Although Ramona was facing straight ahead, she didn’t register anything in front of her. There was nothing to see.

A lovely feminine voice filled her ears, but she didn’t make any effort to understand the words that were being said. It made no difference.

Another wave of nausea hit as she tipped her head down to examine the folds on her black skirt.

She closed her eyes and prayed that her mind might wander as far away as possible.

After all, it had been going well. She had embraced her new-again home more than anywhere she’d ever lived. She’d stopped resisting making a home with Lucas and had put her mark on their house, one sparkly pillow at a time.

There were coffee dates with yoga friends, lots of time with her couple besties, Jackson and Camille, parties with Lucas’ friends and coworkers, and a general sense of belonging that made her happy to come back after every trip away.

Her relationship with Lucas, after some growing pains, had become a remarkable love story. In such a short time she’d gone from relationship-phobic to a woman who used the word forever liberally.

The children’s center, which everyone had started calling Barrett’s Bambinos, was moving along. Thankfully, she’d been able to find the right people to fill in all the holes in her knowledge and experience.

There were huge swaths of contentment and excitement that she wouldn’t have believed existed.

This particular day and the week that preceded it were devoid of any of those good feelings. It might have been mistaken for a similar day, several months prior, when the summer had still been blazing. Now, a few days before Christmas, with the threat of snow looming, nothing was the same at all.

Instead of a cathedral bursting with hundreds of people, there were only a dozen or so in that small, simple room. Instead of an ostentatious casket, a small silver urn sat on a narrow, unfinished table. The unusual wood had caught her eye, blond with huge brown spirals, but she refused to look toward it any more. Best to keep her focus down.

An arm squeezed her shoulders, fingers wrapped around her hand. She was pretty sure one of those belonged to Connor and the other to Lucas, but she didn’t particularly care which was which.

What mattered was that instead of her father right next to her, his body leaning into hers, his frail hand resting on her arm, instead of a sense of relief and connection, all she had was a room she couldn’t allow herself to see, a devastation that blurred the rest of her senses, and a father in an urn.

Another surge of sickness, much larger this time, caused her to gasp. It might have been that the room went completely quiet, or it might have been that her mind went quiet in a desperate attempt to block out all the thoughts she insisted on ignoring.

The biggest difference between the day of her father’s funeral and that of her grandfather, the one that had brought her back to Virginia, where everything went right and wrong at the same time, was a very specific set of sensations. Instead of tenderness between her legs from the most exciting night she’d had in a long time, instead of a smile she couldn’t suppress, she swallowed against the unrelenting nausea she was fairly certain signaled the first signs of morning sickness.

Someone helped her stand, although she wasn’t quite sure who it was. Then there was a car ride, during which Olivia Winston didn’t stop talking, then arrival at the Winston’s house. Ramona leaned to the side to ask if she could be taken home, but everyone was already scurrying out.

Masculine voices rumbled around her, but she couldn’t focus enough to decipher what was said or who was saying it. She was surprised to find herself on a bed. Laying down sounded like a very good idea.

“Ramona… Mo…”

Something was shaking the bed and calling her name.

“Baby, it’s time to go.”

And then she was aloft, traveling through the house, back into a car, into another house, back in bed.

---

Ramona woke up two days after her father’s funeral to find that the world had not ceased to exist, no matter how much she wished it had. There was no decrease in her grief or despair - in fact, it might have grown - but whatever psychological mechanism had forced her asleep had stopped. Or malfunctioned.

Her bed was empty, again, Lucas likely outside building something - his version of therapy. Personally, she much preferred a dark bedroom to a cold, sunny day. She took several deep breaths, trying her best to enjoy the act of breathing. Of being alive. It didn’t work.

Without changing out of her pajamas, or putting on a coat or shoes, Ramona walked through the empty house to the back door, and then outside. Lucas froze at the sight of her, not trying to hide his surprise.

“You’re up,” he stuttered.

“I think I’m pregnant.”

The piece of wood in his hand clattered onto the pile of tools. “You’re… what?”

Assuming he’d heard her, she turned back toward the house, noticing only after stepping inside that the sensation of cold grass on her bare feet had been quite pleasant.

She hadn’t made it to the couch before Lucas blew into the room, red-faced, dirt clouding around him. He reminded her of Pigpen, which was almost enough to force a smile on her exhausted face.

“Ramona!” His whole body was shaking, which she found curious. “Why did you walk away?”

Her body dropped onto the soft couch. She didn’t try to sit up. “I needed to sit down.”

He took two steps closer. “Mo.” His voice cracked. “I think you just said you were pregnant.”

She took a moment to evaluate whether what he’d said was a statement or question. “Yes.”

“Oh, my God.”

She looked at him, and then at the expanse of the couch. Maybe he didn’t want to sit down and dirty the couch. But that didn’t seem like him. “Why don’t you sit with me?”

His body wavered as if it couldn’t decide in what direction it wanted to go. She closed her eyes, heavy with the exertion of carrying her unhappy body around those few steps that day.

She opened her eyes at the dip of the cushion to find him staring out the large windows.

“I… I didn’t… Fuck!”

Well, that was unexpected. She squinted at his profile which had grown jagged with tension. “Are you angry?”

His head spun, panic shifting the landscape of his face. “God, no, Ramona! How could I be angry? I’m just… just…” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “I’m so sorry, babe. I thought you were in bed because of your father. I thought you wanted to be alone. I didn’t realize you were…”

Ramona waited for him to finish the sentence, but he never did. “It was both, I guess. But you didn’t do anything wrong.”

He slid across the couch, closing any distance between them. “I can’t believe it, Mo. I mean, I’m really happy about it. Are you happy about it? I mean, I know you’re not happy right now… your father… but how do you feel about this? How long have you known? How-”

She reached over and squeezed his forearm. Her head was already spinning. One more question and it would explode. “I’m shocked. I’m disappointed in myself. I forgot to replace my birth control implant, apparently. Other than that, I’m trying really hard not to feel anything.”

A tickle on her lip let her know that tears were running down her face. There’d been so many tears, she couldn’t even tell anymore.

He ran his hand across her cheek. “Mo, please don’t cry, baby. It’s going to be okay. I promise. I’m going to make it be okay. I love you so much.”

Before she could ask him how this disaster would ever be okay, his body was wrapped around hers, squeezing just past the point of comfort.

---

On the third day, she ended up in the bathtub without a clear understanding of how, but she was fairly certain she hadn’t walked there. He must have carried her. There had been a lot of carrying. Maybe her days in bed, without bathing, had left her repulsive enough to warrant involuntary hygiene.

A stream of water splashed over her forehead and she blinked to keep the water out of her eyes.

“Sorry, love. Sorry. I’m just trying to get the last bit of shampoo out. Can you lean back?”

It was easy to do as she was told. That’s what she wanted. Someone just to tell her what to do. To give her simple, clear instructions for moving forward. How to continue on with her father gone, a human being growing inside her body, and in the middle of the largest professional undertaking of her life. None of it was comprehensible at that moment. But the gentle stroke of the soapy cloth along her chest and arms, the warm water on her back, the soothing voice of the man she loved… those were within her ability to process.

During those hours when sleep wouldn’t come, but getting out of bed was out of the question, Ramona made mental lists. Her habit since childhood, when she would count how many round items were in her room, or the dates of all the Saturdays until her next birthday. She loved lists and the more complex, the better.

She recited all the countries she’d been to, then all the cities, which was much more difficult. She listed all the addresses she’d had and the make of every car. There was even a cataloging of the full names of all the men she’d slept with, which was challenging, not because of the number, but because of the transience of most of those encounters. It crossed her mind that Lucas could well be the last man she would ever sleep with, the final name on the list. And if things continued the way they were going, she might never sleep with him again, either. On a list of things that sounded appealing to her at that moment, sex would be hovering near the bottom.

As her mind settled enough to make sleep a possibility, all the itemizing temporarily suspended, her mother suddenly entered her thoughts. It was almost as if she felt her entering the house or the room. Their relationship could never be described as affectionate, but Ramona had always felt connected to her distant mother, as if she could track her despite thousands of miles between them. She wondered what her mother would think about this predicament. As if the petite woman, whose waist-length hair would now be streaked with silver, was standing by the side of the bed.

“What should I do, Mom?” Ramona whispered to the empty space.

The imaginary figure took her ever-present stethoscope from the pocket of her white coat and placed the buds in her ears. “Stop being so dramatic, Ramona.” The dark eyes examined her. “And take a pregnancy test, for goodness sake.”

---

On the fifth day, a violent heave propelled Ramona out of bed and into the bathroom. When the deep contractions had stilled, the next sensation was of a hunger so intense, it folded her body over itself. Instead of calling out for Lucas, praying that he was within hearing distance, all she could muster was a raspy cry that barely made its way out of the large bathroom.

She slumped onto the floor, chilled by the cold tiles but grateful to be horizontal. If she wasn’t pregnant then she must be dying.

A hand stroked her face, called her name. She was so thankful to see him, to feel him lift her and bring her back to bed.

He placed her on top of him and instead of the bed that had become her constant home, his body - warmer, firmer - became her anchor. She slept, her fingers never releasing their grip around his wrist.

It was dark when she next opened her eyes, which made it much easier. The dimness of the room allowed everything to enter much more gently. She watched him sleep until there was no more patience and she touched her lips to his. He pulled her in. God, that feeling. It had been so long.

“Baby… how are you?”

Her mind felt clearer, but her body was ravaged. “I’m hungry.”

The movement of his eyebrows, the opening and closing of his eyes, all pointed to some confusion with what she’d said. But it had been so clear.

As if there hadn’t just been an enormous pause, he continued. “Are you craving anything in particular?”

Her stomach clenched as if it could reach outside of her body and fill itself. “Something simple. And not too much. I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep anything down.”

He slid himself out of bed, which would have been devastating except for the fact that he’d be returning with food. Glorious food.

Using all the strength she could muster, she pushed herself up to sitting, pillows gathered around her. The scent of bread wafting in from the kitchen nearly made her moan. Maybe this was what people called a foodgasm, which caused the first almost-laugh she’d had in a week.

He returned, set a tray down on her lap, and for a second she thought he’d brought her a children’s puzzle. Variously colored rectangles were lined up in perfect precision.

“This,” he indicated, “is plain.” His finger moved to the next triangle. “This is butter, then cheese, jam, avocado, honey, and peanut butter.”

He’d made her a toast buffet. The most brilliant thing she’d ever seen.

“Pick which ones you want, and I’ll make more of that. I can take the other ones away.”

Her eyes scanned the assortment. There was no hiding her body’s reaction. Plain and peanut butter got salivation. Cheese, avocado, and jam elicited a small gag. The rest were somewhere in between.

She pointed. “This and this, please.”

He gathered up the unchosen slices and turned to leave.

“Come right back, Baloo. I’m not sure if I’ll eat more than two anyway. Maybe leave the buttered one.”

The first bite was a symphony of pleasure and pain. She hadn’t chewed and swallowed in so long, the muscles of her mouth ached. All that retching had left her throat sore but it didn’t matter. This was sublime.

Lucas walked toward her, looked down at the mostly empty tray, up to her face, back down at the tray, then smiled. “I’ll go make some more.”

How was it possible that one man could be so perfect?

The next time, he brought a small stack of toast, some slices of Asian pear - her favorite fruit - and a fresh glass of water.

“I read that dehydration makes nausea much worse, so you have to drink all the water.”

She took the glass and gulped down as much as she could. It didn’t go down as smoothly as she would have wanted. Several more bites of toast helped quell that sense of sloshy fullness.

Lucas barely moved from the edge of the bed, watching her as if something dramatic could happen at any moment. “How are you feeling now?”

She swallowed, the world coming into greater focus. “So much better. Wow.”

He shifted a few inches closer to her and touched her cheek. “God, Mo, I’ve been so worried. I’ve been Googling if this sort of sickness and fatigue was normal, but there weren’t any articles on what happens if at the same time you’re grieving a loved one, so I had to extrapolate, and I wasn’t sure what to do-”

“It’s all right, love.” She held his palm over her mouth, inhaling him, then brought it down to her chest. “I’m sorry I was so useless. I didn’t want to worry anyone. Especially my Dad. He’ll-”

Lucas’ grimace preceded her recognition by a fraction of a second. Before the dam of her composure broke, his arms were around her, his hand stroking her hair.

Tears stopped flowing well before the feeling of crying passed. Perhaps she’d overused her crying ability. Running out of tears was poetic. Maybe it really happened.

She lifted her head off his shoulder. “I’m going to lie down, okay?”

“Mo, sweetheart, of course. I’m here if you need anything.”

“Will you stay with me?”

He didn’t hesitate before crossing over to the other side of the bed and enveloping her in his body. She released herself into his hold, their palms stacked on her belly. Where their baby was busy trying to kill her.