Birthright by Nora Roberts

mother’s knee. “So you were a pothead floozy. Got it.”
    â€œYou’re trying to make this easier for me.” On an uneven breath, Vivian rested her head on Elliot’s shoulder. “She’s so much like you. Strong, like you. I wanted to try again. Elliot wanted to wait a little longer, but I was determined. I wouldn’t listen to anyone. I was, I suppose, obsessed. We fought about it.”
    â€œI was worried about your mother’s health. Physical, emotional.”
    â€œHe’d suggested adoption, brought me information on it. But I wouldn’t hear him. I’d see these women, pregnant, with babies. I’d think it’s my right, it’s my function. My friends were having children. Why should they and not us? They felt sorry for me, and that made it worse.”
    â€œI couldn’t stand to see her so unhappy. So lost. I couldn’t stand it.”
    â€œI got pregnant again. I was so happy. Sick—just like the other times. I’d get horribly sick, then dehydrated. But I was careful. When they said bed rest, I went to bed. This time I got past the first trimester, and it looked good. I felt the baby move. Remember, Elliot?”
    â€œYes, I remember.”
    â€œI bought maternity clothes. We started decorating the nursery. I read a mountain of books on pregnancy, on childbirth, on child rearing. There were some problems with my blood pressure, serious enough in the seventh month for them to hospitalize me briefly. But it seemed like everything was all right until . . .”
    â€œWe went in for an exam,” Elliot continued. “There was no fetal heartbeat. Tests showed the fetus had died.”
    â€œI didn’t believe them. Wouldn’t. Even though I’dstopped feeling the baby kick. I kept reading the books, I kept planning. I wouldn’t let Elliot discuss it—went wild if he tried to. I wouldn’t let him tell anyone.”
    â€œWe induced labor.”
    â€œIt was a little girl,” Vivian said quietly. “Stillborn. So beautiful, so tiny. I held her, and for a while I told myself she was only sleeping. But I knew she wasn’t, and when they took her away, I fell apart. I took pills to get through it. I . . . Oh God, I stole some of your father’s scripts and got Alivan and Seconal. I walked through the days in a fog, went through the nights like a corpse. I was working up the courage to take all of them at once and just go away.”
    â€œMom.”
    â€œShe was in a deep state of depression. The stillbirth, the hysterectomy. The loss, not only of another child but any hope of conceiving again.”
    How old had she been? Callie thought. Twenty-six? So young to face the loss. “I’m so sorry, Mom.”
    â€œPeople sent flowers,” Vivian continued. “I hated that. I’d close myself in the nursery, fold and refold the blankets, the little clothes I’d bought. We named her Alice. I wouldn’t go to the cemetery. I wouldn’t let Elliot take the crib away. As long as I didn’t go to her grave, as long as I could still fold the blankets and her little clothes, she wasn’t gone.”
    â€œI was afraid. This time I was really afraid,” Elliot admitted. “When I realized she was taking drugs in addition to what had been prescribed, I was terrified. I felt helpless, unable to reach her. Taking the meds away wasn’t going to reach the root of the problem. I talked with her OB. He brought up the possibility of adoption.”
    â€œI still didn’t want to listen,” Vivian put in. “But Elliot made me sit down, and he laid it out in stark medical terms. Shock treatment, you could say. There would not be another pregnancy. That was no longer an option. We could make a life, just the two of us. He loved me, and we could make a good life. If we wanted a child, it was time to explore other ways of having one. We were young, he reminded