The woman frowns, giving me a look that could be either pitying or judgmental. “How unfortunate.”
She reaches up and tugs on her necklace, which she then presses flat against the knit of her sweater. I see them then, the six silver ringsthreaded on the thin chain. We lock eyes, and mine drop before hers do.
I think of my own necklace, hiding under the halter neck of my dress. Of the one gold ring it holds, another ring hidden in a small jewelry box at the back of my sock drawer.
“Well, we better get back to it.” I grip Clementine’s hand firmly and she protests. The woman’s frown deepens. “Thanks again for your help.”
She smiles tepidly this time and carries on down the aisle. My guilt about her paying for our cherries lessens.
“Well, bless your heart,” I say, but she’s far enough away that I know she won’t hear it.
“Nana says that isn’t always as friendly as it sounds,” Clementine tells me as I step around the cleaner. It’s polishing the floor with soft muslin-cloth fingers to avoid anyone slipping, the robot still chirping out caution warnings at five-second intervals.
“Nana’s right, but I meant itappreciatively, Clem. Because she paid for our cherries, which was very kind.”
I did not mean it appreciatively, and Clementine’s dubious look tells me I’m fooling no one.
“Can we get another jar, Momma? You promised.” There’s a hint of whine in her tone, but her face is wide open and, ah, the power a seven-year-old has over you. Especially when you harbor guilt, as I do.
“You’re right, Clem. I did.” I release her hand and reach for the cherries from the shelf.
We head to a checkout kiosk, and my watch gives me another set of buzzes. Again, I ignore it.
Clementine presses the “Family Car” button at the train station. I hope it arrives quickly. My stomach is off and I want to get home. I use the hand not holding our groceries to wipe at the back of my neck. It comes away slick with sweat. The air is blow-dryer hot, but at least there’s shelter from the oaks that line the train’s outdoor platform. A tiny relief.
“Mom, look! Train number one!” Clementine points at the approaching light-rail train, which slows as it gets closer. There’s a large white number 1 stenciled onto the front of the first car. Clementine, along with her young peers, believes it’s auspicious to ride Train 1. Similar to finding a four-leaf clover or wishing on a shooting star.
“Wow, it’s been a while since that happened!” I give her a big smile. Match her enthusiasm. The way we are told to do with our children.
I take a moment to appreciate how such a small thing can feel so big to a child and am grateful for Clementine’s easy happiness. The train doors slide open and we step inside the car. The chilly air is scented with a fresh citrus combination—lemon, orange, grapefruit—and I breathe it in, refreshed.
“Welcome to train one, Mathilde Crewson and ClementineCrewson. We hope you enjoy your ride!” The automated voice is pleasant, soothing as it welcomes us aboard, even as it pronounces my name all wrong—Mat-hildEEinstead ofMAH-tealed.
I’m used to it, which is why I’ve gone by “Tilly” since I was ten years old. My mom was the only person who made my name sound beautiful, so I was Mathilde at home and Tilly everywhere else. However, my birth certificate and health records—which the train’s automated system draws from—don’t acknowledge nicknames, soMat-hildEEit is.
There are a few other parents on the train with us, their children sitting beside them and swinging their legs back and forth, back and forth. Rubber-heeled shoes tap against steel panels under the seats to release the little-kid energy. The rhythm of it is almost meditative, and my shoulders relax.
“Mom, it’s Sunny Sam! I haven’t seen this one.” The screen across from our seats shows an animated sunshine—Sunny Sam—waltzing down a cobblestone path. The sun then picks up an upside-down fluffy gray cloud with a sad face and pops it back into the sky. Clementine tells me the cloud (Clara is her name) keeps flowers and trees healthy with her raindrops and protects us from too much sun.
Another mother catches my eye as Clementine chatters away, and we exchange a smile. I think about what the Adult Car—reserved for those sixteen and older—behind us is playing. News, likely, discussing population numbers, new flood-warning systems, or cost-of-living concerns. Topics better suited for those no longer thrilled by traveling on Train 1.
My watch sets off another set of vibrations, but I’m trying to stay present and so don’t look at it. I’m listening to Clementine deliver facts about Sam and Clara when a sudden bloom of wetness fills my underwear, ripping my focus away.
—
Back at home, I stare at the blood on the toilet paper. Now I understand why my watch was so incessantly trying to alert me. The damnwearable, which is insurance-industry endorsed and worn by everyone over the age of five, knows my cycle better than I do, constantly tracking my basal temperature, my heart rate, my hormone levels, my moods. Sending my biometric information to the cloud, the data ripe for analysis as needed, by either medical professionals or insurance adjusters.
Shaking with the disappointment, I breathe in time to my watch’s vibrations. Then I wipe again, and again, until only miniature dots of blood show themselves on the tissue.
Poppy, if born on her due date, would be six today. One year younger than Clementine.
It’s particularly cruel that Poppy and I were to share a birthday, with the way everything turned out.
Flushing the toilet, I avoid looking into the bowl at the pink-hued water and open the cabinet under the sink. Straining, I dig through its depths until my fingers find what I’m looking for. The one “just in case” tampon I stashed under here.
In the oval mirror above the sink, my dark hair curls softly to my shoulders, my mother’s own face reflecting back at me. It’s both a comfort and a curse to be her doppelgänger.
I think about the half-full box of tampons (minus the one under the sink) that I threw out on trash day a week ago, in a particularly hopeful moment.Maybe if I get them out of the house, the universe will see how serious I am this month?Wyatt handles the garbage and recycling, so I discarded the box at the lab to avoid a “waste not, want not” conversation.
