Kara Was Here. William Conescu

a few.”

      “I can make.”

      “Even better,” she called back.

      Brad glanced at the coffee table—an action movie and a thriller. He’d seen one of them in the theaters without her, but the other would pass the time. It was sweet of her. She was responding to the funeral the other day, of course. She didn’t know about the MRI that morning.

      In the kitchen, Brad opened the fridge and pulled out the eggs and a roll of that gooey croissant dough they liked to pretend wasn’t unhealthy. He preheated the oven and unrolled the dough and carefully folded little croissants on a cookie tray. If it had been any other time in their lives, of course he’d have told her about the test—and she’d have been a great support. But now, when things were so difficult for her, he couldn’t bring himself to burden her with one more worry.

      Upstairs the shower clicked on. She was washing away the day, the smells, the sickness. He hadn’t realized how lucky she’d been during the start of the first pregnancy. She was in high spirits every morning, never complained of discomfort. This time around, she had to invent almost daily excuses to leave the classroom. There was a book she’d forgotten in her car, a message to pick up from the principal’s office. She started leaving things in the teacher’s lounge to facilitate these exits: an interesting poem she’d photocopied, papers she’d finished grading, cupcakes because it was Friday.

      And it wasn’t just the morning sickness she was hiding. It was the whole thing. They were in week twelve. Last time she’d miscarried during week fifteen, though the doctor said she’d probably lost the baby a week or two before. Once they passed the fifteenth week this time around, he knew everything would be back to normal—better than normal. So much better. But in the meantime, they’d agreed not to tell their parents or celebrate prematurely, and she certainly wasn’t saying anything at school, not after last time. The memory of it haunted every day as the pregnancy inched forward.

      Val taught middle school English in Chapel Hill, and everyone there loved her—the kids and parents, the young teachers and the old regime. She created the school’s summer enrichment camp when she was barely out of college, and two summers ago, she walked into the cafeteria one day to find the whole camp throwing her a surprise baby shower. One of the kids started a secret ballot competition: “Guess what Mrs. Mitchell will name her baby.” There were over a hundred entries.

      She was at the camp when it happened. She was standing in front of a classroom, thanking a guest speaker, and her water broke. She’d been bleeding off and on, but the doctor had said she was fine. Then in the teacher’s lounge bathroom, before Brad could get there, a wet mass slipped out of her into the toilet. When he arrived, he found her sitting on the floor beside the toilet bowl. She showed him what was inside: It looked like something out of an ultrasound image—little arms and legs—but broken and drowned in a murky pool. They didn’t know what else to do. Eventually, she let him flush.

      After that, Val stayed away from the camp during its final weeks. And for months—maybe a year—when she and Brad were out at the mall, the same kids who used to run up to her to say hello and introduce a parent or sibling or friend or pet kept their distance but stared. And Val, who had never avoided a student in public, who loved to wave across the restaurant to a smiling kid with braces, would look down into nothingness. Brad wasn’t certain she even noticed the kids noticing her.

      When he and Val started trying again, they decided to time it so she wouldn’t show during the school year and could take the summer off. As it turned out, she got pregnant quickly, so now she was starting to show and had to get creative with her clothes, wearing light sweaters and shawls in late May, long blazers and loose dresses. During class her forehead would bead up with sweat, and she had to reapply antiperspirant at lunch. And as often as they went to the obstetrician, they couldn’t help wondering the next day, would there still be a heartbeat? Was the baby inside her still alive?

      Add to this the morning sickness she had to conceal every day at school—and she made light of that part, but he knew it pained her. Every day of it pained her. But soon things would be better. School would let out, and she could stop pretending. She could let her belly hang out, and live in maternity pants, and stop working so hard for once in her life. Week fifteen would pass, and they could let themselves be excited.

      Val returned downstairs wearing the terrycloth robe he’d given her for Christmas, her cherry-brown hair pulled back in a clip. He could see in her eyes that she’d be in bed by nine at the latest. “How are we doing?” she asked.

      The croissants were in the oven. He’d just cracked the eggs in the pan, sunny-side up. “Good, we’re close.”

      “I’m kinda feeling the groove,” she said. “Are you?”

      “I can be.”

      “Truth be told, I’ve been fantasizing about it all day,” she said. “I’ll go set up.”

      Brad smiled to himself. When she bought the PlayStation, she made a valiant effort to pretend it was for him, but she’d gotten it for Trivia Master, a game show–style quiz game they could play online. She’d been a pub trivia fanatic in college, before he knew her. She also attended a Rock-Paper-Scissors competition once—for the camp value, she insisted, though he liked to tell friends she’d put herself through college on the competitive Rock-Paper-Scissors circuit.

      “Our nemesis is online,” she called to the kitchen. “Can we start while we eat?”

      “Fine, sure.”

      “Excellent . . . I now know for a fact that two of my seventh graders play this game. Sarah and Max could be ‘Smartie Pantz 007.’”

      Brad carried the plates into the living room. “Isn’t ‘Smartie Pantz 007’ from Akron, Ohio?” Brad checked the screen.

      “It’s a front. I said we’re from Atlanta.”

      “How exotic.”

      Val took a bite of croissant—“Mmm”—and started the game. “My deep dark secret.”

      “‘The Twinkie Express,’” Brad said. The name she’d given their team.

      Val chose the topic “Word Play,” and the animated host read their first question aloud. “The word ungulate means: (a) to fluctuate, (b) a hoofed mammal, (c) the fleshy lobe in the back of the mouth, or (d) to regurgitate.”

      “It’s not C,” Brad said.

      “It’s B,” Val said, and she made the selection on the screen.

      The host smiled. “You, my friend, are correct.”

      Now it was Smartie Pantz 007’s turn.

      “How was your showing this morning?” Val asked.

      Showing? Brad hadn’t seen a client all day.

      But he had left the house early, to go to the hospital—

      “Fine,” he told her. “Fine. Nothing special.”

      A wave of guilt passed over him. But it was only a precaution, that’s what the doctor had said. In a few days, he’d know it was nothing, and nothing would have been hidden.

      Still he did feel a little odd about hiding it. And about imagining Kara there.

      “‘Facts and Figures’ or ‘Mysteries of Science’?” Val asked. She was back to the game.

      And it really wasn’t a big deal. There was no sense thinking too hard about it. “Mysteries,” Brad said.

      “Excellent choice,” the digital host replied.

      Margot was still thinking about the voicemail message when she pulled her minivan into the garage. It was a call from Collin, a mess of a guy who’d been Kara’s roommate before they had a falling out and Kara moved in with Mullet. Margot had barely met the