“Out there, I mean.” And I imagine Zoe’s finger pointing out the bay window, to the commotion of the city outside: the taxis that soar up and down the street, sirens, horns, a homeless man playing the saxophone on the corner of the street.
“Yeah. I guess so,” Willow replies, admitting sheepishly, “I don’t like thunder,” and I’m stricken again by the clear truth that this girl, sitting in my living room with an infant in her arms, a tough mollusk shell protecting all that’s valuable and vulnerable on the inside, is a mere child. A child who devours whipped cream and pancakes, and is afraid of something as innocuous as thunder.
Profiles, vase. Profiles, vase.
I imagine the vigorous city when it finally does fall asleep for the night. When the sun sets somewhere over suburbia, and the lights of the Loop are ablaze. It’s stunning, really. But here, in our neighborhood, a mile or two north of downtown, nighttime means total darkness. Pitch blackness spotted with the occasional streetlight that may or may not work. The time of day when zombies come out to play, loitering in the city’s parks, in the darkened alcoves of closed businesses that line Clark and Fullerton Streets. Living in an upscale neighborhood doesn’t exclude us from crime. The morning news talks frequently of crime waves throughout Lakeview and Lincoln Park, of overnight robberies, about how violent crimes are on the rise. You hear all the time about women being attacked as they walk home from the bus, or as they make their way into their apartment building, grocery bags in hand. The neighborhood at night—strangely dark, fraught with an ear-splitting silence, must be a terrifying place to be. Ghastly.
I make my way into the living room and find the girls eyeballing one another awkwardly. Zoe jumps when I enter and says, “What do you want?” as if I have no business being in my home. She’s embarrassed that I caught her talking to Willow when it wasn’t required, embarrassed that she showed any interest whatsoever in the girl.
“I have something to show you,” I say, “both of you,” and I disappear down the hall.
It took over an hour for Ruby’s Tylenol to kick in, for the fever to subside. During that time she was irritable and moody, inconsolable whether in Willow’s or my hands. We tried feeding her, rocking her, thrusting a pacifier into her wide-open mouth, but all of our efforts were in vain. And then, per Chris’s suggestion, we sunk the baby into a lukewarm bath, which seemed to appease her a bit, and followed it up with layers of emollients to her bottom, a fresh diaper, a change of clothes. Because Chris had only purchased a single pair of blue pants to partner with the white jumpsuit, I lug the bin of baby clothing from Chris’s and my bedroom closet—the one mislabeled Heidi: Work—into the living room where the girls and I can sort through rompers with ruffles and animal print bodysuits, Onesies with tutus, organic fleece pajamas and satin ballet slippers made just for pudgy infant feet.
“Shh,” I say to Zoe as I set the indigo lid aside, “don’t tell your father about this,” I say. Out of the corner of my eye, Willow reaches out and touches fabric, but then withdraws her hand quickly, as if afraid she might break something or make it dirty. I have this sudden vision—a clairvoyant image—where some adult slaps Willow’s timid hand away from something that she desires. She withdraws, her eyes downcast, feelings hurt. “It’s okay,” I say, pulling out the most luxuriant thing I can find and placing it in her hand, watching as she runs her fingers across the vertical ribs as if she’s never felt corduroy before. She lifts it, cautiously, to her face and rubs a cheek to it, a pair of maroon overalls with flowers on the bib.
“What is all this?” Zoe asks, pulling a velvet dress with a taffeta skirt—size 2T—from the bin, her mouth falling open when she spies the obscene number on the price tag. “Ninety-four dollars?” she asks, ogling the thirty-six inches of fabric no one ever wore, the midnight-blue color and elephantine bow and, somewhere in that bin, pricey tights to match.
“And that was ten years ago,” I say, adding, “or more,” remembering those days I sauntered into boutiques in the Loop during my lunch break and purchased a romper here, a bodysuit there—on the sly—telling Chris, if ever he asked, that the outrageous debit on our credit card bill was for an expectant coworker or an old college friend, ready to burst forth with child.
“Were these...mine?” she asks, reaching for a pair of floral bloomers that accompany a summer dress. She holds them up before her and I think, How do I explain? I could say yes and leave it at that. But then of course there are the price tags, evidence that these garments were never used.