I see the Caymans. A white room with shuttered windows and a ceiling fan that stirs air that’s too humid and hot to really go anywhere. I see a bathtub, and me slumped beside it, bleeding all over the tile, just like Giana. The light in my womb flickering, fluttering… gone.
I dig my fingernails into the wood paneling of the wall until the half-moons hurt. My little fruit basket baby can’t hear me, but I think it anyway: We are not dying, okay? Not here. Not today.
That is enough to ground me. I straighten up and press a knuckle to the corner of each eye to dab away whatever moisture is threatening to ruin the illusion that I’m still a woman who has her s**t together.
Then I walk back into the ballroom like nothing happened.
Raymond is where I left him. He’s standing by a column wreathe
