I wonder what made you do it. We were all so happy when the news came—we sent copies of the ultrasound to friends and family, just black and white radar images, but they all knew what those splotches and dots had to offer. They sent us congrats, sent us money and furniture and clothes. And you were so happy—your smile so broad, your eyes wrinkled in the corners. You were so radiant, so pleased at what we’d achieved, that even your mother commented on the unusual glow of your skin. You took the time to fix your hair and wear dresses and meet with your friends for a drink—only to tell them with pink cheeks that you weren’t drinking at all, and that they should all drink for you. Even the boys at the firehouse found out and gave me more than your fair share when we went out to celebrate, and all I can remember is the width of your smile when the news spread.

But it’s been months now and our house is quiet. The furniture casts dark shadows on the walls; the little clothes in the closet still have little tags on them. The kudos are all gone now, and you always drink more than your fair share.

I find you curled in the chair-and-a-half in the den, facing the empty fireplace. It’s dark and cold—no fire is lit, no candles for comfort. The blinds are drawn shut to the twilight outside. Your knees are tucked to your chest, and the thick white robe you’ve wrapped around your small frame is perpetually slipping off. Your auburn locks are disheveled and damp, cast carelessly about your face and bare shoulders. In your delicate hands rests the crystal of an oversized glass. It’s half-filled with red wine, and its upright rim just kisses your pale lips.

“Lillia,” I say your name softly into the room. I hope my voice does not betray the weight I feel in my chest.

Your grey eyes stay fixed on the empty fireplace; the glass never leaves your lips.

My bare feet make soft footprints into the carpet as I tread farther into the room. As I get closer I notice the darkness underneath your eyes, the raw tiredness. I kneel down next to you, so I’m just below your eye level, and try again. “Lilly?”

The room darkens as the light fades outside; I’m suddenly colorblind in the twilight. Not even the copper hue of your hair can survive the lighting of dusk; only the red of your wine stands out—bold as the blood on our sheets.

I touch the backs of my fingers to your robed arm and you start, sloshing the wine around in the glass. Some of it escapes the crystal’s lip and trails across the outside of your left hand. Your steel grey eyes shift to me as you bring your hand to your lips and delicately lick the wine away with the dignity of a sphinx merely grooming. Your lips adjust the diamond ring on your third finger as you regard me blankly.

“You okay?” I ask quietly.

“Same as always.” You look down to regard the now-still wine in the glass. It is still absurdly red, stark and maddening in its tranquil existence in our monochromatic den.

“Trish, from work,” you say suddenly, “the one who was gone on that trip with her husband for like a month,” you glance at me briefly while I nod recognition at the name, “she…” you look back into the wine, “she asked me today about the baby.”

I swallow audibly. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” you say, taking a sip out of the wine glass. “And the whole office just stopped what it was doing just to listen and see what I’d say.” I can hear the edge in your voice, the grating harshness between the words.

I swallow again, less audibly. “What did you say?” I ask.

You take another sip of the wine. “That I lost it. And then I walked into my office and closed the door and nobody bugged me for the rest of the day.”

“No one said anything to you for the rest of the day?”

“Not really,” you glance sideways at me. “I mean, there were the occasional I’m-so-sorry’s, and a few people even sent me e-mails, just saying that if I wanted, needed, help, they were there for me. The usual crap.”

You take a large gulp of wine and look at the empty fireplace. “I mean, I guess I never really went out and told them what happened… I just stopped talking about the baby and they stopped asking and it was fine. But, I mean, what did they expect? That I should just flat-out tell them when the doctor told me the baby might have—that the baby might be—you know! That when he told me that I freaked out and didn’t want to handle the responsibility? That I went home and shoved fresh parsley up my kooch for three days straight and drank nothing but parsley tea and Vitamin C pills until I bled?”

I consciously make the decision to close my mouth and smooth my face.

You don’t notice the effort, and take another large swig of wine.

“Was I supposed to tell them my whole life story, that it hurt like a mother and I’m still scared and sad and that I didn’t even consult with you or any doctors beforehand because I thought I’d be talked out of it and have a retarded baby on my conscience for the rest of my life? Should I have told them that their Human Relations liaison was bigoted against her own child and couldn’t bear the thought of not having a baby that was normal?”

You finish off the wine and fling the glass into the dark fireplace—I hear the crystal break against the brick wall.

I look from the fireplace back to you, conscious of the wrinkles on my face.

The room has darkened considerably from the twilight—its full dark outside and I’m surprised at how well my eyes have adapted to the darkness of the room. I can see tears in your grey eyes.

“You don’t hate me, do you?” you ask with a voice that skids on the crystal shards in the fireplace. “I wanted the baby, I really did. But I wanted a baby with a chance in life, more than a baby who would suffer and struggle.” You grab my hand, and your eyes find mine for the first time in months. “You understand, right?”