12

12

F lora pushes the stroller through the streets of her neighborhood. Iris lies flat in the bassinet, bundled in a cozy onesie and warm sleep sack. The air is sharp and stings when Flora takes a deep breath. But something about the action is relieving, as if the cold could bring her back to herself.

The neighborhood is sprawling, homes speckled around dense woods. The trees are a mixture of beech, birch, and maple, and around the time she gave birth to Iris, they painted the sky in vibrant oranges, reds, and yellows. Now, though, most of the leaves have fallen. The branches are half-bare, and the ground is littered with rotting maroons and dirty golds. Still, Flora finds it beautiful, this untouched piece of earth.

The roads are wide and mostly empty; the only people driving through are those who live nearby. As the stroller bobbles on the gravel below, it produces a white noise similar to Iris's sound machine. Flora lifts the shade and peeks at her daughter, whose sleeping eyes move gently beneath their lids. Her cheeks are pink, her blood working to keep her face warm in the cool weather.

Flora returns the bassinet shade to its position and looks ahead. Out here, away from the claustrophobia of the house, she can pretend things are normal. She can pretend her wrist isn't aching from yesterday's fall. She can pretend she didn't hallucinate a string of flesh-eating beetles. She can pretend she hasn't been counting and recounting her daughter's toes, convinced she saw six on the left foot when she pulled her from the crib this morning.

Out here, she's just a regular mom walking her regular baby through her regular suburban neighborhood.

with my regular invisible friend following close behind

Zephie giggles.

Flora's leg muscles engage as the road slopes upward, and her injured wrist throbs as the stroller requires more effort to push. She's wearing an old pair of thick black sweatpants that balloon where she has tucked them into the upper flaps of her fuzzy boots. Her winter coat is snug around the waist, where she still has about twenty-five pounds to lose before she's back to her prepregnancy weight.

if that's even possible

Her wavy hair is clipped at the base of her neck with a tortoiseshell claw. She has chewed off all her nails, and when the ground levels out again, she continues to rip at the cuticle of her right middle finger with her teeth.

"Oh my goshhhhhhh!" An eager, high-pitched voice squeals from behind her. "Is that the baby ?!"

Flora knows before turning that this is Wanda, her extremely fit neighbor who is perpetually single and perpetually in want of a child.

"It is," Flora says, plastering on a smile, which feels so odd that she's quite sure it must look more like a grimace.

oh my God I've forgotten how to smile

"How old now?" Wanda asks, approaching the stroller and trying to get a glimpse inside.

Flora answers a slew of questions about life as a new mom, all the while staring at Wanda's flawless skin and silky, conditioned hair. It's not that she is particularly beautiful, or even that Flora envies her appearance, it's simply that the glowing skin and bright eyes indicate that Wanda is a creature who sleeps. Flora finds herself in awe of this anomaly.

"You're not still working, are you?" Wanda asks, as if this would be some kind of heinous act worth reporting to child services.

"No, I'm on maternity leave," Flora says.

"Oh, that's wonderful. "

"Yeah, well, it's unpaid."

"You're kidding!" Wanda's jaw drops at the travesty of it, and, while Flora absolutely agrees with her, something in her resists giving Wanda that satisfaction.

"Oh, I'm just a contractor, so, you know…"

When Flora left genetic counseling, she took on a remote research job. It was always meant to be the in-between gig, but Flora still hasn't figured out what the next venture will be. The work is fairly mindless and, thankfully, requires none of the taxing patient interface. But that's also what makes it mind-numbingly boring.

Wanda cocks her head to one side. "Can I—do you need some help?"

She points to Flora's chest, where Flora has absentmindedly reached her left hand under her coat to massage a burgeoning clog in her right breast.

"Oh, Jesus," Flora says, pulling her arm out and replacing her hand on the stroller. "That's embarrassing. Sorry. I just—my boobs. They're like rocks. I should get home. This one is burning up with a clog."

Wanda half nods, probably counting in her head the number of conversations she's ever had with Flora, wondering what has qualified her to hear such information. "All right, well, have a good one!" she says. Then, leaning toward the bassinet: "You take care of your mommy, little Iris!"

Zephie pipes up from behind Flora, snickering in her ear, "Isn't that a fucking joke! No one takes care of Mommy."

Flora balks in surprise. She doesn't remember Zephie ever cursing before.

But then Flora spots her neighbor's horrified expression. Was it actually Flora who said those words out loud? Flustered, she wraps her hands around the stroller bar and pushes back toward home.

"Nice to see you!" she sings over her shoulder as she hurries away before she can say anything else and before her swollen breast detonates like a grenade all over Wanda's moisture-wicking athleisure.

engorgement

noun [s]

1. when the breast tissue overfills with milk, blood, and other fluids, leading to swelling and tightness

2. when life is too much and you're moments from bursting but there's no relief because a helpless human depends on you for literal survival

Iris is still sleeping when Flora wheels the stroller through the front door, so she parks it in the living room away from the window and turns on the portable sound machine. She frees herself from her layers of warm clothing, under which she is sweating. Pit stains mark large half-moons beneath her arms, and the back of her neck at her hairline is wet.

She drops the coat on the floor and piles her sweater and shirt on top. Flora leans against the doorway between the foyer and living room to take off her shoes, again wincing at the dull ache in her wrist.

"That lady has weird teeth," Zephie says.

"I think they're veneers," Flora replies.

Earlier today, Flora asked Zephie why she is still a child. They had always been the same age when Flora was growing up.

"I'm stuck at the age you abandoned me," Zephie told her.

The realization slapped Flora with a pang of guilt. Around the age of ten, she had considered herself too mature for an imaginary friend, so she had ignored Zephie until the girl gradually disappeared, like a pencil sketch that fades over time until eventually it is gone entirely.

In the wake of this news, Flora now feels especially grateful that Zephie has seemingly forgiven her and returned.

"What are veneers?" Zephie asks about Wanda's perfect Chiclet-gum teeth.

But before Flora can answer, her eyes land on the living room coffee table. Square in the middle is a tiny, squishy, bright orange pig. Flora has never seen this toy. It wasn't in the pile from Esther. So how did it get into her living room?

someone was in the house

She looks around the space warily, but nothing else is out of place. The idea of an intruder sneaking in to simply set a small plastic pig on a piece of furniture is ludicrous, she knows. But what other explanation is there?

"Did you do this?" she asks Zephie, even though she knows Zephie cannot manipulate objects. Zephie is not real.

Flora steps toward the pig slowly, as if a sudden movement might inspire it to attack. She keeps her gaze on its triangle ears and broad smile and large white eyes with tiny black dots at the bottom. Something about all of this feels familiar. Like she has seen this face before. And then she remembers. She has seen this pig's face before. It's the same as the one on that activity cube she hid away in the—

"IT'S A BARNYARD SINGALONG!"