Is that…?
I lean closer again.
A fingernail clipping?
I touch the tiny, nearly translucent crescent and it transfers to my fingertip. Inspecting it with my magnifier glasses I see that indeed it’s the top of a fingernail—from a thumbnail, I guess, due to the shape and thickness. As I look at my thumb, it all falls into place. The nail clippers drop from my hand.
I get a “good behavior” pass, thanks to a run of excellent biometric readings.
“Don’t call it that,” Wyatt says, when I tell him Dr. Rice signed off on me having dinner with the girls, to celebrate Maeve’s birthday. I’m leaving in an hour. “It makes it sound like you’re in prison or something.”
He’s on edge. Someone was injured at work, and there’s talk of a lawsuit against both the construction company and Wyatt’s firm.
“Fine. Iget toleave the house for dinner, at a restaurant, which is something I’m dying to do because I’m not allowed to go anywhere anymore, and I’m excited.” I sound like a petulant teenager, but I can’t help it. I’m on edge too, except I’m keeping the reasons why to myself.
Wyatt raises an eyebrow but doesn’t bite. Nor does he remind me I’m in this position because I carved into my own arm on Christmas morning. But that was weeks ago, my arm has healed, and we’ve all in theory moved on. “Where y’all going for dinner?”
“The Olde Pink House.”
“Nice. What are you going to get?” Wyatt asks. Shelby and her latehusband were married at the restaurant, and Wyatt takes his mom to the Olde Pink House each year on her wedding anniversary.
“Do you even have to ask?” I mean to sound playful, as my order never changes, but it comes out tinged with irritation.
“Let me guess. This is a tricky one,” Wyatt replies, tapping his fingers against the countertop, his face screwed up in deep concentration. I laugh, grateful to him for lightening the mood. My shoulders relax.
“Fried green tomatoes…” I nod. “She-crab soup…” Another nod, the crab, cream, and sherry bisque my favorite thing on the menu. My stomach rumbles. “Macaroni and cheese?”
“Nailed it,” I reply. “You know me well.”
“Sure do.” Wyatt leans across the counter to kiss me on the lips. Then he notices my left hand. “What happened there?”
The bandage on my thumb covers what’s left of that fingernail. This one was clipped the farthest down, and the slice in my nail bed keeps opening up and bleeding. I’ve trimmed the nails on my right hand to better match the left, and they’re much shorter than I’m used to. My fingertips are supersensitive, the delicate skin no longer protected.
“Oh, a minor conservator accident,” I say. “Nicked it with the scalpel when I was trying to sample paint.”
“Ouchie,” Wyatt replies. He shakes out his hand as though feeling pain in his own thumb.
“It’s fine. The bandage is keeping it clean.” I casually slide my hand from the countertop, out of view.
“Who knew art conservation was such a high-risk line of work?” There’s a teasing smile on his face. “You should ask Raoul for a raise.Danger pay.”
I laugh, but it’s hollow. Wyatt doesn’t notice.
—
The colonial mansion on Abercorn Street is one of Savannah’s remaining historic buildings, dating back to 1771. As most eighteenth-century mansions have been converted to residences, the Olde PinkHouse is a unique reminder of the before times. Named as such because of its exterior, made of plaster turned pastel pink due to humidity-induced bleeding of the red clay bricks underneath, the restaurant has a menu that has remained essentially unchanged over the years. It’s been a lovely evening so far. I’ve missed spending time with my friends and am grateful for conversation unrelated to my pregnancy or MotherWise. Happy that Maeve is the center of attention tonight.
I’m coming back to our table after using the restroom, excited about dessert. Pecan pie. It has a cinnamon-pecan crust and dark chocolate and is served warm with vanilla ice cream. The dark chocolate will give me a boost of caffeine, and I feel moderately rebellious for ordering it. Especially because pecans do contain zinc, but apparently (according to my EduNet search) not enough to trigger my sensitivity.
I see the pie’s already arrived, then notice Maeve and Kat huddled close, side by side. It seems a serious conversation, based on body language and facial expressions—not a smile to be seen. I stop walking. Should I give them a few more moments? Maybe they’re having a heart-to-heart, Kat confessing to Maeve that she was upset by her reaction to her pregnancy news. If so, I’m glad—it’s awkward having unsaid things and hurt feelings between friends.
But then Kat glances up, notices me watching them. She abruptly stops talking. Maeve looks my way too, and smiles, but something’s off. Kat fiddles with her silverware, looking at neither Maeve nor me. Something flits across Maeve’s face, and I think…I know that look. I’ve seen that look.
Maeve is an excellent clinician, and an expert at maintaining neutrality when in therapist mode. However, she’s an imperfect human like the rest of us and at times can’t keep what she’s thinking from clouding her expression.
Once, a couple of years ago, when Maeve and I were out for dinner after a breath work class while Kat was at a school fundraiser, I noticed how quiet she was. When I asked if she was okay, she said “not really” and then shared a story about a client interaction. She remainedappropriately professional, giving no details about the woman, but did tell me one specific thing about their session.
This woman had asked Maeve if she had any children. When Maeve replied,No, I don’t, the woman then asked if she wanted to be a mother. Maeve was vague in her response, explaining that they weren’t there to discuss her personal life.
