nervous. Four plastic one-gallon containers of dittany sat in the corners of the blue room. Without light, the plant would never bloom. I kept the light off and tried to delay the inevitable.

But the baby within me, despite my dread, continued to grow. My stomach was so big by late January that I had to tilt the seat of my small car as far back as it would go. Even then, there was only an inch between my belly and the steering wheel. When the baby jabbed an elbow or a foot forward, it felt as though it was reaching out to take control of the car. I wore men’s clothes, T-shirts and sweatshirts that were too big and too long, and elastic- waist pants pulled low over my stomach. Occasionally, I passed as overweight, but most of the time I still fell prey to curious hands.

I met with clients as little as possible in the final month of my pregnancy, and delivered flowers well before guests arrived, leaving the bucket of iris behind. My ever-sloppier appearance was out of place among the well- dressed women, and I could see, though they pretended otherwise, that it made them uncomfortable.

Mother Ruby began to appear with frequency, only halfheartedly making excuses for her visits. Natalya was looking thin, she told me the first time, and she had baked a tofu casserole. Neither Natalya, who was not looking thin, nor I ate it. Tofu was one of the few foods I couldn’t stomach. When Natalya left to go on her first monthlong tour—the spread of her fan base had widened—I threw the casserole away in its heavy glass dish. Alone in the apartment, I began looking out the window before leaving, and if Mother Ruby sat on the sidewalk below, I would return to the blue room and lock all six locks.

Renata had told her mother of my pregnancy, I knew. Natalya wouldn’t have invited the frequent visits, and Renata, despite firing me, cared about my well-being, and had, inexplicably, from the moment we met. In the early mornings, as I arranged flowers on the downstairs floor, I would see her drive by, her truck heavy on the way to her shop. Our eyes would catch, and she would wave, and sometimes I would wave back, but she never stopped, and I never stood up.

In preparation for the baby, I gathered minimal newborn supplies: blankets, a bottle, formula, pajamas, and a hat. I couldn’t think of anything else. Wrapped in a numb paralysis, I purchased it all without anticipation or anxiety. I was not afraid of childbirth. Women had given birth since the beginning of time. Mothers died, babies died; mothers lived, and babies lived. Mothers raised babies and abandoned them, boys and girls, healthy and defected. I thought of all the possible outcomes, and not one seemed more tolerable than any of the others.

On the twenty-fifth of February I awoke swimming in water, and the pain started immediately after.

Natalya was still touring, and I was grateful for that. I had imagined biting pillows to muffle the sounds of childbirth, but there was no need. It was a Saturday, the adjacent office buildings were closed, and our apartment was empty. I opened my mouth at the first wavelike contraction, and a low growl came from somewhere within me. I did not recognize my voice or the burning pain in my body. When it passed, I closed my eyes and imagined myself floating on a deep blue sea.

I floated for a minute, maybe two, before the pain returned, sharper than before. Rolling onto my side, I felt the walls of my stomach like steel, closing in around the baby, pushing it down. The fur floor came out in wet clumps under the grasp of my fingers, and when the pain passed, I drummed angry fists against the bare patches.

The smell of dittany and damp soil seemed to be beckoning the baby, and all I wanted was to leave. It would be different on the cold cement sidewalk, I thought, amid traffic and noise. The baby would understand that there was no space in the world for a gentle entrance, nothing soft or welcoming. I would walk to the Mission and buy a donut, and the baby would get high on chocolate glaze and decide to remain unborn. Sitting in a hard plastic booth, the pain would stop; it had to.

Crawling out of the blue room, I tried to stand up. But I couldn’t. The contractions were a sweeping undertow, pulling me down. On all fours, I crept to the stool pushed against the kitchen counter, my neck dangling on the low metal bar. Perhaps my neck would snap, I thought with some optimism. Perhaps my head would roll off, severed, and this would be over. I opened my mouth and bit down on the metal as the next contraction overwhelmed me.

When the pain released, I craved water. Sliding across the wall to the bathroom, I bent over the sink, turned on the faucet, and cupped handfuls into my open mouth. It wasn’t enough. I turned on the water in the shower and pulled myself into the bathtub, the steady stream running into my mouth and down my throat. Turning around, I let the water soak through my clothes and down the length of my body. I stayed that way, the top of my head against the wall and the pressure drumming my lower back, until I ran out of hot water and stood, shivering, in dripping clothes.

Outside the shower, I leaned over the sink and began to swear, my voice deep and angry. I would hate my child for this. Mothers must all secretly despise their children for the inexcusable pain of childbirth. I understood my own mother in that moment as clearly as if we had just been introduced. I imagined her sneaking out of the hospital alone, her body split in two, abandoning her perfect swaddled baby, the baby she had exchanged for her own once-perfect body, her own once-pain-free existence. The pain and sacrifice were not forgivable. I did not deserve to be forgiven. Looking in the mirror, I tried to imagine my mother’s face.

The searing of the next contraction caused me to double over, my forehead pressed against the curved metal faucet. When I lifted my head and looked back into the mirror, it was not my imagined mother’s face I saw but Elizabeth’s. Her eyes were glazed, the way they got during the harvest, wild and full of anticipation.

I wanted, more than anything, to be with her.

5.

“Elizabeth!” I called.

My voice was frenzied, desperate. An early moon rose above Perla’s trailer, and the low rectangular structure cast a dark shadow up the hill to where I stood. Elizabeth responded to my voice immediately, turning to race along the edge of the shadow. She slipped in and out of the darkness until she stood before me. Moonlight illuminated the few silver hairs curling around her temples. Her face, in shadows, was a compilation of angles and lines accented by two soft, round eyes.

“Here,” I said. My heart beat audibly. I held out a single wine grape, polished it against my damp T-shirt, and held it out to her again.

Elizabeth took the grape and looked at me. Her mouth opened and closed. She chewed once, expelled seeds, chewed, swallowed, and chewed again. Her face changed. The strain lifted, and the sugar from the grape seemed to sweeten her skin; she flushed a youthful pink, smiled, and, without a moment’s hesitation, enclosed me in her strong arms. My great accomplishment expanded into the air around us until we were enveloped, protected in a bubble of our mutual joy. I leaned into her, proud, glowing, wrapping my arms around her waist, my feet still and my heart racing.

Holding me at arm’s length, she looked into my eyes. “Yes,” she said. “Finally.”

We had been searching for the first ripe grape for nearly a week. A sudden rise in temperatures had caused a spike in sweetness so sudden it was impossible to accurately evaluate the thousands of plants. Elizabeth, frantic, began to order me around as if I was an extension of her own tongue. Acres went untouched while Elizabeth and I split up and went row by row, sucking out centers, chewing skin, and spitting seeds. Elizabeth gave me a pointed stick, and in front of every vine I tasted I was to draw an O or an X, her symbols for sun and shade, followed by my sugar-tannin count. I started by the road: O 71:5, moved to behind the trailers: X 68:3, and then climbed the hill above the wine cellar: O 72:6. Elizabeth paced acres far from where I tasted but eventually came back to retrace my steps, tasting every second or third row and comparing it to my notes.

She hadn’t needed to question my ability, and she knew that now. She kissed my forehead, and I rocked toward her on my toes. For the first time in months, I felt wanted, cherished. Elizabeth sat down on the hillside and pulled me to her. We sat together in silence, watching the moon rise.

Our required focus on the approaching harvest had dulled Grant’s warning. There had been no time to think about Catherine or her threat. Now, surrounded by ripe grapes, our veins pounding with love for each other and for the vineyard, his words returned. I felt a rush of nerves.

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