“And then all the mess in the middle,” Ris finished.
They were both quiet then. Silva was rarely mentioned. Ris didn’t like the idea of gossiping about their former coworker, especially after she had seen up close and personal what a terrible state Silva had been in. Rarely mentioned, but Ris often wondered how she was doing.
“I hope she’s doing okay,” Lurielle said softly, evidently thinking the same thing. “I can’t believe she just up and left. And now she had a baby? Do we even know when? Have you heard from her at all? Like, even a text?”
Ris shook her head. “I texted her a bunch after she left, and she never answered. Her socials are wiped clean. I’ve tried to look at his, but it’s all dumb career shit. If he posts personal photos, it’s locked down, and Ireallydon’t want to send him a follow request just to get more ‘five steps to team synergy today’ bullshit. But yeah, that’s what I heard from Edzin. He still talks to Tannar. She could’ve had it already for all I know. I guess we could ask him.”
“You just can’t make me believe she is happy,” Lurielle blurted, looking up guiltily, shrugging after a moment. “I know you don’t want to gossip about her, but this isn’t gossip. She’s our friend and we’re concerned about her. And we’re allowed to be. But you justcan’tmake me believe she is happy with Tannar.First of all, he sucks. He has all the personality of a mildewy dishrag. I never saw them together outside of this place, but youcan’tmake me believe he makes her happy. You just can’t. He is terrible. And Silva is so sweet.”
“I don’t think being happy was the point,” Ris mumbled. “I think she just needed to get away from everything. She should have done that on her own, just taken an extended vacation somewhere sunny. Whisper her sadness into a bowl and then fire it in the kiln of her heart. Something. I’m most surprised that sheleftleft. Left her mom and her grandma . . .”
“Yeah, well . . . the devil you know isn’t always better than the devil you don’t.” Lurielle’s voice was hard. She would know, Ris thought. “I just hope she’s happy, wherever she is.”
“Same. I miss seeing her little jug of cider so much . . . fucking Tate.”
Silence sat at the table with them for several long, yawning moments, the empty seat beside them holding space for Silva’s ghost.
“I can’t believe you’re going toleave meagain.”
Lurielle moaned once more, sounding like a pathetic little dog left out in the rain. “I don’t want to think about it yet. I don’t know yet. I have to pick up one of those tests and pee on my hand.”
“You already know,” Ris huffed. “You wouldn’t willingly pee on your hand if you didn’t already know.”
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure, at the very least. Well, at least we’ll have a clubhouse to hang out in, once that tree girl takes over everything.”
They dissolved into giggles once more, but Lurielle was right.
This is why it needs to work. For all of us.
Lurielle
She knew exactly when it had happened. The weekend they had spent at the cabin, a much-needed decompression period after the visit with his clan.
The visit itself, which his whole clan had been clamoring for, twice postponed and much overdue. The postponement itself couldn’t be helped. Kael had been sick, and she wasn’t willing to risk the comfort of his tiny ears, already so congested, for a flight. Then, of course, Lurielle suffered through the same cold, and by the time it was over, he was sick again.
She had been back for more than a few months. Entirely back by then, not just easing in, not checking the work messaging app with one hand while rocking a Kael with the other. The badge hanging from her lanyard was fully operational, her daily agenda stacked. That first day back, breathing in the stale coffee smell of the office had been exhilarating and terrifying, trapping her in a maelstrom of elation and guilt.
The thought of using her brain again was exhilarating. She was chomping at the bit to solve complex problems that had nothing to do with the dangers of early screen time or how to assemblethe diaper disposal unit. She was elated when coworkers sought her out to ask questions unrelated to sleep schedules, teething, or the color and consistency of bowel movements.
She loved that part more than she wanted to admit out loud.
That burnt coffee smell of the office was familiar, and it steadied her in a way that she hadn’t been expecting. She wasgoodat this. More than someone’s wife, more than someone’s mother. Shelikedremembering that she was good at this, good at something that had nothing to do with keeping a small child alive.
And yet.
She’d spent every day of her lunch break hiding in the bathroom to cry, scrolling through her phone, looking at pictures of him. His plump little cheeks as he slept. His wildly ecstatic little giggle. The way he could destroy a room without even needing to walk. The high chair that had spent so many months folded in the corner like a strange interloper in the kitchen now had a permanent place at the table, and he would sit there each morning, banging his spoon against his tray, delighted at the noise he could make by simply existing.
“You’re very loud,” she would tell him reproachfully with a grin, leaning against the counter with her coffee, wincing at the racket, her heart swelling at the gummy smile he gave in return, his noise increasing, knowing he had her attention.
He looked at her with absolute, heart-rending faith. She was the most reliable thing in his little life, the anchor to his balloon.Thatwas the part of motherhood she could do all day, every day, for the rest of her life.
Lurielle wondered if she had ever looked at her own mother that way, even when she was small.
The rest of it — the toys underfoot, the endless diapers, the need to create new and creative meals each and every day, trying to expand his palette while simultaneously ensuring he ateenough, the ruined clothes . . . she was glad to be back at work, glad to be having conversations that didn’t include the lyrics to ‘The Ogre on the Bus’, glad that she could go hours at a time without thinking of all her responsibilities at home . . . and then the guilt for having done so would creep in and threaten to eat her alive.
The bank where Khash worked didn’t provide nearly as generous a parental leave policy as her own employer, and although they could have afforded to take extended leaves, they decided jointly that the money would be better put into savings.
“His school fund,” Lurielle had said.
