eleven
“Maybe I should start taking you to all my resale shops,” Aunt Angelina tells Mom. We’re on our way back to Vintage Mother Goose to buy a crib.
“Angelina, I will turn this car around and head straight to Pottery Barn, I swear to God,” Mom replies.
“No, no, I’ll behave.”
I’ve chosen how the baby will sleep: in a mini crib in my room for at least a year. I won’t let it cry it out, but I’ll try to wait for the baby to settle themselves like the book about French parenting I’m reading suggested.
Now there’re only a million other decisions about this baby that I’ll have to make in the next few months.
But it’s a start.
The Mothers have been trying to let me figure out this stuff on my own, letting me decide what kind of mother I want to be, not telling me how it must be done like Angie’s family. Aunt Angelina co-slept with Finny in her bed until he was two, while Mom kept me down the hall with the baby monitor on the lowest setting so that I really had to scream to wake her. Neither method is recommended these days, and neither of them has tried to convince me otherwise.
So when I said that I had decided to get a small crib for my room for the first year or so, there was no questioning my decision. Angelina called and confirmed that the mini crib we’d considered last time we were at Vintage Mother Goose was still available, but Mom insists that we look at it one last time before purchasing it.
The same elderly woman is sitting behind the counter when we arrive.
“Back again, dears?” she says without a pause in her knitting, proving my suspicions that she is a witch.
Mom, the expert shopper in all situations, leads the way to the furniture corner where the little crib sits. “It doesn’t quite match the rest of the wood in your room,” she muses. “It would almost be better if it was totally different. This will look like we tried to match it and failed. I’m certain I could find one online in a better color.”
“This is perfect,” I say. “Last I heard, none of the interior design magazines were doing spreads on teen mom’s nurseries, so I don’t think we’re missing any opportunities.” I rest my hands on the adjustable bar possessively.
“All right then, sweetie. If it were me, I’d find the coordination soothing when in the trenches.”
“In the trenches? Why do people always talk about motherhood like it’s going to war?”
Mom and Aunt Angelina look at each other and shrug.
“What are we thinking then?” the saleswoman asks, approaching us.
Mom begins to set up the purchase and delivery. I stare down at the crib and try to convince myself that someday there will be not only a mattress inside it but an infant.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Aunt Angelina asks.
“That we should let Mom order a bespoke crib mattress made of organic llama hair or something?”
“Exactly. She’s respected your wishes not to turn your dad’s office into a Victorian nursery full of chintz and should be rewarded.”
I turn from the crib to face her. “Since it’s Dad’s money, I’ll have to let her do something to his office eventually.”
Angelina stiffens. “What did you say?”
“Since it’s Dad’s money—”
“It’s not your father’s money, Autumn. Is that what your mother told you?”
“No, I just assumed,” I say.
Angelina looks stricken. This must have something to do with Finny that I don’t understand. She looks past me to where I can hear the saleslady and my mother talking behind me. Her mouth tightens.
“Your mother didn’t tell you about the arrangement with Finny’s father?”
Everything tilts in my mind.
“The what? With him?” I ask.
“Autumn,” she whispers, “I’m sorry, but I’m going to kill your mother.”
“Mom?” I shout as I twist around. She and the saleslady simultaneously turn from each other to me. “What is this arrangement that Aunt Angelina is talking about? With Finny’s…Finn—”
I can’t bring myself to call that man a father to Finny.
“Let me finish arranging the delivery, and we’ll talk about it later,” Mom sings out to me, using a customer service voice.
I’m not buying what she’s selling.
“What’s this arrangement?” I ask Angelina. She’s tried so hard to give me support along with respectful space. Through all these months, I’ve remained in awe of her composure, but she looks like she’s about to lose it.