That means no, the woman said.So, you don’t want to be a mother?
Not particularly, Maeve replied, trying to shift focus back to her client, who was desperate for a baby and had been trying to conceive for years.
The woman went off on Maeve. Accusing her of pretending to understand the agony of being childless, when how could she?And you would get pregnant in a flash!the client said.It’s always like that—the wrong people get the best luck. What a waste.
This upset Maeve, even as she understood the venom came from a place of sadness (and wasn’t about Maeve at all). She told me she felt guilty because part of what the woman said was true: Maevecouldget pregnant.
It had happened in graduate school. Long before she started her infertility-focused practice, before she met Jenn.Obviously there was no baby in the end, Maeve added, and I didn’t ask what that meant. I never knew if it was her choice or not. But I remember the look on her face as she said it.
It was the same look she had now.
“She feels guilty, Mathilde.”
My breath hitches when I hear my mother’s voice, to my left. The fried green tomatoes, she-crab soup, and macaroni and cheese threaten to come back up, right on the floor of this lovely restaurant.
“Be quiet,” I whisper, not turning toward her voice. I don’t want to see her.
“You know they’re talking about you, honey. About what happened at Christmas. No one trusts your judgment. But they don’t understand what you’re trying to do, Mathilde! What you’re trying to uncover.”
Kat and Maeve look my way. The guilt on Maeve’s face is gone (did I imagine it?). Kat smiles and points to her dessert, doing an in-the-chair dance with her shoulders and arms. She loves the Pink House’s fresh fruit pie with custard.
“They’re talking about you, and they’re going to tell Wyatt they’re worried. You know they will. And once they do, you know that—”
“Stop it,” I say, with more volume this time. I set hands to my ears, pressing hard to block out the sound of my mother’s voice.
Kat tilts her head, a frown coming to her face. “You okay?” she mouths. Maeve pushes her chair back to stand. If they weren’t talking about me before, they will be now. I drop my hands from my ears, flushing with embarrassment.
Maeve comes toward me, urgency in her steps. Her giant glittery purple “It’s my birthday!” button, which Kat gave her as a lark and Maeve proudly pinned to her shirt, glimmers in the dim light. She reaches for my arm, makes eye contact.
“You okay?” she asks, her tone hushed.
“Be careful, Mathilde,”my mother says. “You can’t be kept from the painting. Not when you’re this close.”
“The slightest of wobbles, but I’m fine. Maybe it was the she-crab soup? The sherry mostly cooks off, but I’m a lightweight now.” I roll my eyes, smile for good measure.
Maeve nods but remains all business. No returned smile. “Maybe we should get the bill?”
“Yes, go home. Go home right now, Mathilde.”
Shut up, I reply in my mind, but to Maeve I say, “Absolutely not. I have pecan pie waiting for me. You should never keep a pregnant woman from her dessert, Maeve. Look at Kat.”
We both look Kat’s way—she’s dipping her fork tines into the pie’s custard, then licking it off. Technically not starting without us. Maeve laughs. Slings an arm around me as we walk back to the table. I can’t tell if it’s simply friendly or because she’s still concerned I’m not well.
I glance over my shoulder. With relief I see my mother isn’t there.I can’t hear her either. A waitress comes up behind us, carrying the plate with Maeve’s dessert. The flameless candle she’ll “blow out” after we sing “Happy Birthday” is glowing bright.
Maeve sees the candle and groans, knowing what’s next. “You know, the best birthday gift would be for younotto sing, Tilly.”
“It’s bad luck not to sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ ” I say.
“That’s not a thing,” Maeve replies, laughing harder.
“Well, I won’t risk it.” I launch into “Happy Birthday” with Kat, the waitress, and a few fellow diners at other tables. Maeve makes a wish and blows out the candle.
My mother, who has appeared across the table from me, watches too, clapping along with the rest of us. Her head is severely tilted, her ear almost touching her shoulder now. It’s awful to look at; I can’t avert my gaze.
Please go away,I think.
“It’s too late for that, Mathilde.”
