To Malcolm, I was still me, still Elena Fischer Fairchild. There was no way to explain to him that I wasn’t, and that I hadn’t been since the day Anne was born. These babies of mine took something when they left me, thin slices of myself, leaving empty spots. Dead spots. I think I died a little when Anne was born, and I think I died a little more this time around. With Freddie sleeping on my bare breast, I whispered to her. “I’ll do anything for you, baby girl. That’s a promise.” When she stirred and stared up at me with those big eyes, those eyes that would be the same size at three and at
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