We Own the Sky(17)
“Your analogy doesn’t work,” Anna said, “because we can’t cash out. If you could cash out with a baby, it would work.”
It was at the start of Anna’s third trimester when I noticed them. I was in the backyard one day, and there were two sunflowers that hadn’t been there before.
Anna hated gardening. It was a chore, she said, and she had never planted anything in her life.
I went into the kitchen and she was standing at the sink, in her apron, washing some coffee cups.
“I like your sunflowers,” I said. “Did you do that?”
“I did,” she said, looking pleased with herself. “They’re nice, aren’t they?”
“They are. I’m just surprised. I thought you hated gardening.”
“Oh, I do, don’t worry about that... It’s just...” She swallowed and put down a coffee mug. “You’ll think me silly, but I just wanted to do something. You know, for the little ones. I know that’s not the sort of thing I do, but I thought it would be nice.” Then she turned away from me, because she didn’t want me to see her cry, and I put my arms around her, and she buried her head into my neck.
“The woman in the garden center said they were robust, good in all weathers.”
*
I was sitting on the floor of the bathroom, watching Anna in the bath. She was reading a book, propped up on a wire bridge that held the soap, like something I remembered from my grandmother’s house. Absentmindedly she twisted her hair around in her fingers, and I watched as the bubbles attempted to navigate her bump.
I was amazed at how much skin could stretch, her belly like a taut drum, the outer layers almost translucent. I was nervous about touching her. I wanted to, but I was worried that I would press the wrong place, that my inexpert hands would damage what was inside.
I watched as she read. Her pink razor was placed on the side of the bath and, even after all these years, there was something comforting about that. I remembered that feeling from the very beginning, when we started living
together in my room in Cambridge. I used to love seeing her collection of gels and shampoos in the shower; her book on the bedside table; her earrings carefully placed in a saucer on the chest of drawers. Yes, it was a territorial advance, but one that only ever felt like a liberation.
“Oh, I was going to tell you,” Anna said, putting her book down and swishing her hands through the water. “I joined this group on Facebook—Babies & Tiny Tots.”
“What’s that?”
“The clue’s in the name, Rob. Babies and Tots. It’s some kind of mother’s group.”
“Is it useful?”
“Well, I only just joined, but, in short, no, it’s awful. Lola made me join.”
“Is she still doing her raw food thing?”
“Doing it? She is it, Rob. She has her blog, the Raw Food Mamma, and she’s working on her first cookery book.”
“God. Poor India.”
“I know. She swears India likes it, though. Says her croup has completely gone since she went raw.”
“Lola’s on Twitter, by the way,” I said. “Do you know what her bio says?”
“Mmm, let me guess...”
“Hold on.” I pulled out my phone. “Lola Bree-Hastings. Mother, daughter,
sister, friend, fire dancer, yogi, raw food evangelist.”
“Goodness. That is very Lola,” Anna said, pulling on a strand of hair. “And she needs a hyphen between raw and food. In that vein, do you know what she has listed as her job on Facebook?”
“What?”
“CEO of cuddles and chief feeding assistant.”
“Oh my God,” I said, starting to laugh. “So how is this Babies and Tots thing awful?” I poured myself a glass and offered Anna some of the Bobby Bubble “kids champagne” she had been drinking.
Anna shook her head. “I’ve had enough of that stuff to last me a lifetime...
Anyway, I thought it would be people, first-time mothers like myself, asking questions about breastfeeding or how the baby will sleep, but, goodness, these people are just so strange.”
“How do you mean?”
“This Miranda, one of the admins, sent me a list of the acronyms they use in this group and, really, I’d never heard of any of them.”
“Like YOLO?”
“What does that mean?”
“You only live once.”
“Oh. Why would someone say that?”
“I don’t know, if you’re going bungee jumping or something. Like, YOLO!”
Anna shook her head and narrowed her eyes. “Anyway, I just found some of
these acronyms to be utterly bizarre.”
“Was it all DD, DS and DH?”
“What?” Anna turned toward me, mock outrage spreading across her face.
“You know this?”
“Everyone knows it. Dear son, dear daughter, dear husband.”
“Well, everyone doesn’t know it,” Anna said. “Okay, clever-clogs. EBM.
What’s EBM?”
I thought about it for a moment. “Expected breast manipulation?”
“That’s actually quite a good guess. You got the breast at least.”
“I always do.”