“Patience, my darling.”
My mother’s voice, as clear as if she’s right behind me. My fingers fly to my neck, to Clementine’s ring, nestled in the hollow of my throat. Safe, legitimate, a grounding talisman.
“Mom?” I whisper, before whipping around. But I’m alone. The moss sways with a sudden gust of too-warm breeze, and I shiver despite the oppressive heat.
I still, my heart racing.
My watch buzzes an alert.
The moss stills too, the breeze gone as quickly as it came.
Shaking hand on the doorknob now, stepping inside the house before quickly shutting the door behind me. Locking it, for good measure.
My mother’s voice continues echoing in my ears, like sound waves bouncing off a rocky cliff face. The echo persists, even after I’ve greeted my family, while I prepare dinner, as I’m reading with Clementine before bed.
“Patience, my darling…patience, my darling…patience, my darling…”
“Let’s get everyone checked in,” the tautly lean woman, who is not one of our usual instructors, says, standing at the door to the community center’s health studio. I attend a breath work class weekly with my two best friends, Maeve and Katrina. We alternate studios, because Maeve’s community center is two neighborhoods over from where Kat and I live. Today we’re at Kat’s and my local health studio, and first in line. I’m at the front of our group, so I give the woman our names.
“Tilly Crewson, Maeve Milford, and Kat Rojas.” The instructor touches her tablet’s screen, checking us in, then says, “Welcome, ladies. I’m Beatrice, filling in for Ellis S. today. You’ve been here before?”
We nod. “We’re regulars,” I reply.
“Excellent. Then you know the drill,” Beatrice says, smiling before turning her attention to the next woman in line behind us. The room is lit in a soft, golden glow, meant to mimic near sunset, and we each take one of the VR headsets hanging on wall hooks. The mats have already been laid out, and we choose three in the last row. There’s a faint scent of lavender, infused into the space to promote relaxation.
“We have…” Kat looks at her watch, sets a timer. “Eleven minutes.So we each get three. Maeve, you’re first.” Kat used to be an elementary school teacher and is now at home with her four children. The need to organize remains strong, so Maeve and I are happy to indulge her. Sometimes it’s nice to hand over the control to someone else.
“As you both know, I was at a conference last week,” Maeve says. She ties her ponytail lower to accommodate the headset. She has a new watchstrap, transparent except for tiny flecks of gold—it reminds me of the jelly sandals of my youth. I’ve been looking at a similar one, though flecked with white, but it has been out of stock.
“ ‘The Role of Neuroaesthetics in Treating Mood Disorders,’ ” she adds, before glancing at me. “With a focus on creating visual art as therapy, so I’m going to want to pick your brain later, Tilly.”
“Happy to have my brain picked,” I reply. “Besides, I owe you about a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of therapy at this point.”
Kat raises her hand. “Another fifty thousand at least from me.”
Maeve laughs, then shares that her partner, Jenn, an emergency-room physician who travels often for humanitarian work, is up the coast in Maine.
“There was a lot of displacement with this one, and injuries, Jenn said,” Maeve adds, referring to the most recent hurricane, only two weeks prior, more devastating than initially predicted. “I’m going to join her next week.”
Jenn and Maeve are child-free by choice, neither possessing the “mom gene,” as they put it. MotherWise, and society in general, isn’t sure what to do with women like Jenn and Maeve, and they are mostly left alone. Though there are whispers that MotherWise, and the government at large, is considering disincentives for this childless group.
Along with servicing disaster zones, most of Maeve’s therapeutic work focuses on dismantling this concept of “unquestioned procreation,” supporting women who either choose not to become mothers or can’t due to a variety of circumstances. It’s how I met her—she was leading a workshop on secondary infertility, and my therapist at the time suggested I attend.
Kat, who is married to Wyatt’s high school best friend, Nick, devotes her update to her kids: Lola, Jose, Ana, and the baby, Rachael, who is finally sleeping through the night. Nick is a former city councilor now tasked with growing the MotherWise initiative, and this occasionally creates friction. I’m more moderate on nearly every issue and am often the peacekeeper between the two. They are as opposite as can be, both in appearance, with Maeve blond and athletic and Kat dark and willow-thin, and in personality. Our friendship has remained solid regardless.
“Okay, so I have a top secret project right now,” I say, lowering my voice. I tell them about the mysterious delivery in the vaguest terms possible.
“I can’t share more than that for now, I even had to sign an NDA, but I’ll say this: it’s the project of a lifetime. A true ‘pinch me’ moment.”
There’s a hit of anticipation in my belly; the promise of unearthed secrets under the black soot makes me itchy with impatience. Underlying that is a thread of disquiet, as I remain troubled by hearing my mother’s voice on my front stoop last night. Plus, Wyatt and I have decided to do a course of privatized IVF, in part thanks to the Leclerc and its bonus fee. I’m both excited and overwhelmed about the decision, which I hope is the answer to our at-the-moment unsolvable problem.
All this to say, I’m counting on tonight’s class to rebalance my nervous system.
“Sounds exciting!” Kat says, ever enthusiastic the way only a former elementary school teacher can be. “I’m thrilled for you.”
“Me too,” Maeve adds. “I can’t wait—”
Whatever she’s about to say is interrupted by Kat’s watch alarm. “Time’s up, ladies. Are we doing dinner after?”
