“Never a dull moment,” Claire says once we’re resettled on my patio. She studies her phone, checking the app for her baby cam. “Still sleeping.” She rests the phone back on the table.
Our nanny, Marisol, doesn’t arrive until one. Claire hates paying for her daughter’s nap and has trained Summer to faithfully sleep from 11:00–12:30 each day, during which she can paint. Instead, she has coffee with me while my son not-so-faithfully sleeps upstairs. Since his schedule is less consistent than Summer’s, Claire always comes to me, judiciously monitoring Summer through her app, asleep in a crib she can’t climb out of, in a bedroom we can see while we drink our coffee.
As Claire leans over to retrieve her mug, her tank top falls forward, exposing her small breasts beneath. Claire never wears a bra. Her nipples, made forever erect from nursing, are always on display. Although it makes Gabe uncomfortable, I love how free she is with her body. It’s easier when you have a body like Claire’s, seemingly untouched by pregnancy, exceptfor those nipples. I wish I were this physically at ease. I’m not that brave. It shouldn’t be about bravery, but it is for me. Then again, Claire doesn’t plan to have a second baby because she fears what it will do not only to her career but to her figure. Maybe it isn’t about bravery for her either.
“To the canals in algae season,” she says, clinking her mug against mine. The stench is particularly potent this morning, so much so that I can still smell it even though we’ve been out here long enough to acclimate.
“How’s my little girl?” Claire reaches out to give my stomach a light rub. She’s the only person I let touch my stomach besides Gabe and my doctors. It’s amazing how often strangers think they can touch you. The other day, a woman at the grocery store patted my stomach and said,You must be close now.I smiled politely because I always opt for the nonconfrontational response, even when I want to snap. Snapping makes me unreasonable, and in my state unreasonable quickly becomes irrational. There’s no way to have a big emotional response when you’re pregnant, not if you want to be taken seriously.
I can still feel the unease of the older woman who fell. Tourists often do strange, intrusive things. This was different. Unsettling.
Claire and I sip our coffee, staring at the saltbushes that line the empty canal. When the canals were refurbished in the ’90s, the city made the residents add the shrubbery as a barrier to keep people from falling in. Now the saltbushes are so overgrown they themselves are falling into the canals, dying from the toxicity of the water, leaving holes between the bushes.
The voices of two women waft from a distance, chatting loudly about a job interview. When they materialize outside my yard, they’re younger than I expect, dressed in fashionable spandex sets. I gaze longingly at their narrow waists, yearning for a tautness I will never have again. They see me watching them, so I wave. Everyone has their own approach to the tourists. Most residents pretend not to see them, a false sense of privacy when we live in a fishbowl. I go the opposite way, saying hello to everyone who makeseye contact with me. It’s what Jasper does, and it generally makes for a more pleasant interaction.
“What happened to the water?” one of the women asks us.
“The canals are empty on weekdays this time of year,” I reply.
“It’s so stinky,” the other says, plugging her nose. “Is it always like this?”
“After it rains,” I say coolly, defensively.
“It’s the price we pay to live here,” Claire says, equally protective.
They nod as they continue their walk. I stare at the saltbushes, the cavities between, holes large enough that a baby, not an adult, could crawl through.
“It’s strange, isn’t it?” I ask Claire. “If she tripped, wouldn’t she have gotten caught in the bushes? It just seems unlikely that she could have fallen in, let alone drowned in so little water.”
Claire considers this, knowing exactly who I mean. “Jimi Hendrix drowned in his own vomit.” She takes a sip of her coffee, still pensive, a touch conflicted. “I didn’t mention it to the others. You know how they get. But I swear I saw her.”
“Oh?” I say, disappointed, as though Claire’s claim to Regina makes mine less legitimate.
“Last week. She walked by like five times.” Tourists often get lost among the canals. It’s a simple grid on the map. On foot, it’s easy to think you’re headed in one direction, only to find yourself in front of a house you just walked by. It’s common to see the same person multiple times. “It wasn’t like normal. She stopped on the bridge, and I swear she was staring at my house. Gave me the creeps.”
Our canal is Claire’s canal as well. Outside our house is outside hers too. Maybe Gabe’s right. Maybe this has nothing to do with us.
The monitor lights up, sensing Jasper’s movement. I motion to Claire that we’ll be right back.
When we return, I let Jasper lie against me, not fully committed to being awake. His body is warm and heavy against mine.
“We saw her too. Yesterday, at Café Collage.” I tell Claire about Jasper shoutingGigi, the butterfly hair clip.
“Gabe thinks I’m scared about the baby, redirecting my fears.”
“Are you?”
With anyone else, I’d be offended by her doubt, the constant assumption that everything’s really about the baby. “Maybe? I’m capable of multiple worries at the same time.”
Claire smirks, appreciating this response. This gives me an idea.
I find my phone and pull up the photograph of Regina that all the news outlets are using. I’ve tried to find other pictures of her, to confirm that she was indeed the woman we saw. Her social media is set to private. The articles she wrote all used this photo too.
“Jasp.” I point the phone toward him. “Do you know who this is?”
He studies the picture, then me, then the picture again.
“Foo. Foo.” He makes the sign for food, pinching his fingertips together and bringing them to his lips.
