It's always two things: Red hair, blue eyes.
No matter what mood she's in, no matter the circumstance? That's what she thinks Teddy looks like -- what he could look like.
The rest of it are all variables, bits of fancy. That he's tall, probably; Wayne had towered over her at the time, and his hair had been so curly beneath her hands. Their son probably would have the same curly hair, but just as red as hers, his eyes bluer than hers. His hobbies, she plays with the most: that he could play piano, that maybe he liked the same music as her, that he was left handed and his favorite food was probably mustard sandwiches paired with red fruit juice.
What's always mattered is that it's always just been Teddy. Teddy, who's rabbit she still has, who's always been at the edge of her thoughts and life since she woke up without him all those years ago.
Now, however, the pregnancy test in her hand tells Molly otherwise.
Her toes flex and unflex against the bathroom floor. Her heart bangs in her chest, water from the shower slipping down her shoulders. The condo outside of her bathroom door is lively: Adam's teasing Nancy down the hall, her phone pinging with a waiting text from Etta she hasn't opened, and the television is playing a rerun of some show she can't remember, but who's laugh track sounds louder than it should be. If she concentrates, she can even hear the hum of thoughts from other residents.
Molly let's go of the test, keeping it suspended in the air with her telekinesis, pulling her knees up to her chest, arms wrapping around her ankles. Stares at the lines on it, lets it twirl over and over and over before her and tries to figure out exactly what to do. What to think.
She, frankly, doesn't know what to do with any of it, watching the test spin and spin. There's too many things to figure out, too many emotions whirling in her -- sadness, knowing that if this worked out, that this child would have a brother they could never know welling up the most. To say nothing of the fear fluttering in her chest, and the sheer disbelief that this could happen again.
It's too much to deal with, too much to contend with.
Going to bed, grappling with it in the morning is better.
With a flick of her finger, the pregnancy test falls into the trashcan. She buries it beneath a box of empty tissues, straightens up, and walks out.
There are no dreams that night. No nightmares.
Just waking up, in bed, after a kiss to her cheek and a promise to see Adam when the day was over. Her hand grasping his, pulling him down for a kiss, a real one, before he leaves. She's sure he can tell that there's something on her mind; but he trusts her, and she trusts him.
He leaves, and Nancy clambers into bed, licking her face. Molly smiles at her, her fingers sinking into her fur. There are things to consider, that Etta is right about. That she's not sixteen anymore, trapped on the other side of the car, crying into her hands as her mother delivers an ultimatum. The father isn't an irresponsible teenage boy who she hasn't seen in days or weeks -- it's Adam. One of the very few people who saw her, for her. Who wanted her, for her. A man she actually loved, who she had a future with.
She's stable in most ways, she can care for herself -- and even when she couldn't, she had a family. More of a family than she'd ever had at sixteen.
Molly turns her thoughts over and over in her head. Her fingers dip downward, towards the darkened line on her stomach that has never changed since she gave birth. She touches it, over and over again, trying to orient herself to the knowledge of possibility of being a mother again, and having a real choice, this time.
Her fingers trail down on that line, and she closes her eyes, starts to wonder if she'd have two sons or a son and a daughter.
Predictably, that's when the tears come running hotly down her face. There's no shame in them; just hope.