I always imagined I’d be certain I was ready when I had a child.
I always imagined I’d have a husband, a plan.
“It’s you and me now, right?”
I bite my cheek to stop his voice.
Mom raps gently on the door. “Autumn, how’s it going?”
“These jeans are weird,” I say.
“Your body is going to feel strange for a while, kiddo!” Angelina chimes in.
“Do they fit?” Mom asks.
“I guess so?”
I come out and she tugs on the waistband like she did when I was a kid and nods. I try on and accept and reject a few other pairs of pants. A couple of the blouses are okay. Finally, Mom wants me to try on a cocktail dress.
“Every woman needs a little black dress,” Mom insists.
I look to Angelina for support, but she grimaces.
“You never know what might come up, kiddo. It’s not a bad idea to have a dress just in case.”
I’m about to say, “Like for another funeral?” when I feel Finny in me.
“Come on, Autumn,” he scolds, and I deserve it. As punishment, I make myself take the hanger from her and go back into the changing room.
As I strip off my T-shirt, I pause, looking in the mirror.
It’s bigger than it was yesterday, the mound between my hips. I study myself to be certain, because surely things couldn’t change that fast?
But it’s somehow true.
More sci-fi than fantasy.
I put my hands on my stomach and wonder how I didn’t notice it when I put on the jeans. Should I have? Am I already not paying enough attention? I look away from the strange body in the mirror and pull the black dress over my head. It’s a stretchy knit that hugs all my curves, the new ones too.
When I look back in the mirror, I’m surprised by how nice it looks. I feel like a woman in this dress, not a girl. I look like someone who can handle what’s coming. The bump seems smaller, more reasonable under the cover of black.
And I feel pretty for the first time in a long time.
I wish Finny could see me.
“You’re so beautiful.”
“Autumn?”
“It’s nice,” I tell Mom. “We should get it.”
On the drive home, the tension between The Mothers is gone. We bought an amount of clothes that everyone felt was reasonable.
I have jeans to wear with my vintage tees, a couple of blouses and a pair of khakis in case I want to look a little nicer, and then there’s the dress. The dress looks like something I should wear for an important meeting, perhaps with a publisher for my book or, equally probable, a rendezvous with someone from the CIA.
I have the dress as a talisman more than anything, proof that I am an adult woman, more or less.
Even if I don’t have Finny to tell me I look beautiful, I can tell myself for him.
nine
“It’s not uncommon for a pregnant woman to feel disconnected from her body, nor is it uncommon for a first-time mother to find it hard to believe that there will be a baby. This is not indicative that you will be a poor mother,” Dr. Singh says.
“Shouldn’t I love it more or something?” I ask.
He raises his hand in a gesture of ambivalence. “Eh?” he says. “Are you taking your prenatal vitamins?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been to all your obstetrician appointments, yes? Getting gentle exercise, yes?”
“I take walks a few times a week.” I don’t understand why this therapy appointment is suddenly about my physical health.
“Then it sounds to me like you are loving this fetus as much as you can,” Dr. Singh says. “Love is an action, and all the actions you are taking speak of love.”
It’s my turn to shrug.
“I wanted to talk to you about your plans outside motherhood,” he says. “You will still be a person with dreams. You said you wanted to write a novel, yes?”
“I wrote one.”
“You’re writing a novel?”
“No.” I laugh for the first time in days. “I wrote one. I finished it. Well, I’m still editing it.” I still cry while I edit, which slows me down, but I don’t have to stop anymore because of the crying, so that’s an improvement. And I’m reading books that aren’t about babies when I’m not editing. I may not be going to college this year or the next, but that’s no reason I can’t give myself my own literature course.
“But the story is complete?” Dr. Singh raises his bushy eyebrows in a way I’ve never seen before.
“Yeah.”