Dawn of Eve, MJ Howson [lightweight ebook reader TXT] 📗

be the best.” Dawn paused and reflected on her past sessions. “You wouldn’t know it from his dumpy office. I . . . I guess it just takes time.”

“If he’s the best, then you should stick with him.”

“Thanks, Joe. I plan to. I’m doing it for my Jacob. We’re in this together. It was good to chat.”

“You take care, Miss Easton.”

Dawn made her way back to the High Line. Her coffee had cooled enough that she could enjoy a few small sips. More importantly, the cup was no longer uncomfortable to hold. Dawn smiled as she headed south. The lush plants scattered along the pathway transformed the High Line into a world very different from the dingy streets down below. Soon, the Spire cast a shadow across the walkway as Dawn continued past her building.

Although her doctor’s office was located on 23rd Street, Dawn’s morning routine included a long walk down to the 10th Avenue bleachers located at 17th Street. She kept her paper bag closed, saving her pastry until she reached the bleachers. Along the way, she passed a few moms pushing strollers. Dawn couldn’t help but take a peek at the babies squirming or sleeping inside.

The sunken bleachers were positioned in front of an expansive set of windows overlooking the traffic down below. Dawn preferred to enjoy her breakfast at one of the benches beneath the trees on the upper deck instead of sitting down in the exposed stadium-style bleachers.

Dawn paused to watch the mix of tourists and residents spread out in the overlook. She then took a seat at one of the benches, placing her pastry bag and coffee by her side. She popped the lid from the coffee and took a long sip. The twenty-minute walk from Hudson Yards allowed the coffee to cool to a comfortable level. She then retrieved her miguelito and took a bite of the puffy pastry, doing her best to keep the sweet cream filling from spilling down her face. Dawn ran her tongue across her upper lip, collecting the powdered sugar left behind.

A young woman pushing a stroller stopped at the bench across from Dawn. She nodded toward Dawn before reaching into the buggy and retrieving her baby. The young infant girl immediately began to cry and squirm in her pink cotton blanket. The woman sat and began to gently bounce the baby on her knee.

Dawn tried not to watch as the mother unbuttoned her blouse and began to breastfeed her child. The woman never looked over at Dawn. Instead, she stared at her daughter, gently rocking and caressing her. Dawn’s unease became replaced by fascination, and she soon found it difficult to look away.

Watching this mother bond with her newborn child only made Dawn realize how much she wanted a daughter of her own. She quickly devoured the rest of her pastry and wiped her lips clean. Envy began to brew within her. Joe’s wife produced four kids after two miscarriages. Why couldn’t that be her?

“Do you have any children?” the young mother asked.

“Me? Oh.” Dawn was thoroughly embarrassed. Had the woman noticed her staring? Was she just being polite? Curious? “No. No, I don’t. Not . . . not yet.”

“They’re God’s miracle.”

Dawn smiled and took another sip of her coffee, enjoying the nutty caramel scent. Her feelings of jealousy softened. She suddenly felt that it was only a matter of time before she’d be the one sitting on this park bench during a beautiful day, breastfeeding her daughter. She looked into her coffee and felt hope wash over her. Jacob. Jacob was the key. Dawn reached for the sapphire pendant around her neck and gently took it into her hand. She closed her eyes and told herself Jacob was her path to another miracle.

Dawn looked at her watch and realized she was running late. She grabbed her empty bag and coffee and waved politely to the young mother. Dawn turned north on the High Line and found herself looking forward to her therapy session.

Seven

Therapy

Dr. Winston Cole leaned back in his office chair, causing the springs and hinges to squeak. At sixty years old, he’d spent decades building up his psychiatric practice. The stocky heavyset African-American was proud of what he’d achieved. A Detroit native, he met his wife while getting his undergraduate at Columbia University, and the pair got married in 1986. They fell in love with one another and also New York City. He never regretted building a practice in Manhattan, although lately, he found himself tiring of the long cold winters.

Dawn Easton’s folder sat open in front of Dr. Cole. A nearby notepad had the current session information scrawled across the top - Easton-D 8/2/19. He always liked to review the notes from his last session right before a patient’s next meeting. He adjusted his reading glasses, stroked his close-cropped silver beard, and began to flip through her history. Dawn’s case fascinated him. She was suffering from postpartum depression due to her fifth miscarriage. Her aversion to discussing her past worried him. But he was more concerned about her recurring nightmare of her unborn child calling for her. Dr. Cole had Dawn on Prozac to help with her anxiety.

The doctor opened a drawer in his desk and removed a small digital audio recorder. Dr. Cole frowned when he noticed the split in the attached power cord. He checked the battery compartment, only to find it stuffed with bubbling, corroded batteries. Dr. Cole sighed and looked across the office through the open door.

“Flo?” Dr. Cole called out.

A few moments passed before his wife appeared in the doorway. Similar in size to her husband, Flo’s shockingly colorful striped dress popped, especially against her deep cacao skin. She stepped into his office, looked at her husband, and raised an eyebrow.

“The recorder’s busted,” Dr. Cole said. He waved the broken device back and forth, allowing the frayed cord to brush against the papers on his desk. “I think Luna got to it.”

“Are you going to