We’d never sat next to each other before. She’d hugged me twice, but there was something more intimate about being close to someone and not touching. I could’ve counted the number of hairs on her arm if I’d wanted to and I kind of did. I imagined us lying in a meadow, even though I’d never been to a meadow and had no idea how to find one. It was just nice to picture and I liked the idea of us lying somewhere together outdoors, the smell of grass, no clocks, just me and her, counting hairs until it was too dark to see.
Jenny shoved a rose in my face. “Please take one. Give it a good home for however many days left it’s got to live.”
* * *
—
THE MEETING was in the church’s basement, the same room as before. The walls were a different color, though, a bright red. I couldn’t tell if I liked it or not, if it was warm and inviting or aggressive and exhausting. I also wasn’t sure exactly what color the walls were last year. I just knew they weren’t red.
The women at the meeting varied in ages and belly sizes. There was a woman who looked too old to be a mom, hair curly and pure white, the bones in her hands looked thin and crushable. One girl even younger than me, skinny everywhere except her very pregnant stomach, which peeked out of her tight shirt and hung over the belt of her jeans. She made eye contact with me and I knew she’d been a freshman last year. Another looked to be in her mid-twenties, and the way she smiled often and wide and how she kept her hands constantly on top of her belly made me sure that this was her first child. Most women were Jenny’s age, soft midsections and sagging upper arms, but none had a ponytail close to her length. Some had wedding rings, a lot did not. No one seemed to be in charge. We all just sat on colorful plastic chairs arranged in a circle, and after a beat, someone started talking, then another, then another. When someone finished speaking, we thanked her by first name and clapped. Those who clapped the loudest and hardest generally talked the longest. I tried to clap long and hard too, even though I wasn’t planning on speaking. My palms ached after the second speaker.
“I have a new baby, an old beagle, and a boyfriend who’s bad at wiping—there’s shit everywhere.”
“I hate the way everyone talks to me at work now. They just ask endless questions about Sam. It’s like they forgot I used to ride a Harley and host poker night.”
“He already wants another one. I can’t tell if it’s because he actually wants another kid or if he just wants me and my huge tits to stay at home longer.”
“Is it wrong if I rock the baby to sleep with rap music? Will that affect her SAT scores?”
“Just because I have blue hair doesn’t mean I’m going to be a bad mother.”
The rose Jenny gave me was thornless and fit neatly in my front left jeans pocket. I kept pulling it out and twirling it between my fingers as the women talked. Everything they said made me want to offer them a drink. A bottle of tequila would go quick here.
A woman gripping a Styrofoam cup of coffee tightly between both her hands: “Does anyone hear phantom crying?” The rest of the women blinked, a couple looked to their left, right, shrugged. She blinked twice. “Like, I’ll be chopping carrots, or going through the mail, taking a shower, and then, all of a sudden, I hear Daisy crying. I’ll hear it and my heart will stop for a second and then, the next second, it’s beating so hard the only thing I can hear above the beating is the crying.
“I’ll tell myself it’s not real or that, even if it is real, it’s okay, babies cry. But what if it is real? And what if it’s not just normal crying, what if something is really wrong? So, whatever I’m doing, I’ll stop. Dinner never gets cooked, bills’re thrown on the carpet, I’ll run out of the shower without a towel, and most of the time she’s just fine, lying in her crib and chewing on her stuffed bear. But sometimes she’s crying, and I hate that I prefer those times, that I’ll see her little face all red and wet and miserable, but I’m just relieved that I didn’t make it up.”
She takes a shaky sip of her coffee. “The worst is when I’m running errands or at work and Daisy is nowhere near. I just have to keep walking or keep typing, saying, She’s okay, she’s okay, she’s okay, until the sound goes away.”
The room was quiet. Everyone looked around, hoping for someone to break the silence. Finally, a woman whose name started with either an “H” or a “P” said loudly, bringing her hands together, “Thank you, Melissa. Thank you so much for your bravery.”
I slowly began clapping along with everyone else and, for the first time, made eye contact with Jenny. She stared at me, strained, uncomfortable, and I didn’t know what to do other than watch her until she looked away.
* * *
—
OUTSIDE AFTER THE MEETING some of the women gathered in mini-circles and chatted before they drove off or husbands, boyfriends, people who watched out for them, came to pick them up from the curb. I stood alone at the top of the church steps, trying to see where Jenny went.
I didn’t see her in any of the mom circles and didn’t expect to. She was the first one out of her seat once the meeting ended, taking the stairs out of the basement two at a time. I had given up finding her and was starting to walk toward my car when I heard a honk behind me.
Leaning out of an SUV, Jenny was smiling. “Hey, girl. You need a ride home?”
I didn’t. My car was only a few blocks away. If I rode with her, I’d have to take the bus back tomorrow before work. The buses were always late, and every time I took one I seemed to attract all the strangest people. The last time I was on a bus, I was sandwiched between a woman taking aggressive bites out of an apple and a man with a parrot on each shoulder. After every bite, the woman whispered the name “Ricky.” The man with the parrots told me I was pretty but he was married.
“Yeah,” I said, “a ride would be nice.”
* * *
—
WE ENDED UP AT A DINER across the street from my car. Jenny had taken one look at the flashing OPEN and BURGERS signs and turned to me. “We have to stop.”
“So—I’m going to tell you what my dad always used to say to me at diners,” Jenny said once we were seated. “Don’t look at the menu.”
I dropped the menu, frowned. “Why not?”
“Because, whatever you want, it’s probably on the menu. Diners are pretty much all the same,” she said. “Don’t let the menu influence you, just conjure an image of your deepest desire and then ask for it.”
“Your dad sounds like a cool guy.”
“He is. How about yours?”