“My hobby,” I admit. “Like collecting bottle tops or sports cards,” and the girls look at me as though I just climbed out of a spaceship from Mars. “They’re hard to resist,” I say, “when they’re just so cute,” holding up a pair of furry booties and offering them as proof.
“But...” Zoe begins, having inherited her rationality from Chris, “I never even wore them,” she says. “Who were they for?” she demands to know. I eye Zoe and Willow, their eyes staring at me questioningly. Good cop, bad cop, I think. I find it impossible to stare into Zoe’s big brown eyes—both cynical and demanding all at the same time—and admit that they were for Juliet, that even after the doctor said I could have no more children, I continued to pine for children, to envision an imaginary world where Zoe and Juliet coexisted, playing with Tinkertoy sets or Little People on the living room floor, my belly fat and round with number three. I refuse to admit that the notion of an only child left me feeling bilious and cold, the home—where I always envisioned an overabundance of kids—lonely, even when Zoe was there. Even with Chris. My family, the three of us, felt suddenly insufficient. Not good enough. There was a hole. A hole I stuffed full with Juliet, with ambitions and expectations and a bin full of clothing she would one day wear.
In my heart of hearts, I convinced myself that she would arrive, one day. That day just hadn’t come yet.
But I interrupt Zoe’s rationality and say, “How about we see if we can find something for Ruby to wear,” and the three of us begin pulling at the bin with a renewed purpose, though the sight—and the smell: an uncanny blend of upscale boutiques and optimism—of the clothing reminds me of the gaping hole inside my womb.
Or of that place where my womb used to be.
We settle on the maroon overalls, a white jumpsuit beneath with a scalloped edge. I watch as Willow undresses the baby, then tries to force the jumpsuit over Ruby’s malleable head. Ruby lets out a wail. She protests on the floor, kicking her legs in defiance. Willow moves with hesitation, with apprehensive hands. She stares at the jumpsuit, at the neck hole that appears far too small for Ruby’s round head, and then tries to force it on, forgetting altogether to allow clearance for the nose, to get it over her mouth quickly so the baby can breathe.
“Let me do it,” I say to Willow, the words coming out more abruptly that I intended them to do. I feel Zoe’s eyes on me, though I refuse to make contact. I shift into Willow’s position and, stretching the elastic of the jumpsuit, slide it over Ruby’s head without hesitation. I snap the buttons of the crotch closed, sit her up and snap the buttons up the back. “There now,” I say, as Ruby’s fingers settle upon the gold chain that dangles from my neck, her eyes lighting up like a Christmas tree. “You like that?” I ask, taking the bright eyes and the big, drooling, toothless smile as a yes. I set my father’s gold wedding ring in the palm of her hand, and watch as her pudgy little fingers begin to squeeze. “That was my daddy’s,” I say, and then I focus on the task at hand, sliding the maroon overalls over the jumpsuit, a pair of white lacy socks over her rapidly moving feet. Ruby squeals in delight, and I press my face into her and say, “Coochy, coochy, coo,” the kind of nonsensical gibberish babies adore. I all but forget that Willow and Zoe are still in the room, watching as I blow raspberries on the exposed parts of Ruby’s skin: the insides of her arms, the nape of her neck; I overlook the horrified look on my preteen’s face as I speak fluently in baby talk, the type of skill, like riding a bike, that one never forgets how to do.
“Coochy, coochy, coo,” I say, and it’s then that Zoe rises to her feet, unexpectedly, and says, “God! Enough with the baby talk already,” in that high frequency, falsetto voice only an adolescent girl can attain, before waltzing down the hall and slamming the door to her room.
WILLOW
“What was Miriam’s medical condition? Was she schizophrenic?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
Outside the single, barred window, the one placed too high on the cinderblock wall, the sky is turning colors: red and orange quickly displacing the blue. The sentry in the corner yawns, a long, drawn out, exaggerated yawn, and Louise Flores looks at him sharply and asks, “Are we boring you?” and he stands suddenly at attention: chin up, chest out, shoulders back, stomach in.
“No, ma’am,” he replies and the jagged woman eyes him until even I begin to blush.
What was wrong with Miriam, I didn’t know, but whatever it was, I was pretty sure it was Joseph’s doing.
“You said that Miriam would take medicine on occasion?” Ms. Flores asks and I nod my head, yes. “What kind of medicine?”
“Little white pills,” I say. “Sometimes another one, too.” I tell her that the pills made Miriam look better, made her feel better and get out of bed for a while, but if she got to taking them too much, they just put her back in bed again.
But Miriam was always tired. Whether or not she was taking the pills.
“Did Joseph ever have her to a doctor?”
“No, ma’am. Miriam didn’t leave.”