She approached Roger shakily, smiling. As he was about to touch her gently, to ask how she was, Robin murmured with pitiless candor, “Morning sickness, Dad.” Teenaged rock music was being piped into the lobby, loud. Roger cupped a hand to his ear. “I—didn’t hear you, honey?” “You heard me, Dad. You heard me exactly.” Robin pushed away from her stumbling Deardeaddad, baring her teeth in a grin, and stalked out of the restaurant. Numbly, a man in a dream, yet not a dream he recognized, Roger followed. Morning sickness. Morning sickness? He had not heard. Yes, but he’d heard. He felt as if his head was trapped inside a giant clanging bell. “Robin! Honey, wait—” He was sure it was a misunderstanding. A joke. Robin was a clever mimic, a gifted satirist. She was not the kind of girl who . . . Roger tried to help Robin, who was swaying as if faint, walk to the car, but she shrugged away. In the car she hunched far over, arms crossed over her stomach. A sharp odor of vomit lifted from her like a befouled breath.
