PRELUDE
Twenty-Seven Years Ago
For the fourth time in less than twelve hours, Bridget was doing something that could get her pregnant. Staring up at the acoustic-tile ceiling, she sincerely hoped the doctor (an older gentleman who had an air of celibacy about him) wouldn’t be able to tell that she’d already been pretty spectacularly inseminated three times since midnight. And she had to remind herself—on the off chance that the doctor could detect the cost-free sperm occupying the territory where he was currently placing very expensive Ivy League sperm—that she shouldn’t feel guilty about the situation she found herself in. She’d made a clearheaded, deliberate, positive decision to have this procedure done, regardless of what had happened last night, which was why she’d shown up after almost canceling the appointment earlier that morning. She’d settled on one point: she wanted a baby. So all she had done, really, was up the chances. What difference did it make from whom the sperm came, as long as it came from a well-chosen, clever, handsome donor? The donations in Bridget’s uterus, whether freely given or contractually obtained, were specimens of the finest order.
With her feet in the stirrups, memories of the previous night ran through her mind, and she smiled.
“And that’s all there is to it,” the doctor said, snapping off a surgical glove. “Not so romantic, but it may do the trick.”
“Super,” Bridget said. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
After lying flat on her back for the requisite period, she left the office, hungover but glowing. She found a pay phone and called Will, who picked up on the first ring.
“I was about to call the police to report you missing,” he said.
“Are you hungry? Meet me at that place.”
“I was worried! The egg place or the croissant place?”
“Egg,” she said. “Half an hour. Love you.”
She got on the crosstown bus and took a window seat, deciding she would enjoy this little moment of not knowing one way or the other, of standing on a threshold. She was at the edge of something new, in that space before you begin.
On your mark, get set…
JUNE
1
Halfway up the leafy, winding driveway, past the grove of ferns that were beginning to unfurl along the rubbly wall, Bridget’s station wagon hit a pothole. The grocery bags on the passenger seat tipped over, sending lemons and onions rolling around on the floor of the car, while one of the suitcases slid from the top of the pile and smacked against the back hatch, upsetting the cats in their carriers. Bridget slowed down. Next to one of the granite boulders was a downed tree, directly under the electrical lines, that had left a debris field all the way to the spot where the driveway forked, the woodsier side leading to the guesthouse, a small Hansel-and-Gretel cottage with gingerbread trim and peeling white shutters. Bridget took the slightly more manicured route, startling a bunch of turkeys by the edge of the forest as she approached, making them scatter like teenagers busted at a keg party. She turned off the car in front of her clapboard weekend house, grateful to stop the sound from both the engine and the radio, which was playing a version of Beethoven’s Fifth that was so bad she hadn’t been able to stop listening to it. Bridget opened the car door to a preferable sound: the chirping and croaking of every horny amphibian in and around the pond.
She looked into the backseat, where her cello was securely wedged in, and geared up to start carrying the full load she’d packed for the summer into the house, but her phone rang before she could even get out of the car to stretch her legs. The cats meowed in protest.
“I think I have a cavity,” Isabelle said.
“Hi to you, too. You have a toothache?”
“The whole left side of my face hurts. Where are you?”
“I just got to the house and spooked a gaggle of turkeys,” Bridget said. “The weather’s looking a little iffy—”
“A rafter of turkeys. Don’t even tell me; I’m so jealous. So, I woke up with this throbbing pain, and I have to go to work. What do I do?”
“Compresses,” Bridget told her grown daughter, who was over six thousand miles away. “Gargle with warm water and salt and take Tylenol. Can you make an appointment to see a dentist during your lunch break?”
“I want to go to Dr. Herndon, not some random—”
“You can’t wait a year to fill a cavity.”
“You think I should come home?” Isabelle asked, as if that were a completely reasonable question.
“There are excellent dentists there. Did you eat breakfast?” It always amazed Bridget to think that in Hong Kong, Isabelle was already experiencing tomorrow.
“I can’t chew.”
“Have a yogurt.”
“I wonder if it’s my wisdom teeth; I should have gotten them out in college like everyone else.” Isabelle’s voice came into focus, and Bridget could tell she’d been taken off speakerphone: “Have you talked to Oscar, like in the past couple of days?”
“I’ve texted him.” Bridget was having a tough time negotiating a pattern of communication with her newlywed son. She didn’t want to be overbearing, but she certainly didn’t want to seem uninterested in the details of his life. She was interested, very much so, in fact. Were weekly calls acceptable? And should she try calling Matt also? Or was it okay that she usually reached out to Oscar, leaving messages since her calls often went to voicemail? They both worked all the time.
“You should call him,” said Isabelle. “Cold compresses or hot?”
“Is your face swollen?”
There was a pause as Isabelle, presumably, consulted a mirror. “Not really.”
“Hot then,” said Bridget. She got out of the car, noticing how damp and warm the air was, how good it smelled, and opened the door to the backseat. “Trust your instincts; they’ve always been excellent.”
“I’m fine, don’t worry.” And then she added, “It’s just that, I sometimes wonder what I’m even doing here. I feel like I’m not living my best life, or maybe I mean the right life.” Isabelle sighed. “I miss you.”
That last sentiment made Bridget feel even worse than the thought of her daughter suffering a toothache. “I miss you, too, but this all seems perfectly normal. You’re adjusting to a new place. You’ll be great as soon as you settle in and make some friends.”
“Are you coming to visit?”
The cats were scratching at the bars of their carriers.
“I don’t have our fall schedule yet. It depends on our new violinist, who—”
“Oops, crud, it’s almost seven. I gotta go to work.”
“See a dentist,” Bridget said. “Love you.”
She got her cello case out of the backseat and put the straps over her shoulders, reaching back into the car awkwardly to get the cats. She carried them to the front door, looking out across the field to the barn in the distance. It was surprisingly dusky, the evening providing a dim filter that flattered her well-worn home.
There was a low rumble overhead, and the sky darkened.
* * *