She had recently learned the hobby from Mr. Tannehill, who would often whittle intricate shapes out of the scraps of hickory that weren’t used in the smoker. It was a way to pass the time while the pig took on the properties of good barbecue. After Izzy showed an interest, Mr. Tannehill, unceasingly kind, had brought a cloth drawstring bag filled with blocks of basswood (“It’s the easiest wood to work with,” he told her) and her own knife, a Case & Sons model that looked both antique and brand-new at the same time. After that, Izzy and Mr. Tannehill would silently carve, occasionally offering up their work for the appraisal of the other. It had taken Izzy a while just to get the wood to make the shape that she desired. Now she was able to add the slightest of detail work, good enough that she could, if she wanted, offer them for sale at a craft festival and not feel totally embarrassed. Mr. Tannehill, on the other hand, could whittle an unbroken wooden chain with his eyes closed. He had already made two ball-in-a-cage carvings for the unborn baby, smoothed as soft as a river stone with sandpaper. The hobby was, Izzy understood, anachronistic for someone her age, another aspect of herself that she modeled on people much older and more grizzled than she was. It was an affectation that separated her from the other kids her age, though one that she was growing to love, turning into habit. This was how things worked, Izzy believed, you pretended to love the thing in front of you until it really happened. If this wasn’t the case, then Izzy was in deep trouble. She had predicated any chance of being a good mother on this principle.
She made another delicate cut with her knife and found the duck’s shape to be slightly off, asymmetrical. It did not worry her in the least, her hands knowing by now that she could make adjustments, worry the shape until it was finally correct, no matter how small it became in the process.
In the downtown branch of the Chattanooga Public Library, Izzy followed the signs (EXPECTANT FAMILIES STUDY) that led to a small waiting area on the second floor. Understanding that a public library was not the place for wood shavings and a sharp knife, Izzy instead took out a copy of Grace Paley’s The Little Disturbances of Man from her messenger bag and began to read, for the umpteenth time, the story where a man gives his wife a broom for Christmas. Paley had been her mother’s favorite writer, and Izzy had been made to read all of her work, even her poetry, as soon as she could properly read and write. “If you combined a thousand male writers, they still wouldn’t know as much about women as Grace Paley does,” her mother told her. Izzy used a pencil as a guide to fly through the story, her brain knowing the word that would follow before she saw it on the page. When she was done, still alone, she started over and read it again.
Finally, she saw the door to the meeting room open and a Hispanic couple, not much older than Izzy, walked out of the room with smiles on their faces. This, more than anything else, reassured Izzy that she wasn’t entering into something very stupid and regrettable. The woman, her hand resting on her stomach, nodded to Izzy in the way that all expectant mothers seemed to do, a secret acknowledgment of their shared state. Izzy nodded in return and then looked up to see an Asian woman, apple shaped, slightly overweight, though quite pretty, walking toward her.
“Are you Isabel?” she asked. Izzy noticed how striking she looked, her face perfectly round and her skin almost glowing, her eyes obscured by a pair of thick-framed rectangular eyeglasses.
“I go by Izzy,” Izzy responded, again wondering if she would ever use her real name, which seemed to be reserved for a princess or a woodland fairy. Izzy, she always imagined, was the name of a shortstop for a ragtag bunch of Little Leaguers who played by their own set of rules. It was the name of a slightly dense cartoon character who winningly always came out ahead of her antagonizers.
“Okay, Izzy,” the woman said. “I’m Dr. Kalina Kwon. I’m a postdoctoral research fellow for this project and I’m going to be interviewing you today.”
Izzy followed the woman into the meeting room, which was bare except for a laptop, a stack of file folders, and a dozen or so bottles of water. At this point, Izzy decided to stop expecting some kind of scientific formality, lab coats and surface disinfectants. She began to think of it more like a focus group for a new brand of potato chip.
Dr. Kwon motioned for Izzy to sit down and then took her place at the head of the table, partially obscured by the opened laptop. She typed a few things into the computer, frowned, skimmed her finger across the tracking pad, and then smiled. “Okay,” she began, “we’ll start the interview now. I’m recording this on my laptop, unless you have any objections.”
“That’s fine with me,” Izzy admitted.
“So, I work with the Early Childhood Foundation, which is funding a new initiative to focus not only on the development of children, but also on helping to prepare parents for the rigors of parenthood.” Izzy nodded. She had seen all of this information on the countless cover sheets and e-mails that she had received.
“Now,” Dr. Kwon continued, “you’ve been diligent in filling out these countless surveys and forms, and I’m wondering what, exactly, your expectations are. Why are you doing this?”
Izzy paused. She wanted one of the bottles of water, but it was out of arm’s reach and it seemed rude to stand up and procure one. “I’m going to be a single mother,” Izzy finally said, and Dr. Kwon nodded, smiling. “My mom died when I was young, so I know the effects of a childhood without one of your parents. I don’t have much support, emotionally or financially, from my family and friends, and I’m worried about how I’m going to care for my child. I want to be a good mother. I want that more than anything in my life so far. I thought that this project could help me do that.”
Dr. Kwon continued to smile, as if this question had a right answer and Izzy had provided it. “That’s totally understandable and commendable,” she said. “Let me ask you this. If I can be a little more personal, I’ve studied all of your information. In all the questions that pertain to the father of your child, you’ve given very little information. Is there a reason for that?”