35

35

F lora sneaks into the guest room before her dad and Esther come upstairs to unpack their things. Though her logical brain tells her that the room is likely untouched— must be untouched—she has to confirm this for herself.

Sure enough, the room is empty. Or, more accurately: the room is void of her mother's belongings, like the worn book and stray reading glasses and softly woven baby hat. Flora sits on the bed and stares into the empty space, waiting for something to happen that will answer her questions. But of course, nothing does.

She crawls toward the pillows of the bed that has been made for weeks and feels slightly stale as a result. Flora buries her face in the pillow closest to the nightstand and takes a large inhale.

It's her mother's scent. All of it. Like sunflowers and wet leaves and fake-fruit candy. The same perfume her mother always wore.

She brings her hands to the pillow and squeezes, as if she could wring out the scent and take it with her. But instead, the fingers of her right hand get entangled in something thin and wiry and long. When she brings it to her face, she sees that it is a strand of hair. Long white hair. Her mother's hair. It must be.

She fiddles it in her raw, overscrubbed hands and winds it around the tip of her index finger. Around and around and around until the finger's circulation is cut off, until it seems like one more yank would sever the tip with a clean slice.

"Knock, knock!" Her father's voice sends her bolting from the bed. She slips the hair in her pocket for safekeeping and stretches her arms out in a welcoming gesture.

"It's all ready for you," she says as he enters.

"Oh, we're easy, you know that. No need for special treatment." He wheels the suitcases into the room.

"Well, if clean towels is special treatment, your bar is pretty low," Flora quips.

He smiles, and behind it is a knowing, a sadness, that makes Flora want to rip the curtains from the windows in rage. STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT! she wants to shout.

Suddenly, her mother's voice is in her head.

you're not well

Flora has to get out of this room.

She nods at her father and walks out the door into the hall. Over her shoulder, she calls, "Let me know if there's anything else you need."

She takes the stairs down at a quick pace and finds her husband on the couch with Iris. Flora slows when she sees her daughter in his arms. A picture she has longed for, has daydreamed about for weeks. She doesn't want it to be tainted. This is all wrong: her dad shouldn't be here babysitting her; she shouldn't have blood under her nails; she shouldn't smell her mother's scent on the pillows.

"Come sit with us," Connor says, and she does.

The three of them huddle close on the couch, Flora leaning all her weight against Connor as he holds Iris in his arms. He watches his baby's perfect, puffy lips suck the nipple of the bottle, a bead of milk dripping down the side of her mouth and quickly hiding in the folds of her neck. His gaze doesn't flinch; he can't stop staring at his daughter.

And Flora can't stop staring at him. Her body warms at the sight of his doe eyes trained on the small creature they created together. She always heard about the magic of motherhood, how out of this world it would be to hold her own baby and know it had grown inside her. But no one had mentioned this: the magic of watching her partner crack and expand to make room for a love his body couldn't formerly contain.

She finally closes her eyes, hearing only the breath of her husband and the sucking sounds of her baby's mouth. She finds comfort in these things, but it's not until her hand slips into her pocket and fingers her mother's stray hair that she feels whole.