finger. She could even die in utero, before she and Lewis got a chance to name her.
Naomi, Quinn thought, as she gently stroked her belly. It was the name she and Lewis had agreed on before she even found out what it meant. Now she couldn’t remember if she had ever told him that she’d discovered a definition.
“Do you know what Naomi means?” she asked.
Lewis remained quiet.
“It means ‘my delight,’ ” Quinn said. Delight. She felt the word dissolve on her tongue like cotton candy.
Lewis looked at her and then back at the road. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t want to have an abortion,” she said into her chest.
Lewis focused on the road. “I don’t think we need to talk about that now,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“They said we have time to decide that. We should at least wait for the results of the amnio, don’t you think?”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “We’ll hear what they say.”
“Do you think they’ll tell us something different? Dr. LeBrun even said he expects the amnio to be inconclusive.”
Her husband didn’t respond.
“Lewis?”
“I need time to think about this, okay? This is a lot. This is a lot to take in.”
“Why does everybody keep saying that?”
“What else am I supposed to say?” he asked. “Should I pretend nothing’s wrong?”
“That’s not what I meant. I just want to know what you’re thinking. I want to know how you feel about all this.”
“I feel like I can’t absorb this now, okay? I need some time, Quinn. I don’t process everything in a millisecond like you do.”
Is that what she normally did? Processed everything in a millisecond? She didn’t feel like that now. Didn’t feel like she was processing a thing. Some of the terms the doctor used were still floating around her consciousness like flotsam at sea. What was it he had said about surgical options? Something about “craniotomy” and “microplates”? Lewis had asked questions about the risks, and he said that many of these, such as hydrocephalus, were manageable.
“But brain damage,” Lewis had said. “What about brain damage?”
“We’ll have a better idea of that when we do the follow-up MRI,” the doctor had said.
“But you won’t know for sure?”
“Probably not.”
That was the point at which Quinn excused herself to the ladies’ room. She wanted only to splash cold water on her face, to try to wake herself up, pull herself into the present. But something happened in the bathroom that made her heart race with fear, and slammed her back into place with more force than she could handle.
After being bombarded with an overload of medical information, she had entered the ladies’ room in a daze and approached the sink without much thought. Eyes closed, Quinn splashed cold water on her face and reached for the faucet to turn it off. That’s when she sensed it. Before she made contact with the chrome knobs, she felt a mild sensation of solid air beneath her hands. It was almost like pushing against wind—nothing but a force, a mass of atmosphere giving resistance. She opened her eyes and saw it: a crack in the porcelain where it met the drain. This time, Quinn didn’t jump back. Instead, she brought her fingertips up to the jagged line. The layer of air between her skin and the solid surface remained constant, forcing the crack to widen. Quinn brought her face closer to see what was happening, but she saw nothing more than expanding darkness. She closed her hand into a fist and continued pushing. The fissure became a hole, and the harder she pressed, the deeper it became, until her hand had disappeared up to her elbow. She stuck her other hand inside and pressed her palms together. Quinn closed her eyes and sensed Eugene’s energy, feeling as if the scent of his aftershave were lingering around her nostrils. He seemed so close by that his nervousness was almost palpable, but so was something else—excitement. Quinn didn’t know
Naomi, Quinn thought, as she gently stroked her belly. It was the name she and Lewis had agreed on before she even found out what it meant. Now she couldn’t remember if she had ever told him that she’d discovered a definition.
“Do you know what Naomi means?” she asked.
Lewis remained quiet.
“It means ‘my delight,’ ” Quinn said. Delight. She felt the word dissolve on her tongue like cotton candy.
Lewis looked at her and then back at the road. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t want to have an abortion,” she said into her chest.
Lewis focused on the road. “I don’t think we need to talk about that now,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“They said we have time to decide that. We should at least wait for the results of the amnio, don’t you think?”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “We’ll hear what they say.”
“Do you think they’ll tell us something different? Dr. LeBrun even said he expects the amnio to be inconclusive.”
Her husband didn’t respond.
“Lewis?”
“I need time to think about this, okay? This is a lot. This is a lot to take in.”
“Why does everybody keep saying that?”
“What else am I supposed to say?” he asked. “Should I pretend nothing’s wrong?”
“That’s not what I meant. I just want to know what you’re thinking. I want to know how you feel about all this.”
“I feel like I can’t absorb this now, okay? I need some time, Quinn. I don’t process everything in a millisecond like you do.”
Is that what she normally did? Processed everything in a millisecond? She didn’t feel like that now. Didn’t feel like she was processing a thing. Some of the terms the doctor used were still floating around her consciousness like flotsam at sea. What was it he had said about surgical options? Something about “craniotomy” and “microplates”? Lewis had asked questions about the risks, and he said that many of these, such as hydrocephalus, were manageable.
“But brain damage,” Lewis had said. “What about brain damage?”
“We’ll have a better idea of that when we do the follow-up MRI,” the doctor had said.
“But you won’t know for sure?”
“Probably not.”
That was the point at which Quinn excused herself to the ladies’ room. She wanted only to splash cold water on her face, to try to wake herself up, pull herself into the present. But something happened in the bathroom that made her heart race with fear, and slammed her back into place with more force than she could handle.
After being bombarded with an overload of medical information, she had entered the ladies’ room in a daze and approached the sink without much thought. Eyes closed, Quinn splashed cold water on her face and reached for the faucet to turn it off. That’s when she sensed it. Before she made contact with the chrome knobs, she felt a mild sensation of solid air beneath her hands. It was almost like pushing against wind—nothing but a force, a mass of atmosphere giving resistance. She opened her eyes and saw it: a crack in the porcelain where it met the drain. This time, Quinn didn’t jump back. Instead, she brought her fingertips up to the jagged line. The layer of air between her skin and the solid surface remained constant, forcing the crack to widen. Quinn brought her face closer to see what was happening, but she saw nothing more than expanding darkness. She closed her hand into a fist and continued pushing. The fissure became a hole, and the harder she pressed, the deeper it became, until her hand had disappeared up to her elbow. She stuck her other hand inside and pressed her palms together. Quinn closed her eyes and sensed Eugene’s energy, feeling as if the scent of his aftershave were lingering around her nostrils. He seemed so close by that his nervousness was almost palpable, but so was something else—excitement. Quinn didn’t know
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