I don’t want Cynthia seeing me this upset, but I hardly have a choice.
She’ll know you’re hearing me again.
You were stupid to tell her about me before.
Dumping my purse onto the passenger seat, I rummage for some makeup, a brush, anything to seem more together than I actually am.
I use my fingers and a pencil to tame my frizzed hair into a high bun. I have some old lipstick that’s too pink for my coloring that I put on anyway and a little Blistex over it for shine. My eyes are red with purple circles that paint spackle couldn’t cover underneath.
At least I put on a clean shirt. My maternity pants look cheap because they are.
It’s embarrassing you’re still wearing them.
Cynthia will be ashamed to know you.
Ester’s cries are becoming frantic. I read that most new babies hate the car seat, so it shouldn’t be a surprise she’s screaming. But it’s still frustrating. I try to keep my voice kind and even as I clench the steering wheel.
“I’m coming, baby girl. It’s okay.”
I pull the wrap out of the diaper bag. I wore Ester around the house this week as I worked. She calms down when she’s next to me. We both do.
After turning off the car, I head over to her side. I stand in the snow as the wind pulls at the wrap, and I quickly have her on my chest, every inch covered by fabric and secure against me. With her cotton hat in place, I take a deep inhale of baby powder and detergent.
The sun is bright in the cold stillness of early winter days. I breathe it, listen to the quiet, and try to feel a little better staring into the windows of the busy coffee shop. Cynthia opened Chip Bakery right after Jack and I moved to town. I usually spent several hours a day working at a table in the corner, enjoying the noises of customers over the silence of my home office.
Cynthia is so disappointed in you.
You’re not welcome anymore.
Ester begins to scream again. I worry that she’s hot somehow and unzip her more. I shush while taking her hat off, letting her face feel more air.
A mother with her baby in a stroller passes us but halts midstep. Her eyes widen, and her back stiffens at the sight of us. As if her baby never cries. As if her blankets piled into the fancy bassinet stroller with wind protection are so much better. As if there’s something wrong with Ester. Or me.
She knows a mother like you would have an evil child.
Ceaseless crying.
Too small to love.
My eyes burn with tears, from the wind and the voice. I begin to hum and bounce, heading down the block and back while I wait for Ester to sleep. I cannot give in to what I hear. She is not a monster. My sins are not hers. I must stay focused and move forward, or I will drown us both.
Minutes pass, and the cool air seems to have calmed us. I zip my coat tight with Ester finally sleeping against me. I try to shrug off that mother’s expression, her mom shaming, which I read about many times but haven’t really experienced before.
Better get used to it, girlie.
No one will love your child.
Just like no one could ever really love you.
I force myself to head toward Chip Bakery and focus on my apology to Cynthia and convincing her to contact Phillip.
Chip is the only coffee shop in the heart of Hope Village, the main shopping area along the commercial blocks of Hope Street. This was strategic. Cynthia’s capstone at Harvard Business School was to identify the most profitable venture using her credit line, skill set, and connections. She graduated with honors and brought her capstone to life, opening a coffee shop on the East Side of Providence.
It is more than coffee, actually. She took the concept of cheese boards and added house-made desserts paired with slightly bitter, locally sourced coffee. It’s as if she’s saying, “Make no mistake. This place is worthy of your precious East Side.”
I take a deep, satisfied breath at her success. The expanded menu was the perfect upsell, more than tripling profits over the past two years. I helped her run the numbers after she found out about my legal work with accounting firms.
But her business hit a plateau, and she needs a liquor license and a second location to take things to the next level. I know that because I pushed her to apply for a grant through Uncle Cal’s Economic Development Council.
She had a lot of hesitation. The fact that Uncle Cal and her brother had clashed, to put it mildly. I’d been in the middle of it, and I had forced Phillip out of the blogger business for a while. I didn’t regret it, but I wished it had been different.
No matter the history, I did help Alec get one of these grants. I could help her. And so she trusted me and put herself and her business out there and applied for the grant.
But this time, it isn’t working out. She barely made the second round. None of the councilmembers have visited Chip. They aren’t taking her seriously because she’s alone. But I promised her she wouldn’t be.
You never deserved her friendship.
Ester is still asleep as I head toward Chip. An older couple in matchy puff vests holds the door for me, smiling as I pass. The place is packed. Staff swirl around the customers, who are stuffing their mouths with chocolate ganache and espresso. Everyone is in New England casual: skinny jeans, yoga pants, ill-fitting khakis, maybe a blazer or cable-knit sweater. Conversations echo about the latest play at Trinity Rep or how bad the roads are already this winter.
Cynthia is easy to spot, steady among the chaos in her spotless white silk shirt and tan slacks. She puts her hand on the back of a customer’s metal chair as he tells her something that seems complimentary. She doesn’t fully smile, but her eyes brighten. As the owner, she’ll let you buy her coffee and her cakes, and that entitles you to quality but not more. It’s common to see her nod with acknowledgment, but she’s not a pleaser, which is the opposite of my midwest upbringing. I admired her immediately.
That said, she usually smiles at me. But not today.
As Cynthia’s gaze locks with mine, I remember another characteristic: When she frowns, her eyes go wide. It’s as if she’s trying to see even more of what you’re doing wrong.
Looking me over, she frowns as deeply as I’ve ever seen.
She’s going to kick you out.
Like she should have done a long time ago.
She stops by the counter, likely ordering me something, and I’m able to put on what I hope is a brave face.
“You’re here,” Cynthia says, taking my hands, stretching them wide. “Look at you, mother warrior woman, wearing that baby.”
There’s no trace of anger or disappointment. That’s worse. She’s blaming herself instead of me.
“You told Jack to buy the wrap,” I guess as I kiss her quickly on the cheek. She isn’t a hugger.
“I may have texted him the idea. You only mentioned baby wearing twenty times or so.” She steps back, still frowning. “I haven’t seen you since the hospital.”
“I’m good,” I say in the same voice I use with Jack. “The nights are long and full of terrors, but I’m surviving.”
She’s not a baby person but smiles at sleeping Ester. “Your order is up. Come on.”
She leads me to a corner table in a section that’s closed. We sit down and have privacy.
To keep your evil baby away from her customers.
A barista brings a cappuccino and a glass of sparkling water. Sitting on the edge of the chair, I manage to balance Ester in her sleeping position without much disturbance. After a beat, I find my courage. “Sorry I didn’t call you after. It’s been hard . . . adjusting to everything.”