23

23

B y the time they get back home, the rain has soaked Flora's clothes all the way through, and she can't stop shivering. She and her mother give Iris a bath in the kitchen sink before Jodi sends Flora upstairs to reset her internal thermometer with a warm shower.

Flora lathers a giant blob of shampoo between her palms and, using her nails, massages her scalp with the foam. She doesn't remember the last time she luxuriated under the water like this. Knowing that Iris is taken care of, she is able to fully relax, to feel the warmth as it runs down her body. It massages her muscles, which are sore from carrying Iris as well as sitting uncomfortably to pump.

Her mind returns to her mother's story about the lady who killed herself in the building. Flora is filled with sadness at her mom's fear of dying alone. But that sadness is also distracted by her own curiosity. Since when is her mother interested in the "woo-woo," as she called it? Has her mom changed that much since they last spoke, or has she always had this hidden side to her?

The rain beats down on the roof, and Flora can hear it even over the rush of the shower water. She had no idea such an intense storm was coming. But then, how would she? She doesn't have internet. And even if she did, she'd have little interest in the weather report. Her entire life takes place within a small blueprint of earth. The daily precipitation rate is irrelevant.

Flora rinses her hair and, because she can, reopens the shampoo bottle for a second application. As she again massages her scalp, she fantasizes about a past life. She imagines prepping for a dinner out with Connor. They'll go to a small local spot with charming fairy lights on the patio and split a bottle of Malbec. On the drive home, she'll reflect on her empty schedule for the weekend ahead. Absolutely nothing she has to do, no one depending on her. The thought is intoxicating.

How long will it be before she has that feeling again? Maybe never. She is absolutely tethered to another human being. And she has no one to blame but herself.

She feels like a shit mom when she has these thoughts. The truth is, she has never loved another living thing the way she loves Iris. So how can such competing feelings coexist within her simultaneously?

When Flora finally gets out of the shower, the mirror is covered in steam. She wipes away the residue to reveal her blurry face. She takes her time swabbing her ears, plucking her overgrown eyebrows, applying lotion to every last square inch of her skin. She combs the knots from her hair and sprays on leave-in conditioner that smells like coconut.

Flora slips into a soft pajama set that kisses her skin when she walks. She wraps her hair in the towel and considers walking downstairs to relieve her mother before pausing in the hallway. Her mom has things covered. Flora doesn't need to rush. Instead, she walks to the guest bedroom, where Jodi has been staying. She listens one more time for footsteps on the stairs and, hearing none, slips inside the room.

It's largely untouched, but there are still obvious signs of a visitor: the unmade bed, the open suitcase on the floor, the unique items on the nightstand. Flora doesn't know what she's looking for or even why she's here, but she feels called to explore and touch the items that belong to her mother. As if she could grow the intimacy between them by holding her mother's things in her hands, by understanding their shapes and edges.

She runs her fingers over the cover of a slim, worn book titled The Yellow Wallpaper. The picture on the front is a beautiful textured floral pattern in yellow with a woman standing in a dress of the same material. Beside the book is a thin pair of black reading glasses. Flora picks them up and rubs the lenses with her soft pajamas, disappearing a few smudges before replacing them on the table.

The suitcase is sparsely packed. A couple of cozy jumpers, a few sweaters, socks and underwear. No makeup, no accessories. Her mother's style has clearly been pared down. Even the color palette of her items is muted: grays, blacks, creams. As if she wants nothing more than to blend in.

Flora wishes she had a sibling she could text. Mom goes to psychic fairs! It's the kind of thing she needs to gossip about.

She remembers a time when she was six or seven. Her father was driving the family Volvo with her mother in the passenger seat and Flora in the back. She was wearing headphones plugged into her Discman, but she pressed pause on the music when she noticed her father's knuckles turn white on the wheel.

"Jesus, we're having this conversation again?" she heard her mother ask.

Flora pretended to listen to music as her father replied, "Think about Flora."

"I do think about Flora. That's exactly why I don't want to have another one."

"Jodi—"

"She's got headphones," her mother said defensively. "She can't hear me."

They rode in silence for a moment. Flora tried to make sense of what they were saying. Her mother busied her hands by adjusting the bright blue scarf around her neck.

Finally, her father said, "She asks you for a sibling all the time."

"That doesn't mean anything," her mom said. "She doesn't know what she's asking."

"Of course she does." Her father paused, then added, "We could get help this time. It wouldn't be like it was with Flora."

"Michael. I'm not having another child. And frankly, after all that happened, I can't believe you're still asking. It's not safe for me, for us—you have to stop. You just have to."

Her father was silent the rest of the drive. Flora found the conversation curious; she'd always assumed it was her dad who didn't want another kid. That's what her mom had insinuated. But this made it seem like the opposite. And it also seemed like it was Flora's own fault she didn't have a sibling. I do think about Flora. That's exactly why I don't want to have another one. Flora was drenched in guilt. She never heard her parents discuss the topic again, and that was the night she officially gave up on any fantasy of having a brother or sister.

But today, the conversation comes to her in a new light. Was her mother referring to her stay in the mental hospital when she said it wasn't safe for her to have another? For the first time, Flora empathizes with Jodi.

"Don't feel bad for her," Zephie says, startling Flora back to the guest room where she's digging around in her mother's things. "She's not a nice person."

Flora frowns. "It's not that simple."

The more days that pass, the more real Zephie feels. Flora no longer has to summon her the way she did when she was little. Lately, Zephie appears of her own accord, and her opinions are not always in line with Flora's.

maybe we're just out of sync like any old friendship that is revived

Flora is about to stand and return downstairs when something in the suitcase catches her eye. She reaches for it and finds a tiny baby hat made of soft pink yarn. It reminds Flora of the hats they give out at the hospital. Was it hers when she was a baby? Did Jodi bring it as a gift for Iris? Flora returns it to its spot. Asking her mom about it would mean having to admit she snooped around in her stuff.

"Kinda like how she was snooping in your boxes in the garage?" Zephie asks.

"That's different. Those were boxes she sent me years ago. She already knew what was in them," Flora says.

Zephie rolls her eyes.

Flora ignores her, though internally she can't help but recognize how she is falling back into that old pattern of defending her mother without pause.