Lullaby and Goodnight Read Free Page A

tucked behind her ears in an effortless yet elegant style. She probably has a perfect manicure, and pedicure, too. Derry, whose nails are ragged from incessant biting and whose wavy tresses are caught back in a plastic banana clip, is just over five feet tall and perpetually carrying an extra twenty-five pounds.
    As the other woman passes, Derry does her best not to stare. Or glare.
    “Thanks again, Nancy,” the woman says over her shoulder to the nurse.
    “Congratulations again, Peyton,” the nurse replies, beaming.
    Congratulations? In this office, that can only mean one thing. The woman is pregnant.
    Derry is momentarily stilled by a fierce stab of jealousy as she stares after the retreating stranger in dismay.
    You should feel hopeful, not resentful, she chides herself. If she’s pregnant, you can get pregnant, too.
    But what if the woman paid a fortune for infertility treatments? She looks as though she can afford it. Derry, in five-dollar Kmart clearance sneakers and too-snug ten-year-old jeans, cannot.
    She shouldn’t even be here, really. Her regular ob-gyn is up in the Bronx, where she lives. But one of her neighbors recommended this fancy Manhattan doctor, saying that if it weren’t for him, her daughter couldn’t have given her three grandchildren.
    Derry would like nothing more than to give her aging mother three grandchildren. Then perhaps they could find the common ground that has eluded their relationship, particularly since Derry moved across the country against her parents’ wishes.
    “Right in here,” the nurse says pleasantly, indicating an empty examination room.
    “Thanks, Nancy.” Derry nods, as though she and Dr. Lombardo’s nurse have always been on a first-name basis when in reality, she never even paid attention to the woman’s name tag in the past.
    You should be more aware of things like that from now on, she tells herself.
    Not that being casually friendly with the fertility specialist’s staff has any bearing on whether or not she’ll eventually find herself on the receiving end of pregnancy congratulations. But it can’t hurt, right?
    Linden steps back to allow Derry to step over the threshold ahead of him.
    She’s careful to do it with her right foot.
    Yes, if she steps over the threshold with her right foot, everything will be all right.
     
    Out on the street, Peyton is greeted by a burst of icy air. Overhead, the midtown skyscrapers are outlined against a pastel blue backdrop, milky February sunshine cascading down between them to cast her lanky shadow on the dry concrete sidewalk.
    She smiles at the notion of how drastically that silhouette is going to change in the coming months. Glancing down at her stomach as she buttons her long cashmere coat over it, she imagines that it’s the tiniest bit swollen. She knows it isn’t, not yet. But soon enough, it will be.
    A man in a trench coat brushes by her, jostling her slightly with his briefcase. Peyton’s arms automatically cross in front of her, shielding her midsection and its precious cargo. In that momentary instinct, she grasps the scope of the tremendous responsibility that awaits.
    Another human life is in her hands. Forever.
    How can she do this alone?
    Too late to turn back now, she reminds herself, reclaiming her staunch Somerset mentality. And you can do it. Plenty of people do it, these days.
    Single motherhood may still bear a stigma back home in the Midwest, but it’s become commonplace—almost trendy—here in the city, not to mention in the media.
    Reassured for the time being, Peyton checks her watch, then looks around for a vacant taxi. The only yellow cab in the immediate vicinity is occupied and trying to back its way out of a turn down East Fifty-second Street, and no wonder. The block is clogged with traffic, funneled down to one lane at the corner because of construction. Jackhammers vibrate, car horns blare, pedestrians jaywalk, bike messengers weave in and out . . . typical midtown midday