“It’s not uncommon for a pregnant woman to feel disconnected from her body, nor is it uncommon for a first-time mother to find it hard to believe that there will be a baby. This is not indicative that you will be a poor mother,” Dr. Singh says.
“Shouldn’t I love it more or something?” I ask.
He raises his hand in a gesture of ambivalence. “Eh?” he says. “Are you taking your prenatal vitamins?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been to all your obstetrician appointments, yes? Getting gentle exercise, yes?”
“I take walks a few times a week.” I don’t understand why this therapy appointment is suddenly about my physical health.
“Then it sounds to me like you are loving this fetus as much as you can,” Dr. Singh says. “Love is an action, and all the actions you are taking speak of love.”
It’s my turn to shrug.
“I wanted to talk to you about your plans outside motherhood,” he says. “You will still be a person with dreams. You said you wanted to write a novel, yes?”
“I wrote one.”
“You’re writing a novel?”
“No.” I laugh for the first time in days. “I wrote one. I finished it. Well, I’m still editing it.” I still cry while I edit, which slows me down, but I don’t have to stop anymore because of the crying, so that’s an improvement. And I’m reading books that aren’t about babies when I’m not editing. I may not be going to college this year or the next, but that’s no reason I can’t give myself my own literature course.
“But the story is complete?” Dr. Singh raises his bushy eyebrows in a way I’ve never seen before.
“Yeah.”
“That is very good. Very good.” He adjusts his glasses. “Do you know how many people start novels they never finish?”
“Probably a lot? Lots of people finish them too.”
“My son is thirty-two and has been working on his since college,” Dr Singh says. “I think you should be proud of yourself.”
“Finny was proud of me,” I say.
“I can’t wait to read it.”
Dr. Singh shifts in his seat. “I was hoping that at next week’s group therapy session, you’ll share with the others why you are there. I understood why you didn’t contribute last week, but I do hope it is a space that you can feel comfortable.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say. “That Brittaney girl was kinda annoying.”
Dr. Singh surprises me by laughing. “Oh, ha! Brittaney is what my generation calls a spitfire. She is someone I’ve known a long time, or rather I once knew her parents in a professional—Well, her story is not mine to tell, but she is someone you could learn from, Autumn.”
I can’t help what my face does at that idea.
Dr. Singh suddenly looks old. He presses his lips together before speaking. “Autumn, she is a survivor.” His voice lands heavy on the last word.
“Of what?” I ask.
“Everything,” Dr. Singh says.
