2. Flowers On A Tree

May 2021

I wonder when or how he will appear. In what form. Perhaps as a casual text: “How are you?” A conversation on the sidewalk. A run-in at the grocery store? No, it will be a private message. As always. “Just checking in on life and kids” which will lead to “By the way I still think of you.” I roll my eyes. Oh, I know him. There is a pattern. A history from before kids. Before marriage. Over two decades of inaction and action followed by waves of silence. Then action again. We’ve known each other for over twenty years. Half of our lives spreads out in front of me as I stare at my glacially shrinking mummy tummy in the mirror. I cover myself in a nursing bra and a pretty-but-forgiving summer dress. It twirls when I spin around and is covered with red peonies splayed across a black landscape.

I remember his hands. Large and familiar, his long fingers splayed out. I remember every knuckle; every finger. I can feel his palms on me. I know the pads of his thumbs. I know how he holds a pen or carves his food. I can hear his voice when I close my eyes. I can see him when he crosses my mind. Henry stands behind me and is a foot taller. His smile is quiet. He knows me just as well as I know him. I finger the ruffles on my dress that meet in a v-shape around the front, halfway up and in between my thighs.

“No,” I tell myself, and let go of the dress.

Leaning closer to the mirror, I study myself. My eyes swoop up and down to survey my postpartum body. A short, pretty package with curves. The daily cataloging begins as I lean forward to inspect the short tufts that have sprung above the center of my forehead. A benefit from having your second daughter – apparently. I know that my hair will grow back, though. Thank fucking goodness. I am pumping all the collagen into my system as fast as possible. But it takes time. My hair is pretty and is in between brown and blonde. But it is pin-straight and thin. Unless it’s short – then it curves into my shoulders, in haphazard zigzags. My eyes are large and round and a dark brown. A vanity point of mine. My face seems to be mine again, mostly, I think, as I try not to poke at it and stare at my nose. I wonder if it looks different or if it’s just my imagination playing tricks on me. I look down and investigate my chin.

“There shall be no chins plural in this house,” I say in my best Ian McKellen voice.

I stretch and jut my neck out and stare up at the ceiling, repeating the move a few times to prevent the chins from invading. My breasts are the size of two planets now but at least they don’t leak much. Then I feel my stomach and frown at it. The curtain that didn’t used to be there. So much has been given and taken away by age and having children. I wonder if Henry saw me now, would he recognize the girl in me is still here or the woman he knew in her twenties? Then a small and dangerous thought surfaces. Would he still want me? 

“Shut up,” I tell myself. “You look beautiful,” I say, which is true, although I suck in my stomach as I say it.

I let it hang where it lays, then suck it in again and twist myself from side to side. I believe what I say most of the time. Some of the time, I think, as I poke my belly button and assess the curtain that remains under it, parting in the middle like a lowercase w for ‘Welcome to 41!’ But, my feet are no longer swollen, and that is wonderful. I stare at them and wiggle my toes, inspecting my high arches – another vanity point. The ankles seem to have become ankles again and are no longer giant bananas. They might be ready for high heels again. The shoe lover in me does a happy shuffle ball, ball change tap dance. I rotate my ankles while I think about the dream for a moment longer, then glance up at my face in the mirror.

“Well,” I tell myself with a smile, as I turn to the right, “I still have my ass,” giving it a friendly pat.

It has not pancaked itself and remains quite there. I run my hands over my arms and squeeze them in a quick hug, then allow myself one quiet sigh. Upon further inspection, I decide to leave my face bare. It’s a good face. It can hold up on its own. Just lipgloss and a clean face. I bite the corner of my lower lip and nod my head as if to say “That’ll do.” Then I slide my feet into a pair of black pumps, to try them on before I’ll actually need to wear them somewhere. I let out a grateful grunt as they are no longer so snug. I’m spraying a bit of perfume on my wrists when I hear an orchestra of giggles and a man’s deep laugh on our driveway. 

As they get closer, Jane’s voice and Adam’s become more apparent. They’re talking about the clouds and what Jane sees in them. It makes me smile. Atticus has already hurled his giant body down the stairs to greet them at the entrance from the garage side of our house.

“Sit, Atticus!” I call down to him. It sounds like he’s obeyed this time.

A rainbow runs up the stairs to tell me about her adventures on their walk. 

“Mommy! We saw two butterflies on our walk, and four rabbits, and a dog, and some squirrels! I collected lots and lots and lots of rocks for Beth to look at. And it was so much fun! Did you get some good sleep, Mommy? Can we go to the playground today?” Jane is spinning in a circle the entire time as she talks.

“Hello, my little Wildflower,” I reply and gather her in for a hug before she runs off to give Atticus some pets. I reach out for Beth, who snuggles into Adam’s shoulder, kissing him quickly during the pass-off.

“You smell good,” he says, leaning into my neck to sniff. 

“I smell clean,” I quip, stepping away to give Beth her millionth bottle. She gurgles and smiles, batting for the bottle with her fists until it finds its home in her mouth.

“Hello, my little Sunbeam,” I whisper, kissing her head and inhaling. She still smells like a new baby. 

Adam moves to the opposite side of our blue sectional and starts folding a laundry basket while Jane continues to dance and talk about all of the plans she has for us today. It’s a Saturday, and everything is good.

Everything is good, I tell my mind. Then I place a hand on Beth’s chest, where her heart lies. Adam sees me do so, and I watch him assess quickly and silently. I smile at him, then turn my head to look out through the windows behind me at the flowering tree in our front yard. My eyes are wet, and I try not to let them spill any tears, pulling the grief back into me. Keeping quiet. Keeping calm. Keeping still.

I hear him peppering Jane with questions to distract her. Beth grunts and paws at my left breast, so I turn my attention back to her as I adjust the angle of the bottle.

I announce, “Let’s go to the playground in Abel after Beth’s nap. We’ll pack a picnic for lunch. “

Adam nods and stands up to take Beth for a diaper change. He leans down and whispers in my ear, “Everything will be good.” His eyes are soft and gentle now.

“I know,” I reply, shelving fears for another moment. For when I can be alone with them. 

I hug my arms again and stand up to stretch. Jane launches herself towards me for another hug.

“Let’s play monster tag, Mommy!” I smile and ruffle her hair, full of wild curls and sunlight.

“Argh!” I growl, arms raising above my head, “I am a fluffy monster, and I want to eat you!”

She giggles and runs into the kitchen to hide. “You can’t catch me! You can’t catch me!”

“Ah hah,” I growl, “The game is afoot!”

Jane laughs. “You can’t eat my foot, monster!”

We run around the kitchen island, ridiculous fools, yelling about fluffy monsters until I catch her and nibble at her foot while she tries to tickle me.