39

39

W ho's next?" Flora's dad asks the group the next morning.

He's making omelets for everyone. Iris is a few feet away in the swing, watching the small animals on her mobile spin around and around.

"You want another one?" Connor asks, pointing toward Flora's empty plate.

She doesn't remember eating it. "Didn't know how hungry I was," she says.

Flora is staring at the floor near her father's feet, where she has just seen three scuttling black figures cross the expanse of the kitchen and disappear through a crack under the cabinets. She didn't see them clearly enough to determine the type of bug, but she has a guess.

Nearby, Esther prepares a bottle of formula. No matter how many studies Flora reads that prove she needn't give it a second thought, she still worries that depriving Iris of breast milk will lower the baby's IQ or permanently weaken her immune system or plant some seed of trauma deep within her that will bloom in late adulthood and point back to Flora as the root of all Iris's problems.

But maybe that would happen anyway. Maybe that is the burden of motherhood: to give all that you can and know that it will never be enough.

She looks at Iris, who continues to watch the dancing animals on the mobile above her, and then,

ZAP! Flora sees Iris fall from the swing, her neck cracking at an impossible angle, and then

ZAP! this time the swing breaks, its heavy metal frame falling on top of Iris's chest and knocking the air from her in an instant, crushing her body like a sandcastle, and then

ZAP! this time Iris's onesie gets caught in the contraption until the spinning mobile lifts her tiny body up, up, up, and she is hanging by her neck with the little animals, spinning around and around, her weight slowing the mechanics and warping the music.

"Ugh, there's another one!" Her dad says from the stove. Flora watches as he retrieves a paper towel and smashes something on the countertop.

"Should I call an exterminator, you think?" Connor asks, joining her father at the sink. Then he turns to Flora. "Have you seen all the bugs? The last few days, they're everywhere, it feels like. I know it's an old house, but…"

"Bugs?" Flora asks.

they see them too

the beetles are back

Flora shrugs in response. "I've seen a few," she says. After all, this could be another test. Safest to stick with a neutral response.

"I'll call someone," Connor says. Then he points to the fresh omelet Flora's dad has just plated. "Flo, sure you don't want another one?"

She shakes her head. "I'll take another coffee, though," she says.

"I'm on it." He smiles.

She thinks of all the days she crossed off before Connor's arrival, desperate for her husband's calming touch and steady demeanor. How often she cursed the calendar that told her she was doomed to another week, another day, another hour tackling parenting alone. And now that he's finally here, it's like she is the one who has left, her mind fighting a battle elsewhere.

Part of her resents that he can't see this. She wants to slap him awake.

Connor brings both Flora and Esther fresh cups of coffee. The second Flora takes a sip of hers, she almost spits it out.

"Oh my God, this is awful. Is yours bad, too?" she asks Esther.

"Mine is okay." Esther shrugs.

"Something is seriously wrong with mine," Flora says. Then she turns to Connor and asks, "Did you put sugar in it?"

Connor gives her a come on look. "Like I don't know you?"

"It's gross! Taste it!" She passes it to him.

He reaches dramatically for the cup. "Well, with that ringing endorsement, who could refuse?"

Flora's dad laughs from the stove. They all watch as Connor lifts the mug to his lips carefully. After a second he shakes his head.

"Tastes like regular black coffee to me."

"Let me try yours," Flora says, reaching for his cup. She takes a sip and immediately tastes relief. "Oh yeah, way better. There's something off with mine."

Connor smiles, something like recognition crossing his face. He gives Flora the look he makes when he has won a bet.

"What is it?" Flora asks.

"Mine has sugar in it. That's the only difference."

"Bullshit," she says, calling him out. "You drink yours black, too."

"Not anymore. Base coffee was crap this time. I got used to the sugar. Can't go without it now, it seems."

Flora stares into the cup.

Esther pipes up from nearby, "Maybe your tastes have changed after pregnancy. I think that can happen."

But Flora's limbs go cold and her stomach sinks to her toes. She knows what this means. She takes one more sip of the sugary coffee, hoping to wince in response. Instead, she loves it.

Connor laughs. "I put a lot in, too!" He's enjoying this.

"How many packs?" Flora asks, but she already knows the answer.

no no no no no

"Four," he says.

Four packs of sugar.

just like Mom

Later, Flora is with Iris on the floor of the nursery. Connor has stepped out briefly to find the diaper cream that seems to roam the house of its own accord.

Flora grabs a soft burp cloth from the rocking chair nearby. She gently wipes the cloth over Iris's face—like a curtain from top to bottom—in her own newborn version of peekaboo. Iris lights up every time the cloth uncovers her eyes and Flora reappears.

The last time, Flora pauses just when the cloth is over her daughter's face. She imagines leaving it there, watching as it slowly blocks Iris's airway, her chest moving more and more slowly, Iris still too little to coordinate her limbs to move it off her face. She pictures pulling the cloth so that it is taut, so that she can see the imprint of her baby's face through the fabric.

try it see how it feels

Bile sneaks up her throat, burning.

Flora blinks, and she sees Iris looking up at her, smiling with glee. Flora instinctively tosses the burp cloth across the room. Connor comes back then, and Flora hurries out with some excuse.

The plaguing thoughts have become incessant. She'll be chopping vegetables and imagine dropping the knife on little Iris below. She'll be walking down the hallway and imagine smashing her baby against the wall so that she crumples like an empty soda can.

This is because of her mother, she's sure of it. Her mother infected her with a poison, and Flora has to get the poison out. She won't be able to enjoy her baby until she does.

But she doesn't know how.

Flora wishes she knew someone like Belinda, her mother's "woo-woo" and "spiritual" friend who went to psychic fairs. If only Flora had a person like that she could call. Someone who wouldn't immediately stuff her in the car and drive her to the nearest psych ward. Someone who wouldn't immediately take away her baby.

"We're going to head back home after lunch," Esther says. She is packing her suitcase in the guest room as Flora sits nearby.

thank Christ

Flora is so tired of the watchful eyes, the looks of doubt, the thinly veiled questions.

"You guys have been amazing," Connor says, coming down the hall with Iris in his arms. "Thank you so much for everything."

Flora nods in agreement.

Truth is, she is envious. She, too, wants to get out of this house. Every day, the walls move closer, compacting the floor plan and restricting her breath. She is suffocating here. If she doesn't escape soon, the house will consume her, or it will force her to consume Iris. She remembers the cartoon child from her dream who ate baby Connor like a sub sandwich.

"I think I'll get out of the house today, too," she proclaims to the group.

Her dad, bagging up toiletries in the adjoining bathroom, smiles. "That's a great idea," he says.

Esther agrees. "A good sign, I think!"

Flora didn't anticipate the added bonus that wanting to get the hell out of this place would make her seem better to the others. Healthier, somehow.

Connor says, "You could take Iris to the library. They do a story-time thing for kids in the afternoon. I was looking into it."

Flora's heart sinks to her toes. She doesn't want to take Iris.

answer carefully this is a test

What would a good mother do? She would take her daughter to the library, of course. And anyway, it's a public place. Plenty of people around. They won't be alone.

Flora forces a smile. "Love that idea," she tells her husband.

"You and Iris haven't gotten much one-on-one time," Esther says.

Since when? Since Flora almost drowned the baby in the bathtub?

no that wasn't me I was trying to save her

"Want me to drive you?" Connor asks.

"No, no," Flora says, imagining the claustrophobia of a car ride with Connor. "I'd like to drive. It's an easy trip, all major roads that I'm sure have been cleared by now."

Connor smiles, and Flora's stomach fills with acid.

"You hear that?" Connor says to Iris, who is content in her father's arms. "You and Mommy are getting out!"

The car ride is torture. Flora blasts the radio in hopes of drowning out her growing urge to swerve the car into oncoming traffic. Her knuckles are white on the wheel. She doesn't let herself look in the rearview mirror, since the only time she did, she saw hollow shadows where her daughter's eyes should be. Connor never would have let her leave the house with their baby if he could see inside Flora's mind. If he could smell the rancid rot growing there.

The children's story-time hour is surprisingly well attended. Flora sits toward the back with Iris strapped to her chest in the carrier. The kids' section is carpeted in a colorful display of the solar system. The bookcases are stacked with vibrant spines, a stark contrast to the remainder of the library. A few small tables are scattered around, but, for the most part, this is an open space for children to roam and read and lounge.

Flora watches the other mothers arrive and settle on the ground and into chairs. Most of the children are toddlers, probably around three or four. Flora doesn't recognize anyone, but then, why would she? She has barely left the house since her baby was born, and she has few friends in the area as is, let alone the oh-so-coveted Mom Friends. Still, their presence is a comfort, a reminder that the world has continued to spin all these weeks.

"Hello, everyone," says a smiling woman in her forties. She wears a long, flowy dress and stark, high boots underneath. "We've got a good crowd today, don't we? I see lots of familiar faces." The woman's eyes scan the group, and Flora cringes at the thought that this lady is going to make the newbies speak up and introduce themselves. But instead, she waves energetically and moves her mouth in an exaggerated manner as she says, "And some new ones, too! Yay!" Flora sighs with relief.

well yeah what did you expect this isn't a goddamn AA meeting

The stylish reader is animated and enthusiastic, and the range of her character voices is admittedly worthy of a professional career. But by the time the librarian starts in on the second book, that familiar feeling of claustrophobia sets in. Maybe it wasn't the house, after all. Maybe it's Flora's own body that she needs so desperately to escape.

Flora wants to stick it out, mostly because she cannot afford to cause a scene, but the bookcases are suddenly closer and she wonders if they are on wheels, if a browsing customer has bumped them in her direction. She can't do this. She stands, tightening the carrier around her waist and reaching behind to clip it at her upper back. The stretch elicits an involuntary grunt far louder than she would have preferred, and the nearest mothers look slyly in her direction.

the eyes so many goddamn eyes on me all the time

The only way out of the space is through the crowd, so she steps between toddlers and babies and parents.

"Sorry," she whispers. "Oh, yep, oh, sorry, excuse me—"

A girl in a yellow jacket cries out when Flora steps on her hem. But Flora barrels on because the room is shrinking and her chest is tightening.

When she has made her way to the other side, she doesn't look back, doesn't bother to wave and say sorry with a sheepish grin. Instead, she hightails it to the bathroom, where she splashes her face with cool water. Iris protests when some of the water lands on her head, and Flora bounces in automatic response.

"Shhh," she sings, using a scratchy paper towel to dab her own face dry.

And then, Flora stops. She has caught her reflection in the mirror, and her body freezes in response to what she has seen there. No, it can't be… she leans closer to the mirror, her eyes only a few inches from the glass. And then it happens again. She blinks hard, keeping her eyes closed for a full ten seconds as a reset, and reopens them.

She waits. Stares. Almost thinks she was imagining it, but—there it is. Again. She's sure of it.

Her right eye is twitching.