“I’m fixing to get a hot chocolate myself,” Shelby says. “Let Stan have a walkabout, and say hello to a few people. Anyone else?”
She has a large social network, far more robust than mine or Wyatt’s. There are friends she walks with, friends she volunteers with, friends she lunches with. Community-based programs are particularly geared toward those in their twenties and those over seventy, both groups that suffered most during the loneliness epidemic following MorA.
“We’ll join you in a minute, Mom.” I pick up a hint of exhaustion in Wyatt’s tone. Probably left over from work, his projects behind schedule due to a flurry of people being out sick with the inevitable December germs.
I set one hand on my stomach, then reach for his and place it beside mine. “She’s awake.” I can refer to the baby’s sex, confirmed during the visit to Dr. Rice, because Clementine isn’t nearby. It’s been hard to keep it from her, but I’m determined to honor the wish for a surprise.
Wyatt’s hand stills, waiting for movement. It’s likely too early to be felt, at least on the outside of me, but she’s incredibly active tonight. I feel a soft nudge, and then Wyatt grins, eyes widening.Good girl, I think, happy to see him light up. “This never gets old,” he says.
A moment later the carol singers begin, and the baby moves again. I grin. “She likes Christmas music.”
Wyatt and I join in with the caroling. He can sing (“the voice of an angel,” Shelby says), and thankfully his strong voice drowns out mine. I’m as terrible a singer as he is a good one, but I love carols.
I drop Wyatt’s hand partway through “Silver Bells” to scratch at my arm, which goes unnoticed because Clementine and Shelby have returned with hot chocolates. Clementine talks a mile a minute, the high of the celebrations, and sugar, flooding her small body.
She’s excitedly sharing school gossip (“Miss Lauren”—her teacher—“might bring her pet guinea pig, Chuckles, to our class!”), when Stanley starts growling. I look at him, curious about what’s made him so upset. His body shivers under his red-and-black plaid sweater as he barks a few times. He’s a social butterfly like Shelby, and loves the attention he commands in a crowd like tonight’s.
“What’s up, Stanley?” I ask the dog.
“Simmer down this minute.” Shelby’s tone is quiet but firm, and Stanley lets out a pitiful whine. He stops growling but continues to stare across the square. Over by an oak tree, whose trunk is wrapped in strings of twinkling white lights.
I see her then. My mother. Standing beside that tree, in the shadows of dusk and Spanish moss. Her head tilts farther to the right, sending shivers down my spine and a rolling nausea into my stomach. The twinkle lights illuminate one side of her face, the effect ghoulish.
This can’t be happening…not now.
The itch on my arm crescendoes. I wish I could ask if anyone else sees the woman standing by the tree. We lock eyes then, and she smiles. There’s a moment of comfort—it’s my mother’s beautiful smile!But soon the smile warps. Her mouth opens impossibly wide, lips stretching thin, then twisting, pulling taut with the effort.
“There’s only one way to make that stop, Mathilde.”Though she’s at some distance, and the crowd of holiday revelers is still singing, I have no trouble hearing her. Even through that terrifyingly freakish mouth.
She gestures to her own arm, and I understand she’s referring to the itching of mine. Then she tells me how to get rid of it.
I whisper, “I can’t do that.”
“What did you say?” Wyatt asks. I shake my head, discombobulated.
“Nothing,” I manage. He turns back to Clementine, who is pestering him for the rest of his hot chocolate.
I’m struggling to stay present, my mother’s voice louder now in the space between us. Drowning out all the others. Even the music fades further into the background when she tells me again what I have to do. I don’t reply this time, instead give a shake of my head.No.
My mother quiets, her lips remaining stretched in the disfigured grimace. A moment of stillness follows, until she sets her hands to her abdomen, as though she’s about to be sick. A stream of moths suddenly pours from her mouth. Southern flannel moths. My body goes numb; everything shuts down.
She continues heaving in rhythmic waves, bringing up more and more of the moths. I register the main chorus of “Joy to the World,” faintly. But it can’t mask the gurgling, retching sounds coming from my mother’s body. Soon, the pile of insects has grown to where it swallows her entirely.
“STOP!”
I snap back to myself with the same intensity of a rubber band stretched to its limit before being released. Everyone nearby turns to me, as my voice is louder than the holiday music.
While most faces appear curious at the outburst, Shelby, Wyatt, and Clementine look at me with alarm. Wyatt in particular.
“Tilly? You all right?” he asks.
Do I look all right?I’m still dazed. “I think so?”
“Here, Daddy.” Clementine hands Wyatt back the cup of hot chocolate. Her eyes dart repeatedly to my face. “I promised Momma I’d only have one.”
“It’s fine, Clemmie. That wasn’t about you or the hot chocolate.” I sound as weak as I feel. I clutch at Wyatt’s arm for support, woozy.
“Whoa.” Wyatt grabs hold of my elbow with both hands, steadying me. “Tilly, if you’re not feeling well, we should go home.”
