“What would it matter if I did?” Mom retorts. “We want Autumn to be comfortable and confident during this phase of her life. It’s good to be prepared to dress for any situation that may arise.”
Most of the time, when people argue, they aren’t actually arguing about what they’re arguing about. The real disagreement flits between their words like a persistent dragonfly. I’m not sure what The Mothers are really arguing about; they’ve always had different ideas about consumerism. That isn’t anything new. But there’s an undercurrent to this discussion that is eluding me.
“I mostly need jeans,” I say from the back seat. “I think most of my T-shirts and sweaters will still work.” I again become aware of the heaviness of my middle, the sense that something is there that wasn’t before.
“A dress, pajamas, and some lounge wear too. Maybe a swimsuit?” Mom suggests.
“She’s due May first,” Aunt Angelina says. “She will not need a maternity swimsuit. That’s where I draw the line.”
Perhaps they are arguing because Mom will be using the little gold credit card that I’ve seen her use for all the other baby-related purchases, the card Dad must have given her in place of him being any kind of real support to me. Angelina probably thinks that letting Dad pay for things is like letting him buy his dereliction of duty.
“Maybe I’ll go to the indoor pool at the Y this winter?” I say because I’m not sure whose side I’m on. It doesn’t matter what we buy or don’t buy with his money; Dad’s always seen his involvement in my life as a sort of gift he bestows on me. He’ll congratulate himself on his generosity no matter what we do with the little gold card.
“Why not a ski suit?” Angelina asks, throwing up her hands. “At least it would be seasonally appropriate!”
“I don’t think they make maternity ski suits, but we can check,” Mom muses. “ Though it may not be the best time for Autumn to take up a winter sport.”
It’s obvious now, which one of us is pregnant, and the saleslady addresses me directly.
“Looking for anything in particular today?”
“Jeans.” All the clothes here look like they’re for, well, moms. Like, real moms who got pregnant on purpose. I feel like an imposter with my messy hair and my baggy Pixies T-shirt covering my unbuttoned jeans.
“Right this way,” she says.
I’m not sure if I’m imagining the tightness in her smile. I’ve been bracing myself for the disapproval this pregnancy will bring me, for being so young, for not having an engagement ring. So far, it’s not so bad, but maybe that will change when I’m large enough for strangers to want to touch my belly and give me unsolicited advice, like Angie says they will.
The saleslady leads us to a shelf of pants and points out the changing rooms, but my focus is on the heavy place in my middle that is now fluttering.
I don’t know if it’s the baby moving—it could be—but it also doesn’t feel that different from anything I’ve felt in my body before. It’s disappointing that I can’t tell the difference between Finny’s baby and gas.
My mother has already gathered a pile of pants to try on, not just jeans but khakis and linen palazzo pants. Perhaps I should have sided more with Aunt Angelina.
But I follow her to the dressing room because I need clothes.
I sit facing away from the mirror to pull off my pants. My reflection is disconcerting these days.
As I’ve slept and cried and dragged myself through the past few months, my body has carried on with its new work as if everything was going according to plan. Without asking my opinion, my nipples have become large and dark and my breasts dense and heavy.
And then there is the round swelling, starting at my pelvic bone and sweeping up gently toward my navel.
I should feel affection for it, shouldn’t I?
I pull up the jeans and examine the elastic at the waist, stretch it out to see how big of a belly it could accommodate, and let it snap back.
This doesn’t feel like my body. It doesn’t feel like a baby moving. It’s hard for me to imagine that this weight, this fluttering, is going to become a child. It seems like I’ll blow up like a balloon, then I’ll deflate, and someone will hand me a baby. Somehow, even though I understand the biology, even though I look at the pictures online, I still can’t believe that this is how humans get made, how every human was made. I always imagined that it would feel more magical. If this experience were a novel I was writing, it would be more sci-fi than fantasy or romance.
I always imagined I’d be certain I was ready when I had a child.
I always imagined I’d have a husband, a plan.
“It’s you and me now, right?”
I bite my cheek to stop his voice.
Mom raps gently on the door. “Autumn, how’s it going?”
“These jeans are weird,” I say.
“Your body is going to feel strange for a while, kiddo!” Angelina chimes in.
“Do they fit?” Mom asks.
“I guess so?”
I come out and she tugs on the waistband like she did when I was a kid and nods. I try on and accept and reject a few other pairs of pants. A couple of the blouses are okay. Finally, Mom wants me to try on a cocktail dress.
“Every woman needs a little black dress,” Mom insists.
I look to Angelina for support, but she grimaces.
“You never know what might come up, kiddo. It’s not a bad idea to have a dress just in case.”
I’m about to say, “Like for another funeral?” when I feel Finny in me.
“Come on, Autumn,” he scolds, and I deserve it. As punishment, I make myself take the hanger from her and go back into the changing room.
As I strip off my T-shirt, I pause, looking in the mirror.
It’s bigger than it was yesterday, the mound between my hips. I study myself to be certain, because surely things couldn’t change that fast?
But it’s somehow true.
More sci-fi than fantasy.
I put my hands on my stomach and wonder how I didn’t notice it when I put on the jeans. Should I have? Am I already not paying enough attention? I look away from the strange body in the mirror and pull the black dress over my head. It’s a stretchy knit that hugs all my curves, the new ones too.
When I look back in the mirror, I’m surprised by how nice it looks. I feel like a woman in this dress, not a girl. I look like someone who can handle what’s coming. The bump seems smaller, more reasonable under the cover of black.
And I feel pretty for the first time in a long time.
I wish Finny could see me.
“You’re so beautiful.”
“Autumn?”
“It’s nice,” I tell Mom. “We should get it.”
On the drive home, the tension between The Mothers is gone. We bought an amount of clothes that everyone felt was reasonable.
I have jeans to wear with my vintage tees, a couple of blouses and a pair of khakis in case I want to look a little nicer, and then there’s the dress. The dress looks like something I should wear for an important meeting, perhaps with a publisher for my book or, equally probable, a rendezvous with someone from the CIA.
I have the dress as a talisman more than anything, proof that I am an adult woman, more or less.
Even if I don’t have Finny to tell me I look beautiful, I can tell myself for him.
nine
“It’s not uncommon for a pregnant woman to feel disconnected from her body, nor is it uncommon for a first-time mother to find it hard to believe that there will be a baby. This is not indicative that you will be a poor mother,” Dr. Singh says.
“Shouldn’t I love it more or something?” I ask.
He raises his hand in a gesture of ambivalence. “Eh?” he says. “Are you taking your prenatal vitamins?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been to all your obstetrician appointments, yes? Getting gentle exercise, yes?”
“I take walks a few times a week.” I don’t understand why this therapy appointment is suddenly about my physical health.
“Then it sounds to me like you are loving this fetus as much as you can,” Dr. Singh says. “Love is an action, and all the actions you are taking speak of love.”
It’s my turn to shrug.
“I wanted to talk to you about your plans outside motherhood,” he says. “You will still be a person with dreams. You said you wanted to write a novel, yes?”
“I wrote one.”