Such a Fun Age(17)
Alix’s home was filled with the types of mothers she often saw in airports and had come to completely despise. Women with full faces of makeup, way too much luggage (Vera Bradley carry-ons and Lilly Pulitzer passport cases), cork wedge sandals, and plastic bags with souvenirs that took up all the room in the overhead compartments. They noisily called their husbands as soon as they landed or to let them know they’d made it to the next gate. They held up the line to get off the plane (“Do you have everything? Because we cannot come back”). In bathroom stalls, they detailed their activity of papier-machéing the seat with toilet paper, rather than doing what Alix always did: chalking up public bathrooms to exercise and just squatting over the bowl.
Alix didn’t even own a stroller until she was pregnant a second time. She was an incredible packer, often only brought a backpack on weekend trips, and frequently found herself texting Peter that she’d jumped on another flight that got her home quicker. So as she looked around her living room, Alix wondered how she would ever call Philadelphia home. How she could keep her dexterity as a mother and small-business owner while surrounded by the type of woman who halted security check flow because she’d forgotten to remove her jacket.
Alix stood by the door as parents struggled to squeeze shoes back on their children’s feet and the toddlers began to rummage through their favors. She said, “We have to get the kids together,” about four times as her cheek was kissed and her hands were squeezed.
Again, Laney made her way to Alix for a heartfelt moment of connection. “I’m just so glad you guys are here,” she said. “We gotta do some cocktail time after the babes fall asleep.”
It was clear that Laney was being very friendly, but also assuring Alix that while she sat next to her husband every day, she was a girl’s girl, and that there was no funny business going on. This had never even crossed Alix’s mind, and she felt guilty that it hadn’t. Laney had an embarrassing laugh, a disproportionate gum-to-teeth ratio, and she often said things like, “Holy moly.” Laney was the definition of sweet, and as Alix hugged her, she thought, I want to like you. Why is this so hard?
Over Laney’s shoulder, Alix watched Emira bend down to help a little boy into his jacket. “We didn’t play my favorite game,” the five-year-old told her.
“Oh yeah?” Emira pulled the sleeves down onto his hands. “What’s your favorite game?”
He turned around to her and said, “My favorite game is called I’m a Murderer!”
“Cooool.” Emira stood up and walked to the next room, calling out, “Hey, Briar? Come hold my hand real quick.”
After Alix finally closed the door behind Laney and her family, she pulled out her phone again. Correction, she texted her friends. I hate everyone except for my sitter.
You better give that girl a raise, Tamra said.
Or an Edible Arrangement! Rachel replied.
That night, Briar went to bed with her new fish on her nightstand, one of the few gifts Alix didn’t place in a donation bag. Newly three-year-old Briar promptly named the fish Spoons, and watched it swim in circles until she fell asleep.
Five
Just as Emira decided to distance herself from the now three-year-old girl, to check Craigslist and Indeed every day, and to only apply for jobs that hired adults and offered very adult benefits, Mrs. Chamberlain stepped in hard. The night at Market Depot had done something to her, and she tried to right the night’s wrongs with a forced casualness that made Emira quite cagey. Since that night, Mrs. Chamberlain started returning home at six forty-five, sitting down across from Emira, and referencing conversations that they’d never had. “Emira, remind me what you majored in?” “Tell me where you live again?” “Did you say that you had any allergies?” The timing couldn’t have been worse. These were the questions you asked at the beginning, and not at what Emira was trying to make the end. But for a part-time gig, the money was decent, making it difficult to get excited about potential jobs that offered less money and zero Briar. Every other Friday, Alix handed Emira an envelope with six hundred seventy-two dollars inside.
Two weeks after the night at Market Depot, this envelope felt particularly fat. On the front porch, underneath a flushed sunset, Emira peeked inside the envelope flap to reveal twelve hundred dollars in cash. A small note on thick card stock was paperclipped to the hundred-dollar bills with Alix’s brilliant handwriting on one side. Emira—, it read.
This is for the past two weeks, Briar’s birthday, and the awful night when you completely saved us. Thank you for everything. We love having you and we’re here for you.
Xo P, A, B&C.
Emira looked down the street. She laughed, whispered “Fuck,” and immediately purchased her first leather jacket.
The subway was packed. Emira was pleasantly late to meet Zara, Shaunie, and Josefa for a dinner, followed by drinks, followed by all the other practices of twenty-somethings in the nighttime. Everything she wore looked shiny next to her new jacket. It was black with asymmetric zip fastening and was cropped just above her hip. The belt hung effortlessly at her sides, and she let the silver zippers sit open at her forearms. Emira’s jacket came in at two hundred thirty-four dollars, making it the biggest purchase she’d ever made other than her bed frame and laptop. With one hand holding the subway pole, and the other texting Zara that she was on her way, Emira found it both funny and sad that she could feel so cheap in the most expensive thing she owned. She turned her earbuds up loud and balanced into the subway’s turns.