“Well, keep doing whatever you’re doing—you look amazing. Especially considering what you went through with your delivery. You’re a superwoman in my eyes.”
“Oh, I am no superwoman!” I reply, but I thank her for the compliment. “Honestly, I wouldn’t be here to do any of this without Clem and those paramedics.”
After running from my studio, Clementine found Shelby, who called 911. But the ambulance was already en route. My watch alerted Ana, and MotherWise, of my health crisis when I became tachycardic, my heart rate reaching dangerous levels.
Shelby told me they found me on the floor outside my studio door, which was locked. Clementine has no memory of being inside the studio, or of the woman in the painting.
Within a minute of the paramedics arriving, my heart stopped due to blood loss. Luckily, they were able to get it restarted after two minutes of resuscitation. The baby was delivered at the hospital, via emergency C-section, thirty-five minutes later. Wyatt arrived in time to see her born. She was healthy, albeit early so slightly underweight, with no signs the trauma affected her. She also shares a birthday with the grandmother she’ll never get to meet.
“I’m very lucky, very grateful to be alive,” I say to Yasmeen.
“We’re all grateful, Tilly,” she replies, setting a hand on my arm. “It’s a blessing you don’t remember it, if you ask me.”
The cicada buzzes in the grass, drawing our eyes down.
Its six legs tuck tightly against its body, and it goes perfectly still.
“Is it dead?” Yasmeen sounds hopeful.
I shake my head. “It’splayingdead. Probably a defensive carryover from the nymph stage. Watch.”
With a gentle finger I touch the bug’s back, and it comes to life again—buzzing wildly in the grass.
“How did you know that?” Yasmeen asks.
I shrug, sourness filling my throat. “Oh, I read an article about it recently.”
I have no idea how I know this.
There’s a fresh coat of paint on my studio’s walls, a cheerful orange-pink color called “Peach Cobbler.” I did it myself, the only paint I’ve worked with in months. These days I keep the door open and the lock disengaged, the studio now a playroom for both Clementine and the baby. We’ve decided for now the baby will sleep in our room, our renovation plans on hold.
I’ve managed to reframe the space, both physically and in my mind. With each passing day some of the dread about what happened here gets replaced with new memories, happy memories. The Leclerc fee also waits in our bank account, ready for the Disney trip we’ll take over the holidays. Clem’s been counting down the days.
“Only one hundred and forty-one days to go!” she announced over breakfast this morning. The baby, who is almost four months now, cooed and giggled when her big sister kissed her atop the head, telling her all about Mickey Mouse.
The baby rests on her play mat beside me. I’m still on postpartum leave from work, but I’ve been talking to Wyatt about maybe leaving GIA for good. To focus on our family, on what might be next for mepersonally. I’ve been given a second chance and I have no intention of wasting one moment of it.
Wyatt is thrilled by the idea of me staying home. I see it on his face, even if he’s more tempered with his words.Whatever you want to do, Tilly. I’ll support you.
Sure, it will put a pinch in our finances, but not for long. He was promoted last month, and it came with a healthy bump in salary. “We’ll be fine,” he says, as we lounge in bed early in the morning, the baby gurgling happily in her bassinet cradle beside us.
Clementine loves her baby sister, though she’s admitted to being jealous of the infant’s bright blue eyes—so much like Wyatt’s. Clem’s are a muted green, speckled with tiny gold flecks.
“I gave you those eyes,” I tell her. “Green is the rarest of colors, you know.”
“Actually, Mom, gray is the rarest.” Since the baby’s birth she no longer calls me Momma, or Mommy, and I miss it. She’s also grown taller, her limbs less clumsy in their movements, her face losing some of its roundness.
“She’s growing up so fast,” I say to Wyatt one morning, after Shelby and Clementine have left for school. We need to go shopping for pants, again, as she continues to stretch upward in height.
“It’s only because we have a little one for comparison,” Wyatt replies, kissing my cheek. “She’s the big kid now.”
I want nothing more than for her to grow up, the way all children are supposed to. But still, some days I miss the little girl she used to be.
Sipping my vitamin-infused water (sweet-cherry flavored, and it tastes nearly identical to a handful of ripe, dark cherries), I open the desk drawer with my other hand. The baby’s practicing tummy time on her mat. She’s drooling, grunting with frustration, as she pushes herself up on her arms.
“Good girl!” I crow at her. “Look at how strong you are, my sweet baby.”
I get down on the floor, facing my youngest daughter. She grins atme, adorably toothless, and I smile in return. Mirroring is an important part of her development, MotherWise reminds us weekly.
