Free Starter House A Novel by Sonja Condit

only to find the child in tears a week later: parents divorcing, big brother on drugs, Grandma terminally ill. If Lacey, with only three years in the classroom, could see this much, how much more could Dr. Vlk see, having given good news and bad for thirty years or more.
    “You’re not fine. How does Dad feel about the baby?”
    Lacey wanted to say Eric was thrilled, they were both so happy, and her own voice surprised her: “Scared. He’s got this new job, and we moved. It’s hard.”
    Dr. Vlk handed her a box of tissues and said, “Have you talked with him?”
    “Oh! Talked with him! I’d have to make an appointment. He’s working twelve hours a day, and I’m going to whine about some weird feeling? There are noises.”
    “It’s an older house?”
    “My grandpa had an old house. You could hear things, voices in the walls; it’s only noise, I know that.” Her mother had always said there were ghosts in Grandpa Merritt’s house, but not to be afraid of them, because they were peaceful spirits, interested only in each other, a family from long ago. “But there’s this feeling on the stairs. What’s wrong with me?”
    What a relief to ask the question, to admit something might be wrong—a thing she could never say to her husband or mother. To Lacey’s surprise, Dr. Vlk took her seriously. “Pregnancy makes your body wise,” Dr. Vlk said. “Morning sickness keeps you from eating dangerous food. Fear keeps you from doing dangerous things. Fear is your friend. Trust yourself. Can you live downstairs?”
    The idea was so startling, Lacey had to take a moment before she answered. “You mean, don’t go upstairs in the daytime at all?”
    “Sleep downstairs, too. Your weight has changed, your ligaments are loose, you’re scared because you could fall. Pretend you live in a one-story house.”
    “It’s that simple?”
    “Most things are. Try it. Any bleeding, call me. If it’s more than a drop or two, call 911. Make an appointment on the way out. Two weeks.”
    Lacey went home dazzled by the revolutionary simplicity of Dr. Vlk’s idea. She was afraid that Eric, who came home exhausted every day, might resent the work and trouble of moving her downstairs. But his reaction was like hers: Was it this easy, solve her problems by keeping her off the stairs? Perfect. He came home early and spent the afternoon organizing Lacey in the dining room. He ordered a twin mattress and a simple metal frame, paying extra for immediate delivery. They still had some old sheets from Lacey’s dorm days.
    A twin bed. She wanted to ask why he didn’t order a double, or even a queen, so they could still sleep together, but since the thought had so clearly not entered his mind, she couldn’t quite find the words. She curled in the red armchair, watching him trot up and down the stairs, organizing her new life while her mother brought her a mug of jasmine tea and a plate of gingersnaps; jasmine for serenity, ginger for nausea. It was as if they were breaking up, as if he were moving her out of more than the bedroom. Out of his home, out of his heart. How careful he was to make sure she had everything she needed! He folded her maternity clothes into a couple of the big plastic tubs they’d used for moving; he brought all her things to the downstairs bathroom. He went upstairs again for her sketchbooks and magazines.
    Lacey left her tea and gingersnaps on the side table. She stood at the bottom of the stairs and lifted her face, surprised by a rush of sadness. This was a good day: the placenta healed, the baby strong, a doctor who listened. One of the best days of her life. “You should be sitting down,” Eric said, edging around her with his arms full of sketchbooks, boxes of pencils and pastels balanced on top. She hoped he didn’t drop them. Those colored pencils were so brittle, the leads shattered if they were ever dropped. “You should be resting.” He set his pile on the lowest step and took her back to the red