I stared at the vivid red cross on the test and realized I was humming the Beatles song “I feel fine.” I had a plan. I put the test in a small Ziploc bag and slid it into my desk. Then I went to a liquor store and bought a bottle of their best champagne. My first thought was to go to Hugh’s office and surprise him, but I realized I didn’t want his assistants to know yet. I called instead and asked if we could have lunch. To my great dismay, he said no. He had to meet with clients all afternoon and might not be home till late. I was on the verge of telling him then, but that would have been wrong. Over the telephone? This was our greatest event and it deserved special treatment. The announcement had to wait till later.

I stood in the middle of Eighty-first Street with a bottle of champagne and the best news I’d ever had but no one to share them with. If only my parents were still alive.

To make matters worse, ten feet away across the sidewalk a well-dressed middle-aged woman suddenly started screaming, “Where is everyone going?” again and again in a voice that could have opened the eyes of the dead. In typical New York fashion, people steered a wide path around her, but I was mesmerized. Her fists were against her cheeks, and she looked like a mad Edvard Munch character. Naturally she ended up staring at me, her audience of one. Snapping out of my trance, I didn’t know whether to flee or try to help her.

“Where are they going?” she pleaded, as if I knew who “they” were or where they were headed. She continued staring at me in the most beseeching way.

The only thing I could say was, “I don’t know.”

“But you have to know; you’ve been here longer than any of us!” And with that she moved off down the street in a swift stagger that was as awful to see as the look on her face.

After making sure she wasn’t coming back, I returned to the phone booth and called Zoe. Halfway through tapping out her number I hung up, remembering she had flown out to Los Angeles two days before to visit Doug Auerbach.

Frances! Frances was always home, thank God. She answered after the fifth ring. When I asked if I could visit, she happily said, “Of course!” I went to a specialty market and bought tins of pate and Russian caviar, a beautifully fresh French bread, and a box of Belgian chocolates.

When I hailed a cab the sun was shining brightly, but on the way uptown the sky darkened abruptly and thunder rolled. The rain began just before I saw the madwoman again. She was now walking briskly in a purposeful stride that said, Outta the way I’m in a hurry. So different from minutes before when she’d been standing on the sidewalk looking like aliens had landed inside her skull. Now she looked straight ahead and her arms pumped back and forth, rump rump rump.

But the moment we passed, her head jerked toward me. She raised a hand and shook a scolding finger. Shocked, I turned away. The rain swirled silvery down the window. The street shone glossy black. Cars hissed by. Umbrellas were everywhere. I wanted to look at her again but was afraid. The rest of the ride uptown I tried to keep my eyes closed. I listened to the rain and the bumpity-bump of the tires hitting ruts in the road. I thought of the baby. I thought of Hugh.

Arriving at Frances’s, I paid the driver and ran across the courtyard into her section of the building. The rain soaked the paper bag full of food and I felt it coming apart in my hands. I stopped on a landing and took the things out. Cradling them in my arms, I started up the stairs. They weren’t heavy, but in a moment they were much too heavy. Suddenly I was dizzy and too hot to go on. I was barely able to lower myself to a step without keeling over. I put the food down and put my head in my hands. Was this what pregnancy was going to be like? Nine months of feeling great and then abruptly feeling like you were going to keel over?

Normally the building was as loud as a train station. Kids ran shouting up and down the stairs, dogs barked, radios and TVs blasted. Today it was virtually silent but for the rain pattering outside. I sat trying to will the dizziness away so I could go up and tell Frances my joyous news.

At the same time, it was enjoyable sitting there alone on that cold step, listening to the rain outside plink on metal, splat on stone, gurgle urgently down into the drains. I had never realized before what a variety of rain sounds there were. Rain had always been rain—something to avoid or watch dreamily through a window. It made the familiar world wet and shiny and different awhile and then you forgot about it till the next time. But alone now surrounded only by rain noises, I was able to recognize more and more distinctions: rain on wood, sliding down glass, rain on rain. Yes, there was even a sound to that, but a hidden one, altogether secret,

I lifted my head and said aloud, “That’s not right. No one can hear those things.” But I was already hearing other things too: conversations, channels changing on a television, someone peeing hard into a toilet. What’s more, I knew exactly what each of the sounds was. Feet crossing a floor, a cat purring, a person licking their dry lips in sleep, toenails being clipped.

I looked around to check if any doors were open nearby. No. Only the rain outside and now this relentless cascade of sounds falling over me. From behind those closed doors, from apartments twenty or thirty feet away. Noises I shouldn’t have heard. Impossible from where I was sitting.

Back in some bedroom behind closed doors where two kids were supposed to be taking a nap, one little boy was whispering to his brother, both of them under the blanket on his bed. Somewhere else in the building a woman sang quietly along with the radio in her kitchen as she washed dishes. It was the Dixie Cups song “The Chapel of Love.” I heard the rush of aerated water in the sink, the squeak of the sponge on glass, her quiet melancholic voice.

“I fuck you good. You know I fuck you good.”

“Fuck me hard.”

I could hear their grunting breath, the smack of kisses, hands sliding over skin. I could hear everything. But where were these people? How was this possible?

I stood up. I didn’t want to hear. But none of it would stop. Cars ssh’d and honked outside on the street, a heating pipe clanked in the basement, pigeons chuckled on the windowsill, food fried, people argued, an old woman prayed. “Oh God, you know how scared I am, but you not helping me through this.” All the sounds of a rainy day in Manhattan were too near and I couldn’t stop them. I covered my ears and shook my head from side to side like a wet dog. For a moment the sounds of the world stopped. Silence again. Beautiful, empty silence returned.

But then it came and it was the biggest sound of all. My heart. The dull, huge boom of my beating heart filled the air and space of the world around me. I could only stand and listen, terrified. What was worse was the irregularity. Boom boom boom, then nothing for seconds. It started again, only to go and stop and go with no evenness, no rhythm or structure. It beat when it felt like it. Then it stopped. It was moody. It did what it liked. But it was my heart and it was supposed to be the steadiest machine of all.

I knew it was me because I had had arrhythmia all my life. A few years before it had grown so serious that I spent a night in the hospital being rigorously tested and monitored by a twenty-four-hour EKG.

The loudest noise I ever heard pulsed and stopped and pulsed again but with no pattern, no safe recognizable rhythm. Maybe it would beat another time. Maybe not.

“Miranda? Are you all right?”

A moment passed before my mind focused on her voice and face. Frances stood several steps above me. She wore a red robe and matching slippers, which made her intensely white skin glow in the dark of the stairwell.