11

11

I t's not until after Iris has finally fallen back asleep that Flora realizes she should have relocated the baby to the bassinet in the master bedroom. She doesn't want to be more than an arm's length away—she can't be, not tonight, not after all that. But she also doesn't have the heart to move Iris again after the first unnecessary disruption. So instead, Flora pulls a yoga mat, blanket, and pillow into the nursery and settles herself on the hard floor beside the crib.

Zephie lies with her, sharing the limited space under the warm blanket. She wears Flora's favorite childhood pajamas, a soft pink set peppered with mermaids and shells. Her fine brown hair is still pulled into a French braid, but it has loosened so that wisps of hair now delicately frame her face.

Even though Flora knows the girl isn't real, it is comforting to feel Zephie's body press against her own. Flora is afraid to close her eyes. If she sees beetles crawling down her daughter's throat when she's awake, what will she see when she sleeps? The thought pricks the hairs on her arms to attention.

"You're not going to leave, are you?" she asks Zephie.

The girl shakes her head and smiles. "Not a chance." Her fingers wrap around Flora's in a familiar hold, even though Flora's hands have grown since they last saw one another. Still, they fit.

"I'm afraid to be alone," Flora admits.

Zephie doesn't say anything; she just snuggles in closer.

Flora breathes in the scent of her friend: grapefruit and coconut. The smell brings her right back to childhood, which is not a comforting place but is at least a familiar one.

And there it is again: Flora's childhood. First, the Night Hag. Now, Zephie. Is her acute loneliness summoning these visitors from her past?

She lies snuggled with Zephie for a long time. So long, in fact, that Flora loses sensation in her right arm. Her head has been resting on it, cutting off the circulation. She tries to roll onto her side, but she can't move the right arm at all. Flora uses her left hand to reach across her body and retrieve the deadened limb.

It is an odd task: searching for a part of her own body that she cannot feel. When her left fingertips finally graze the gummy flesh of her right arm, she picks it up and moves it like she would a prosthetic.

She feels nothing. It's such a strange sensation that she can't help but giggle, which makes Zephie giggle in response. Then the girl reaches for the hand of Flora's dead arm, and this time, the touch registers in Flora's brain. She can feel Zephie's fingers interlaced with her own.

The irony of this is not lost on Flora: that she cannot feel what is there but she can feel what is not.

Flora feeds Iris in front of the big patio windows that look over the backyard. Her eyes burn with exhaustion, and she rubs them harshly in response. The bright sunlight irritates her.

Flora can't shake the image of the beetles. She hasn't seen any more in the kitchen since last night, but she did look for some Raid in the garage this morning. No luck, though she found a spray bottle of some other toxic-looking substance and figured that would do the job. It's perched on the kitchen counter, ready for attack.

A part of her wonders, though… if she imagined the beetles in Iris's room, did she imagine those in the kitchen, too?

Maybe she should have taken Connor up on his offer to hire help.

But no, they can't afford it.

"And what—you just let a stranger take care of your baby?" Zephie asks.

Flora nods. Zephie is right. That's preposterous.

Flora grabs her phone. Twice this morning, she called her mother's number but immediately hung up before ever hearing a ring. She angles the phone's screen away from Zephie, though she should know this is pointless.

"It's a bad idea," Zephie says, reading Flora's mind.

But Flora stares at her mother's contact information. She looks at it so long that the phone eventually blacks out with inactivity.

She could write her mother an email. A call would be aggressive and a text too casual. But an email strikes the right balance. Yes, she can do that.

"Bad idea," Zephie repeats, this time in a singsong voice. But when she sees that Flora is unfazed, she tries another approach, pouting her lips and whining. " I'm here. Isn't that enough for you? Why do you have to have her, too?"

"Look," Flora replies, "I love having you here. But you can't change diapers or organize bottles or wash bedding."

Zephie lowers her eyes and gives Flora a come on look. "Like that's why you want her to come."

Flora ignores this quip and opens her email app. She sets down Iris's bottle, props the baby against her chest for a burp break, and clicks "compose" on the screen. Her thumbs start in on a new draft. Quickly, so that she doesn't have time to change her mind.

From: Flora Hill [email protected]

To: Jodi Martin [email protected]

Date: September 29, 2024, 10:41 AM

Subject: Iris

Hi Mom…

I miss you.

I can't believe the last time I saw you was at my wedding. That feels like ages ago. I wish I had handled things differently. I should have reached out sooner, I know, but I was angry and confused and hurt. And maybe even embarrassed.

I've probably been thinking about this so intensely because I am a mother myself now. I had a little girl, Iris, on September 2nd. She's beautiful and perfect and amazing. But also… wow. This is HARD. Connor is deployed right now, and Dad was here with Esther for a bit, but they had to go back to their lives. I'm doing it all alone. And I'm drowning.

I think my brain is broken. Does the organ change in childbirth? I can't remember anything. I keep brewing coffee pods without a cup under the spout. I heard a man's voice in the baby monitor. And honestly, I don't think Iris likes me.

I mean, I know she loves me, since I'm the human keeping her alive. But I really think if she had her choice, she'd prefer someone who isn't constantly failing the test, someone who doesn't find this all so impossible. And I don't blame her for wanting a mom who "gets it," you know?

I love her so much. I would do anything for her—which feels like an insane thing to say and really mean. But I do mean it. Anything. I just also sense this constant background hum, this persistent fear that her stroller will be siderailed by a truck while we're on a walk, or that I'll drop scalding soup on her head while eating with her in the carrier, or that she'll suddenly, without any reason whatsoever, stop breathing and cease to exist.

Are these feelings normal? Is it just because the love is so intense?

If motherhood comes with an automatic update to our human hardware, then mine is corrupted, I swear. I could really use your help. I wish you were here.

I'm sorry for disappearing.

I miss you, Mom.

Flora