Prologue
As soon as you begin to show, the lies start. They will be well-meaning, all of them. Friends, family, doctors, total strangers—pretty much anyone who spies your pregnant belly will tell you:
Don’t worry, you’ll know what to do when the time comes.
Don’t worry, your maternal instincts will kick right in.
Don’t worry, your body will bounce right back.
Don’t worry, you’re going to be an amazing mother.
Don’t worry, it’s not as hard as it looks.
Don’t worry, being a mother is the most rewarding job in the world.
Don’t worry, you will love them more than you ever thought possible.
The last one is true, if dangerously oversimplified.
It is indeed a ferocious love you feel the second you hold your child, hot and wriggling, against your naked chest. You will die to protect that child. You suspect, uncomfortably, that you could also kill. You have never thought of yourself as this person before—wild, animalistic. It will make you feel both powerful and afraid.
This is your first true introduction to motherhood, this study in contradictions.
And then there is the cost of this boundless love that no one warns you about: the worry and sleepless nights. The fear thatthey will get sick or grow up sad or be forever lonely. And that it will be your fault. Or that someday they might stop returning your calls. After all, just because you love them without condition does not obligate them to love you back.
Oh, and you will get so much of it wrong. Partly because thereisno right answer, to any of it. And on that rare occasion when youdoknock it out of the park? That will only make you believe that other mothers must be doing it right all the time. You will commit to trying harder.
You will try until your eyes burn and your arms ache. Until your heart crumbles to dust.
You will do whatever it takes. Even when you don’t know what that is. Especially then. And get ready, because this will be your job forever, this fixing of everything, including the things that cannot be fixed.
For as long as you both shall live.
Cleo
THE DAY OF
Our brownstone looks beautiful, lit up a warm gold in the fading April light. Homey and pristine Park Slope perfection, thanks to my mom, of course. God forbid anything she does ever be less than perfect. Except here I am, frozen on the corner, half a block from the house where I grew up, consumed by dread. And this is not exactly a new feeling.
I could turn around right now and get on the subway. Head back to NYU, to that party in my dorm that will probably start soon. To Will. But there was something about the way my mom reached out this time. She insisted she needed to talk to me in person,right now. That’s not new. But then she said that she understood why I wouldn’t want to come, that she was asking me, begging me, to please come anyway. And she sounded so … sincere—and thatwasnew. Of course, it went downhill from there. In the past twenty-four hours, she’s fallen back on her tried-and-true method: brute force. Take the messages I got on the train a little while ago—Are you on your way? Are you on the train? Are you almost here?Texting with my mom can be like facing a firing squad.
A car horn blasts on Prospect Park West, and I dart across the street. At the top of the steps, I ring the bell and wait. If my mom is in her office at the back, she might not hear it. And of course I’ve forgotten my keys.
My phone buzzes in my hand:And?
Will. My breath catches.
Not sure what time yet.I check my phone. It’s already six-thirty.I’ll text on my way back?
We’re hanging out, that’s all. Hooking up. Simple.
OFC,he replies after a beat. And there is that flutter in my chest again. Okay, so maybe it is a little more than hooking up.
I ring the bell again and again. Still nothing.
I send a text:HELLO? Been here for 15 minutes.
It’s only been five minutes, but seeing as my mom got me back to Brooklyn under duress—emotional extortion—the least she could do is answer the door. Also, I’m freezing here on the stoop in my white ribbed tank top and low-rise jeans. Of course, that’ll be a whole thing—Where’s your jacket? Where are the rest of your clothes?Forget about it when she spots my new eyebrow piercing.
