Back home if someone offered me tea it would be piping hot and unsweetened. Here it’s cold and, in my experience, sugary enough to make your teeth ache.
“I’m good, thank you,” I reply, impatient to get back to my NourishBox. “Let me bring this inside for you, though.”
Becca’s home is similar in layout to ours, with a central kitchen and a vertical vegetable garden, a family room to one side of the kitchen, and a small dining room to the other. A main difference is the color—our walls are painted a pale blue, Becca’s a soft beige. The bedrooms are all on the second and third levels, depending on the family’s needs. My studio will likely become Clementine’s room after this baby is born. I’ll miss my own space, but the reason is well worth it.
“Just set that on the island, hon.” Becca gets a pair of scissors. “Is that your first box?”
“It is, and I should get back to it.”
“I am tickled for you and Wyatt. And Miss Shelby and Clementine too! It will be so nice for her to have a sibling. And for you to get that second ring—I remember it well, though it feels long ago now.”
I nod, but my smile wanes. Becca and Chip weren’t yet living next door when we lost Poppy. I’m muzzled by a wave of grief, though my thoughts race on.Fuck you and your plethora of rings, Becca.
I’m instantly horrified by my secret vitriol, my unkindness. I would never wish on anyone what we went through. I do wish, however, to be naïve like Becca. I don’t want to understand how cruel the quest for motherhood can be.
“Yes, it will be nice to have that second ring,” I reply, my tone flat even as my smile holds.
“You bet it will.” Becca beams at me before slicing open the packaging on the NourishBox. “Enjoy every bit of this, Tilly. It goes way too fast.”
My NourishBox is identical in weight to Becca’s when I pick it up off my doorstep. I’m excited to see what’s inside the first one. There’s an exterior chilled compartment for the protein—chicken, beef, or fish, from the top protein-growing lab in the country—along with an inner box for the microbiota-friendly teas, pregnancy supplements, and healthy snacks, among other goodies.
I set the box on our kitchen’s island and relish the moment. Tears prick at my eyes, and I realize how low my expectations had sunk. I truly believed Clementine would be our only living child.
Picking up the kitchen shears, I gently press the sharp blade into the taped seam of the box. I’m careful not to go too deep and pierce anything inside. There’s the satisfying sound of the tape releasing, the pop of the cardboard edges coming apart. I’m about to open the flaps, to take stock of the contents, when Stanley begins barking.
At first I think he’s barking at another dog walking by, or a delivery drone, whose whirring noise he hates. A quick glance out our front window shows neither—only the Spanish moss–draped oak tree andan empty sidewalk. Then I realize he’s barking at the kitchen island. Or more specifically, at the NourishBox.
“Stanley, no barking.” I infuse sternness into my tone. But he’s locked in and continues with the sharp yips, one after another.
Shelby strides into the kitchen, VR headset in hand, and I know her neurotherapy session has been interrupted. She’s recently started a specialized program called Memento, which was newly released and prescribed for the sixty-five-plus crowd. The incident when she mentioned my mother’s name, which prompted us to sign her up for Memento, feels long ago now. Luckily, nothing similar has happened since.
“Sorry, Shelby,” I say. “I didn’t mean to disturb your session.”
“It’s fine, honey. I haven’t left for the store yet.” One of her regular exercises with her AI memory coach, “Diane,” is to create a short shopping list, then go to the virtual grocery store without the list to see how many items she remembers.
She snaps her fingers at the dog. “Stanley!”
He instantly stops barking and sits on her foot. Shelby reaches down to rub his ear. “I’m sorry he’s being a menace. Not sure what he’s getting on about.”
Then she sees the box, and her eyes light up. She touches her necklace, with one silver ring, for first grandchild Clementine. I know she’s thinking about her second legacy ring. Poppy died before Shelby’s ring was delivered—those don’t arrive until the baby is born.
A smile passes between us, and she says, “I need to get back to Diane. But I can’t wait to see what’s in there.”
I wave at her. “Go, go. Don’t let me keep you.”
“I’ll take him with me. Stanley,come, darling.” The dog trots after her, though he gives one last glance and low growl toward the island. A moment later I hear Shelby talking to Diane in the voice she uses for therapists—pleasant and patient, as though she’s helping Clementine with a homework problem or chatting with an elderly neighbor at thecommunity garden. I chuckle, knowing that while AI-generated Diane doesn’t require this nicety, Shelby is a southern woman to her core.
Alone in the kitchen again, I’m about to open the box but pause when something shifts inside. A gentle scuttling, then a rhythmic scratching. My hands still and I listen intently.
There’s an almost mechanical fluttering sound, reminding me of old-fashioned alarm clock bells.Fast. Urgent.Something smacks the inside of the box and the fluttering stops. The step I take back is involuntary.
Whatever’s inside wants out, and the fluttering intensifies again. A black needlelike thing suddenly pokes up between the flaps where I’ve cut the tape. The thing moves back and forth, like the arm of a metronome. A moment later, another identical black needle pokes through and moves in a similar back-and-forth pattern.
The flap shifts and a palmetto bug, a flying cockroach, soars out of the box. I let out a yelp, then shudder as I watch it land on the countertop. Reaching for one of Clementine’s books, the closest thing to me, I raise it high and swiftly bring it down onto the bug. There’s a sound that is bothsquishandcrunch, and a jolt of adrenaline courses through me, raising the hairs on the back of my neck.
Carefully lifting the book, which has bits of the crushed exoskeleton and a smear of guts, I see the cockroach is flattened. One wing has detached and is lying beside the insect’s body. An antenna twitches, but I’m pretty sure the cockroach is dead.
Letting out a ragged breath, I reluctantly nudge the smashed cockroach with the book’s edge. It doesn’t move. I’m about to grab a tissue to sweep it from the countertop when I hear the same soft scuttling.
