“Yes, he is.” I swallow hard—there’s a bad taste in the back of my throat. “Can I ask…when did he call to register me?”
“Let’s see here…yesterday, actually. Is there an issue, Tilly?” Angela’s cheeriness has dimmed a couple of degrees.
“No issue. I’m, uh, just surprised. It was on my to-do list, but we must have gotten our wires crossed.” So much for Wyatt giving meanother week. I’m fuming, though I can’t sort out what I’m most angry about.
“Happens more often than you would imagine; everyone is usually so darn excited!” Angela says with a laugh. Cheerful again. “Welcome back to MotherWise, Tilly Crewson and baby. We’re thrilled to have both of you.”
Initially I rail at Wyatt for registering me without my knowledge. I’m annoyed he went back on his word to give me more time. I’m not sure who I’m most angry with…Wyatt? MotherWise? Our pregnancy-obsessed society? Irritated to be fighting about this at all; guilty that my gratitude at this privilege isn’t front and center.
“I have a right to the program too, Tilly—this isn’t only about you,” Wyatt says, at the boil-over point of our argument. He’s not wrong. MotherWise has a complementary program for fathers-to-be, offering support groups and workshops.
“I know it isn’t!” I shout back. Clementine comes into our room to find out why we’re yelling, and that pops the balloon of tension. We apologize for our words, our tone of voice, though I note that Wyatt doesn’t apologize for registering me. I let it go, for Clementine’s sake.
Resolved to move forward, I text Kat that I registered (I don’t share that Wyatt beat me to it), and we sign up for a MotherWise meditation pod class the following evening.
“You’re going to love it,” she says. “Better than a full night’s sleep!”
—
Wyatt and I share news of the pregnancy the following morning with Clementine, over breakfast, now that my first NourishBox is on its way. She’s unfazed but pleased.
“I hope it’s a boy,” she says. “I’d like a brother. Don’t find out, okay? I want it to be a surprise.” I don’t tell her I’m sure it’s a girl, and promise to keep the sex a secret until the baby is born. It’s sweet she wants to wait, even though the rest of us will find out in advance.
“You’ll be the best big sister ever,” I tell her.
—
The Leclerc conservation is another story. It’s tedious and slow-moving. I try not to get frustrated but am on edge as soon as I walk into GIA. The breath ball on the elevator door does little to settle me, and my short-temperedness follows me to my desk.
“How about a hot tea?” Isla asks, right after I snap at her for something unimportant (Where did the new brushes get moved to, because someone moved them and it wasn’t me…). MotherWise has sent a box of supplies to GIA, including an herbal tea meant to enhance the parasympathetic nervous system, specially formulated for working mothers-to-be. Isla has excitedly—kindly—unpacked it for me.
I force my shoulders down. “Tea would be great. And I’m sorry for snapping. I’m in a mood today.”
Isla smiles the apology away. “You have every right, Tilly. You’re growing a person in there.” She gestures to my belly, the barely there bump hidden under my dress. “I can’t even imagine what it’s like, being pregnant.”
She has a look on her face I recognize—delighted anticipation, without a hint of concern.
Isla is only twenty-three. Like so many young people who have yet to be let down by life’s travesties, she sees only the upsides of pregnancy, of MotherWise.
“I forget that sometimes. Yes, I am growing a person! No wonder I’m so exhausted and short-tempered.” I give her a wry look and she returns a warm smile before heading off to make my tea.
Gathering up my tablet and Luminara glasses, I decide I don’t have the patience to wait for the beverage. So I take the long way to Room D, stopping by the kitchen. “Hey, mind if I cancel that tea order? I’m anxious to get started.”
“No problem.” Isla swiftly dumps the water into the filtration system that will recycle it for later use. I haven’t adjusted to how they make tea down here.In a microwave!My mom would have shaken her head at this southern quirk. I brought my mom’s well-used kettle with me from Toronto when we moved, but it’s gathering dust in a high-up cabinet in the kitchen.
I’ll pull it down tonight, I think, as I get my suit zipped up and my mask on, clicking it to the highest filtration setting.I should drink more herbal tea.I’m lost in thought, placing my fingertip to the lock pad by rote, and so initially don’t notice what’s different about Room D. I have an unobstructed view thanks to the wall of glass that turns from opaque to see-through when the lock is disengaged, and yet my mind is elsewhere. The door opens with a satisfying click. I step inside the room, then abruptly stop.
The canvas—the final Leclerc—rests on the floor, face down. The protective, air-pocketed cover I place over it at the end of each session rests nearby, deflated.
My gag reflex kicks in, and the mask suctions against my face with the force of my indrawn breath.This makes no sense.My brain races to catch up to the overwhelming physical reaction I’m having. I secured the frame anchors myself and check them multiple times during a work session. There’s no way the painting simplyfell offmy workbench. Someone other than me must have been in this room. But the lock pad only opens with my fingerprint.
Back in control of my body, I set my things on the table near the door, grab the camera, and move calmly but quickly to the fallencanvas. I crouch, trying to control my breathing. My watch buzzes (heart rate elevated…time for breath work, Tilly?) as I snap a few photos to document the scene. Then I stand and walk the perimeter of the painting, stopping now and then to observe different angles. So far it seems fine.
I grasp the top edge of the canvas. Holding my breath, panic deepening, I gently lift it from the ground, leaning it against the workbench.
Okay, it’s fine.
I’ll have to call someone to help me get it back safely onto the table, but first I scan section after section with trained eyes. It doesn’t seem to have sustained any damage.
