21

21

T he rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of laundry, pumping, feeding, and vacuuming. Shortly before dinnertime, Jodi retreats to the guest room for a nap, and Flora has to use every bit of restraint not to flip the coffee table in rage. Why does her mother get to nap? She resents that Jodi's actions even suggest she is more tired than Flora.

"No one on the planet is as tired as we are," Zephie says, and Flora can't help but chuckle that even her imaginary friend is exhausted.

"Stop calling me that," Zephie whines. She is perched atop the dryer, her short legs swinging off the edge.

"Calling you what?" Flora stands in front of the washing machine waiting for the load to finish.

"‘Imaginary.' I hate that word."

Flora doesn't know how to respond. Was Zephie always so self-aware?

She turns her attention to the next batch of laundry, spraying the items with stain remover. Iris had a blowout yesterday, and the onesie has been soaking in water that is now yellow with floating chunks of poop that resemble cottage cheese. She pours the water in the nearby utility sink and wrings out the stained outfit. Then she sprays it liberally.

"It stinks in here," Zephie says.

"Why do you think Mom came?" Flora asks, surprising herself with the question. She didn't realize it was on her mind. "Like, why she really came."

"Well, you sent her an email telling her you were going nutso," says Zephie. "Maybe she wanted to make sure you were okay. Or maybe she wanted a front-row ticket."

"Or maybe she doesn't trust me to be a good mom," Flora says.

"Oh, she for sure doesn't," Zephie agrees.

The washing machine clicks off, and Flora bats Zephie off the dryer so she can load it. She takes a quick pause to step into the hallway and listen for Iris's cries. Down here in the utility room, which is nestled in the back of the home by the garage, Flora can't hear what's happening in the rest of the house. She wishes she still had a working monitor. But only silence emanates from upstairs, where both her mother and her daughter are clearly sleeping.

When she has finished transferring the load, she places the next batch of clothes and sheets into the washer before heading to the living room. Her right hand subconsciously finds the birth tusk in her pocket and rubs its indentations.

Flora pulls out her phone to research the tooth but then remembers she doesn't have internet. Frustrated, she snaps a picture of it with her phone and texts it to her dad. Found this in the garage. Do you remember getting it? She watches the send bar load painfully slowly.

Flora enters the kitchen in search of something sweet. She finds a box of expired granola bars in the cabinet above the coffee maker and just about cracks her incisor trying to bite into one. She tosses the box into the trash with a satisfying thud and then finds the Nutella, spooning it directly from the jar into her mouth. She is, once again, wearing only a nursing bra on top. She looks down at the flabby, loose skin on her belly. It's nearly impossible to believe that her stomach was stretched out three times this size a month ago.

Her phone buzzes with a call.

"Hey, Dad," she answers, licking the spoon clean.

"You said you found that in the garage?" he asks. There is tension in his voice. Or maybe he's out of breath.

"In a box of stuff from the old house," she replies. "What is it?"

"Not sure," he says quickly.

"Mom said you got it when I was little. Said she found it under my crib."

The moment the words are out, she knows her mistake. She's not supposed to tell Dad that her mother is here.

"Your mom told you—?"

"A while ago, I mean. When she sent the boxes," she says. "She mentioned maybe you got it in Pennsylvania. At a museum?" There's a long pause. "Dad?"

"Yeah, I remember," he admits.

"Well, what is it? I tried to look it up online, but without internet—"

"What happened to your internet?"

"It's out. I dunno," she lies. She doesn't feel like admitting to her father that a stranger has been stalking her baby. "Can you tell me anything about the tooth?"

"I didn't get it at the museum," he says. "I was leaving the museum when I saw a woman on the street selling them. She was… well, she looked like some kind of witch, honestly. Like you'd see in the movies. I'm sure it was all part of the marketing ploy. The costume, if you will. She talked about the teeth and how they used them in the Middle Kingdom to protect children." He clears his throat. "I didn't believe any of it, obviously. I just thought you might like it. So I threw her a few bucks for the souvenir."

He's lying about that last part. Flora can tell.

"If you didn't believe her, why did you put it under my crib?"

"Why are you so curious about this thing all of a sudden?" He's agitated, flustered even.

"I don't know why you're getting upset," she replies. She tightens the top of the jar back onto the Nutella. "I just found it and was curious…"

He changes the subject. "You doing all right? Since you don't have internet, you need me to send you some food?"

"That would be great, actually," Flora says.

"I'll do that," he says.

There is a long silence then. But Flora does not fill it. She wants the silence to be productive. She walks to the table and sits, resting her elbows on the tabletop. Her fingers tug and twirl a front section of her hair.

Finally, after a long while, her dad says, "She had a tough time when you were little. Your mom."

"What do you mean?" Flora presses the phone to her ear, as if the closer it is to her skin, the more likely she is to hear the truth. "How did she have a tough time?"

"She was hospitalized, you know that."

Flora scrunches her eyebrows together. "Yeah, I know. For dehydration, right? She spent the night to get an IV and some rest."

"It wasn't for dehydration," he says heavily. "And it wasn't just overnight. She was there for ten days. In the psych ward."

Flora is grateful she is sitting, because suddenly the world spins. It's like her universe is a speck of dust floating in the atmosphere and someone flicked it casually, sending it spiraling in the opposite direction.

"The psych ward? How did—why didn't I know this? This seems like something I should have known."

"I always thought your mother should be the one to tell you."

"Well, she and I don't really talk, so—"

"I know, no, of course, I know."

A tightness blooms in Flora's ribs just below her left breast. She takes short, successive inhales to try to dispel the ache.

Her dad continues. "She hadn't slept in days, and she was acting strangely. I took her to the ER. They did checks and everything seemed fine, so they told us to go to the psych institute instead. They put your mom on antipsychotics and within a week she was back to normal."

Flora opens her mouth, but no sound comes out.

After another minute, her dad finally asks, "You still there?"

"Yeah," she croaks. "Uh, sorry, Dad, Iris needs me. I'll call you later."

She hangs up. The cell phone is warm in her hand. She presses it against her nose and bites the corner of her silicone case as she stares. When she finally blinks, her eyes are dry.

"I guess we know why she's really here, then," Zephie says. She leans against the wall that separates the living room from the kitchen. "To make sure you don't end up in the psych ward like her."

Flora nods slowly. "Yeah," she says. "Or to make sure I do."