I stand there for a moment longer, staring at the now-closed door.
Margot. She wanted me to tell you she’s sorry. About last night, she said.
See, my mother’s name was Margot, and she’s been dead for nearly twenty years.
“Did you know there are loads of dead people under these sidewalks? Like, maybe right under our feet, right now? And some werestill alivewhen they were buried?”
Clementine skips beside me, holding my hand. We’re almost at the train platform, and I’ve resisted asking her tostop, towalk properly, topick up the pacea half dozen times. At this statement about the dead I abruptly stop. My arm nearly gets pulled out of its socket when she continues her momentum before turning back to me. She never lets go of my hand.
“What made you think of that?” I scan her face for signs of worry, but there are none. It’s as though my thoughts of death have somehow telepathically infiltrated Clem’s mind.
She tugs my hand. “Mommy, we can’t be late.”
“Yes, you’re right.” I step in beside her. The train platform’s up ahead; a few others are already waiting. I wave to another mother—Dawn—who has a daughter the same age as Clementine named Briar. Dawn was the one who put me in touch with the administrator ofClementine’s current school, and now I remember I never dropped off a thank-you gift.Shoot.
“But who told you that, Clem?”
My instinct is to stop walking so I can get her to focus on the question. But there’s no time, so we continue, me walking, Clementine skipping. Evidently not distressed, as though the conversation was about butterflies versus us casually traipsing over the dead under our feet.
“I can’t remember. My teacher?” she replies. “But I’m pretty sure it’s true.”
It is true. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of Civil War–era bodies rest forever under what later became cobblestone streets and town squares. There are ghastly stories of yellow fever victims who were buried alive leaving fingernail marks inside their coffins, as they frantically tried to claw their way out.
Savannah is known as one of the most haunted places in the United States. Ghost tours were commonplace here, as popular with visitors as southern food specialties like Brunswick stew and shrimp and grits. While the ghost tours have dwindled post-pandemic, along with tourism, Savannah’s shadowy stories remain—sleeping below the surface, behind ivy-covered brick walls and under sidewalks. I shiver despite the morning’s warmth.
“There’s a lot of history here. We’ll talk more about it later, okay?” is all I say, because the train has arrived and this isn’t a discussion to be having with other young ears listening. But I make a mental note to speak with Clementine’s teacher. While historically accurate, it seems an unnecessarily traumatic topic to discuss with a second-grade class. I need to be better at staying involved with the school. Dawn apparently volunteers in the classroom three mornings a week.
By the time I drop Clementine at school and make the short walk to the GIA lab, I’ve moved on from her “dead under the sidewalk” comment to trying to convince myself I heard Shelby wrong. It’s a hard sell, which means I’ll have to call Wyatt later and tell him whathappened. My mother-in-law generally has only good days now, after years of regular neurotherapy, but it falls to us to engage extra support as needed. Wyatt and I share that load, much like we do the parenting one. He’s an excellent partner, and I know how lucky I am.
Margot. She wanted me to tell you she’s sorry.
Tears prick my eyes, and I hastily wipe them away. I miss my mom desperately, even all these years later. The last time I saw her I was nineteen, home from university for Christmas break and oblivious to the imminent tragedy that would change my life forever. A too-long skirt. A missed step.So much blood.So many questions, too, the answers buried along with my mother. No child—even one deemed an adult by society’s standards—should see her mother the way I found mine that day. I shudder through the gag at the back of my throat, before pushing the memory down again where it hurts me less.
I wish she could have known the adult me. Met Wyatt and Clementine, both of whom she would have adored. The longing for her whip-smart wisdom, her ability to know what to say in every situation, intensifies around this time every month. I wonder what advice she’d offer about my inability to get pregnant again. While she was a wonderful mother, she was not the sort to snuggle your sadness away.
If I was melancholic or upset and brought my mood to her for help, my mom would turn from her studio’s easel, where she often was when not at the museum, and say,Mathilde—non tutti le ciambelle riescono col buco, a favorite saying she picked up in Venice during an apprenticeship, which translates to “not all doughnuts come out with a hole.” I never understood how this saying was meant to help, but I pretended I did.
I once offered the same line to Clementine, when she came home in tears after a school project didn’t go her way.
“That doesn’t make any sense, Momma,” she said, after I translated it for her. I had to admit she was right, but I explained it was something my mother used to say to me. And even if it didn’t make sense, for some reason I felt better after she said it.
“Maybe it doesn’t have to make sense?” Clementine mused, uponfurther consideration. “Because doughnuts are delicious, and no hole means there’s more doughnut to eat, and that’s a happy thought.” My mom would have loved that response.
My mother’s career was her first child, relegating me to second in line, though she made it clear I was planned and very much wanted. The sperm donor was a Parisian-born art aficionado and collector who agreed to a no-strings-attached arrangement with his dear friend my mother. I never met him, and she never referred to him as my “father”—only as “Bernie” (pronouncedBear-nee).
I received a condolence card in the mail after her death, from a “C. Bernard,” sent from Paris on gorgeous stationery.Bernie?I wondered. My mother had plenty of acquaintances around the world, but I was curious enough to do a Paris name search. It returned thousands of “C. Bernard” results. I left it at that. If my mother wanted me to know more, she would have told me.
—
I’m relieved to arrive at the GIA building, knowing once I get inside I’ll be deliciously distracted with work. Shifting my focus to the package waiting for me, I run through ideas about what it might be. I step into the elevator, and as the doors close they turn into a large screen. A news banner runs across the screen’s bottom (…bee and pollinator population has seen an increase of 38% since the banning of pesticides and decorative lawns two years ago…Know Your Neighbor community social networks are now available in all 50 states…). The remainder of the door-screen is a giant breath ball. It’s a glowing sphere that shrinks and expands, changing color as it does, meant to help riders relax before stepping into work. I focus on the sphere, timing my breath to its pattern, but am soon distracted again by the news.
…President Vasquez is said to be “bolstered and encouraged” that both the House and Senate have passed the MotherWise bill, bringing it one step closer to being signed into law.
MotherWise’s pilot program has been running for six years in a handful of states, including Georgia, New York, and California. President Vasquez added that once the law is passed, all women across the US will become eligible—
There’s a ping and the doors open. I’m mid-breath, and the remaining air I’ve taken in leaves me with a whoosh. My watch releases a staccato vibration, as though clapping. Recognition for my efforts, a gold star flashing across the watch face. I’m happy about the star, then feel silly and turn off my notifications.
As I walk into the lab, I can’t know that these are the last few moments of normalcy I’ll have. If I could have seen what was coming…well, I never would have signed for the delivery. I most certainly would never have unwrapped it.
