat is taken by those entitled, I-can-sit-here-all-day-if-I-want college students, who think of Starbucks as an extension of their shoebox dorm rooms.

“Hey, I’ve got an extra chair at my table,” the woman tells me. “You can sit with me.”

“You don’t mind?”

“No, not at all. If you don’t mind, I’m going to hurry over to it before one of these college kids steals it.”

Holding my coffee, she speeds ahead, leading the way with her long, graceful strides. She moves like a supermodel and I wonder, with her tall, lean athletic build and patrician features, if she is or was one. Or maybe she’s a yoga or Pilates instructor. Trailing behind her, I waddle on my crutches, not remembering the last time I had a spring to my step like hers. When I reach the table, she sets down my Frappuccino and pulls out the unoccupied chair far enough from the table to accommodate my monstrous baby bump. Given how difficult this pregnancy has been, I’ve sometimes thought there’s a monster, not a baby, growing inside me. In one of my nightmares, I dreamt I gave birth to a baby that resembled She-Hulk, whose size and strength almost tore me apart.

Slowly, I lower myself onto the hard, wooden chair, setting the crutches against the table beside me, while the young woman gracefully sits down across from me.

I take a sip of my iced drink through the straw. “Thanks so much for letting me sit here. I really appreciate it. I’m Ava, by the way.”

“Marley…and my pleasure.” She sips her beverage—a healthy-looking spinach-colored smoothie—that’s already sitting on the table. “So, when are you due?”

I let out a light laugh. “Not soon enough.”

Tilting her head, she looks at me for more information.

“In three months. June sixth. I’m having a C-section.”

“That’s common among women with your condition…PGP,” she says knowingly.

PGP is short for pelvic girdle pain. It’s a condition mostly associated with pregnancy where the joints in the pelvic area become stiff and inflamed. Most women have manageable symptoms, but mine are extreme, affecting my entire lower torso as well as my legs. In addition to barely being able to walk, it’s painful for me to sit, climb stairs, sleep, and get dressed. I dread having to use the toilet, and sex has been out of the question. On a very bad day, I feel the pain everywhere at once. It’s sometimes so excruciating I want to die.

“How did you know that? Have you suffered from PGP too?”

She fiddles with a silver locket that grazes her clavicles. The beaded chain reminds me of a rosary, and I wonder if at some time a cross hung from it.

“No, I’ve never been pregnant.”

“Believe me, I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. It’s been so debilitating I’ve had to use crutches to help me walk, and my doctor just told me I have to go on bed rest until the baby is born.”

Another major setback. I cried when he told me the news.

“Preeclampsia?”

Again, I register shock. “How did you know?”

“I took a guess, but I’m familiar with the condition. It occurs when pregnant women have high blood pressure and too much protein in their urine. It can range from mild to severe.”

“My blood pressure was off the charts.” With the way my pregnancy’s been going, why should I be surprised?

“I would absolutely listen to your doctor. This condition can lead to life-threatening seizures for both mother and child.”

“That’s exactly what my doctor told me.” I’m awed by her prenatal knowledge. Is she in the medical profession? A maternity nurse? She looks too young to be a doctor.

Before I can inquire, she changes the subject. “What are you having?”

A smile returns to my face. “A girl…Isa. We’re naming her after my husband’s mother.”

I don’t go into details about who his mother was. Or who my husband is.

She glances down at my megawatt five-carat engagement ring. “Your husband must be excited.”

I shrug, noticing she’s not wearing any rings. “I’m not sure. To be perfectly honest, this pregnancy has been as hard for him as it has been for me. Maybe harder.”

I toy with the big fat diamond and matching pavé-diamond wedding band on my swollen finger. They hardly move thanks to water retention. Something called edema.

Marley notices how swollen my fingers are. They look like fish sticks. Dropping the subject of my husband, she sips her green drink and says, “You should take off your wedding rings while you can. They’re bad for circulation.”

“You’re right. I’ll do that when I get home.”

My companion seems pleased. “Better than having someone cutting them off when it’s too late…and losing a finger. I know someone that happened to.”

I shudder at the thought. All my life, knives have freaked me out. I must have had a traumatic childhood experience, though I can’t remember it. I’m terrified by my upcoming cesarean. I dread going under the knife. What if the doctor screws up and I lose my baby or bleed to death. Or both? I banish those horrific thoughts when I feel a jab in my abdomen. I put a hand to my swollen belly.

Something between a grin and a grimace spreads on my lips.

“Are you alright?” asks Marley.

“Yes.” It’s a rare moment of joy. “The baby just kicked.”

Marley’s face lights up. “Would you mind if I felt her?”

“Not at all…come on over.”

Brimming with excitement, Marley pushes back her chair and rounds the table. My hand jumps off my belly and hers replaces mine. I cup my hand over hers. Her slender hand is as beautiful as the rest of her, her skin soft and warm.

“Can you feel her?”

Another kick!

“Yes, I can! She’s going to be a fighter! Most women would kill for a little girl like her.”

Her hand lingers on my belly as if she never wants to let it go. I feel a visceral connection to this woman. This perfect stranger. Like fate brought her into my life. Brought us together.

Another hard kick and then Marley returns to her seat.

Unexpected tears well up in my eyes, and on my next blink, they begin to trickle down my cheeks. The start of another one of my many tearfests.

Embarrassment washes over me. “Lately, all I seem to do is cry. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Here…use this.” She hands me her unused paper napkin. I gratefully accept it and dab my face.

“Thanks.” My voice is small and watery. “I’m sorry for unloading all my troubles on you. I’ve been such an emotional wreck.”

She gives me a sympathetic smile. “Hon, no apologies needed. It comes with the territory. Pregnancy does that to you. Wreaks havoc on your hormones. Plus, you’re suffering from PGP, edema, and now preeclampsia.”

My tears subsiding, I finally ask, “How do you know so much about pregnancy?”

“I’m an NCS—a trained newborn care specialist. More specifically, I’m a night nanny, specializing in helping new mothers take care of their newborns at night so that they can get rest and get back on their feet.” She reaches inside her bag and hands me a business card.

“Nurse Marley Manners,” I mutter, holding it to my eyes. “Certified NCS.” Below her name is her contact info—both her cell number and email address—as well as her website. I study the information as if I want to commit it to memory.

“I can provide wonderful references should you want to check me out. They will all tell you that I have a genuine love of babies, an exceptional nurturing quality, and a sincere desire to help support new parents. Your condition may worsen after your cesarean and you may not be able to handle the demands of a newborn.”

Either because I’ve been in so much pain or in a brain fog, I haven’t given much thought to motherhood. Especially what it’ll be like to have an infant in our house and be part of our lives. Can things get any worse?

Marley’s gaze stays on me as I file away the card in my wallet. We finish our drinks and I say, “Well, I should get going.”

“I hope you didn’t drive here in your condition.”

I laugh a sad laugh. “I can barely get in and out of a car let alone behind a steering wheel.” I clutch my behemoth baby bump to make my point. “I took an Uber.”

“Is your husband picking you up?”

“He can’t. He’s in New York on a business trip.” One of the many.

I intake a slow, deep breath, my shoulders rising. “I’ll just call another Uber.”

“Why don’t you let me take you home?”

“You sure you don’t mind? You’ve already been so kind and I surely don’t want to take you out of your way.”

“It’s not a problem. Where do you live?”

I tell her the Hollywood Hills.

“Great. That’s on the way to my place.”

Five minutes later we’re in her roomy four-door Subaru, heading toward Sunset Boulevard, passing by the beautiful pink house my husband grew up in. Michael Bublé is playing on the stereo. “Forever Now,” a song he wrote about his love for his children.

At a stop sign, Marley tells me, “Do you know fussy babies love Bublé? His soothing voice calms them down.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Sometimes I’ve had to take them for a drive and play some Bublé because nothing else works.”

Another Bublé track comes on and the next thing I know, we’re driving up the winding road to our house. The crooner must have put me to sleep. Did I give Marley our address? With my pregnancy fog, I honestly don’t remember.

Our house is at the very top. When she reaches the massive gate outside it, I tell her the security code and instantly regret doing that as she punches it in. I should have had her press the intercom and let our housekeeper let us in. Oh, well. What is done is done. Plus, she hardly seems the gun-wielding home-invader type.

The gate slides open, and she drives to the entrance of the sprawling contemporary residence. A glass and concrete architectural masterpiece.

“Your house is stunning,” she says, taking it in. “Do you need help getting out?”

Though I’m stiff, achy, and groggy from the drive, I tell her I’m good. She helps me out anyway and hands me my crutches from the back seat.

“Thanks so much for the lift,” I tell her before limping to the front door.

She smiles. “Take care, Ava. And call me if you need me. You have my card.”