A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

quickly than most.
“Thanks,” he says, then asks, “Do you have a client in labor?”
“No. Why?”
“Your phone,” he says. “I heard a text come in in the middle of the
night.”
“Oh.” Of course he did. I remember him drawing away, pulling the
covers over his head to block the phone’s light. “Braxton-Hicks,” I lie,
saying that a client thought she was in labor, but she’s not. It can be
confusing, for first-time mothers. The contractions are not as intense
as real contractions. They don’t come at regular intervals; they don’t
progress. I often have to talk these women out of thinking they’re in
labor.
It doesn’t matter, though, because it’s a lie. None of my clients is
currently experiencing Braxton-Hicks contractions.
I don’t like lying to Josh. It isn’t something that happens often. In
fact, it never happened, not until about six months ago when Josh
started to get more apprehensive about my job. It began with a
random carjacking. A young woman was stopped in town, at a red
light near midnight. During the day, it’s a busy intersection. There’s a
grocery store, a gym, Walgreens. But at that time of night it was
vacant. Everything around was closed.
Two masked men approached the car at gunpoint. They made the
woman get out of the car. They assaulted her first, before stealing
her car. They left with her phone, her purse, her ID. She couldn’t call
for help. She walked three miles home in the dark. They never found
the people who did it to her. It left Josh scared for my safety. He’s
overprotective as a result. He wishes I was a stay-at-home mom like
Cassandra. We don’t need the money, Josh has said. It’s a
conversation we’ve had often. He does it because he loves me.
Because he doesn’t want anything bad happening to me. I get that. I
love him even more for it. But I also love my job.
“Is she okay?” Josh asks, meaning my client with Braxton-Hicks.
“She’s fine. It’s unsettling,” I tell him. “The unknown. But she’s forty
weeks yesterday. She’ll go into labor soon.”
“How long did she keep you up?” he asks, looking at me, sizing up
my eyes. They’re tired, heavy. I’m on my third cup of coffee.
“Not long.”