Page 11 of 10 Days to Surrender

Jasmine reaches over to the ultrasound printer and plucks off the hard copies that the tech made for me. She studies them. “They have your nose.”

“They have aliennoses.”

“Youraliennose, then.”

I scowl at her, but before I can reply, the doctor shoulders through the door. She’s a broad-hipped, no-nonsense woman with an elegantly gray ponytail and a clipboard she wields like a battle ax.

“Madame Ward, vos tests sont bons, mais votre tension artérielle…”

The French rolls over me like a poorly dubbed movie. I’ve gotten better, but I’m a long way from fluent. I do catch the highlights:hypertension. Bed rest optional but recommended. No flying internationally.

I look at Jas, who repeats all those things just to be sure I understood.

The blood pressure has been a recurring nuisance. Occasional headaches and swollen feet are just the name of the game so far as pregnancy goes. It’s the spotty vision and the sudden dizziness, like someone whacked me in the back of the skull with a bat, that are driving me insane.

Not much to do other than wait it out and be careful, though. And, apparently, don’t pilot any commercial aircraft.

I give the doc a thumbs-up. “Don’t worry; I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”

I’ve had to lie about a lot of things in my time as a fake Frenchwoman, but that part is true. As far as I’m concerned, Moliets-et-Maa will house me for the rest of my days. It’ll be me and Jas, Jas and me. Two mobster’s daughters lying low in the French Riviera with a double stroller and a lifetime of trauma that we refuse to face.

What could possibly go wrong?

“Lunch?” asks Jas.

“Duh. Crêpes. And a gallon of Orangina.”

“Such refined tastes you have.”

“I’m eating for three,” I remind her. “You’re not allowed to make fun of me.”

She snorts. The sidewalk ahead shimmers with heat and promise. Our apartment’s three blocks east and the beach is three blocks west. Tourists clot the sand beyond, broiling themselves in oil. We veer north, toward the market stalls.

We’ve fallen into this rhythm—mornings at themarché, afternoons teaching violin students (her) and freelance editing for expat magazines (me), evenings bickering over whether we’re watchingBridgertonorEmily in Paris.It’s so aggressively normal it feels like playing house.

Today, though, I can’t stop thinking about that chair.

That stupid, empty husband chair in the corner of the room. It’s been empty for six months; why am I fussing over it now?

I know the answer. It’s because of two silly little words I can’t stop rolling in my head over and over again.

What if…?

That’s as far down that road as I dare to go. If I start filling in the blank that comes after “What if,” they’ll have to institutionalize me.

Because I can’t let myself think,What if that chair were filled?I can’t wonder,What ifhewas the one handing me tissues to wipe my belly off?I can’t ponder what names he might suggest, what jokes he might make, what smiles might spread across his face when he hears the proud thump of our children’s hearts.

What ifis a dangerous, dangerous game.

It’s also a pointless one, because in many ways, thereisno “what if.” France is home now. The twins will be born in the same cream-colored hospital complex currently shrinking in our wake. They’ll speak Franglais, suck down sugared churros, throw sand at German toddlers building drip castles in the shallows.

They’ll live their whole lives here. A world away from smoke-choked alleys and doorway bloodstains and men who hoard power like pocket change.

The crêpe stand guy knows us by now. “Les sœurs américaines!” he calls, already slinging batter.

“Grecques,” Jasmine corrects lightly, like she always does. He never listens.

The two of them banter as I gaze out at the navy blue ocean lapping atla plage. It’s hazy on the horizon. Might storm later, another afternoon sprinkle to take the edge off the heat for a little while. I rub my belly absent-mindedly and try not to think about empty chairs anymore.

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