Three Wishes by Barbara Delinsky

Thursday without fail, and while Flash’s pot roast was light-years better, memory had her avoiding the dish. Risotto, on the other hand, she loved.
    On Wednesday night, he brought her a book. It was one of the advance reading copies his agent had sent, a legal thriller that tackled the issue of privacy and had made him think, he said, as many of the others hadn’t. He thought she might enjoy it and was interested in her opinion. Would she read it? he asked. Like she would ever say no.
    On Thursday night, when the walls of her room were starting to close in, he helped her steal past the nurses’ station for a quick trip to the rooftop deck. Her pace was slow, but the freshness of the night justified the effort. She felt that she had never in her life seen so many stars. They seemed to fill the sky in ways that suggested a million worlds beyond.
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    Friday morning, a full week after the accident and an hour before her discharge, she formally met Dr. Simon Meade from St. Johnsbury. He examined her and removed her stitches. Then he drew up a chair and in a kindly voice broke the news that she would never be able to have a child. “When we reconstruct people’s insides like we did yours, their bodies develop scar tissue,” he explained. “It gets in the way of conception.”
    Bree was startled. “No children? Ever?”
    â€œI can’t say the chances are zero, but they’re pretty slim. You haven’t had any yet, have you?”
    She shook her head.
    â€œAnd you’re how old?”
    â€œThirty-three.”
    â€œYou’re less fertile now than you were ten years ago. Put that together with scarring, and you have a problem.”
    Bree hadn’t been thinking about having a child. She hadn’t been feeling desperate about it, hadn’t heard any biological clock ticking. So she was surprised when her eyes filled with tears.
    â€œI’m sorry,” the doctor said. “This is the worst part of my job. The good news is that you’re alive. If you’d been left lying in the snow, you’d have bled to death.”
    She knew that. And she was grateful. And she really hadn’t had her heart set on having children.
    Still, there was an awful emptiness, a sudden sense of loss.
    â€œIn every other respect, you’re healing well,” the doctor went on. “I agree with Dr. Sealy. No reason why you can’t go home. Take it easy for the next few weeks. Add activity a little at a time. Listen to your body. It’ll tell you what you can do.”
    She continued to stare at him through tear-filled eyes.
    He rose from the bed, gave her hand a pat, and smiled. “I have to get back to St. Johnsbury. This is a long way to come to make rounds.”
    She swallowed the lump in her throat.
    â€œWell, then,” he said, “good luck to you.” He turned toward the door.
    â€œDr. Meade?” When he looked back, she said, “What if I lie perfectly still?”
    He seemed confused.
    â€œIf I lie perfectly still, will less scar tissue grow?”
    â€œNo. Scarring is a natural part of healing.”
    â€œThere’s no way to prevent it?”
    â€œNo.”
    She swallowed again, took a breath, thought of the benevolent being of light, and felt less alone. It was all right, she reasoned. So she wasn’t destined to be a mother. She supposed it made sense. She hadn’t grown up in a house full of kids. She didn’t have a maternal role model, or even a husband. She wouldn’t know what to do with a child of her own. Besides, she didn’t want to be tied down, after being finally free after so long.
    So fate had simply formalized what her instincts had always known.
    She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, took another breath, and smiled at the doctor, who lifted a hand in farewell and turned again toward the door.
    That was when she saw the mole on the back of his neck.
    Once the breakfast rush at the