The email arrived while Celia was choosing a book with a duck on the cover for a child who had specifically requested no ducks. “He doesn’t like them today,” his mother said apologetically. “A strong position.” Celia replaced the book and found one about a train. “What about wheels?” The boy considered her offering, then …
On the second of October, Celia put on earrings with no one asleep against her shoulder and lost the back of one down the bathroom sink. “Leave it,” Ruth called. “You have another pair.” “They don’t go.” “Neither will you, at this rate.” Celia held a hand over the drain and considered taking the plumbing …
Nell turned six weeks old on September twenty-fifth, celebrated by sleeping through the sound of the library bus bell and waking the moment Celia tried to put her down. “She’s making a point,” Margaret said. “She’s making several.” Celia adjusted her daughter against her shoulder. “I haven’t understood any of them yet.” The bus stood …
“Go,” Ruth said. “Before I change my mind.” Celia stood in her own doorway on September eighteenth with her coat over one arm and six explanations ready. Nell was asleep. Ruth had been told where everything was, had ignored half the instructions and repeated the important ones back with pointed accuracy. Adrian would be there …
On September eleventh, four weeks after Nell was born, Celia put on lipstick to answer the door and took it off before the knock came. It seemed ridiculous to put on lipstick at three in the afternoon. It seemed worse that she wanted to. Adrian was bringing a book back. That was all. He’d borrowed …
By the time her daughter was born on August fourteenth, Celia had apologized to Ruth, ordered Ruth out of the room, demanded Ruth come back and accused her of breathing too loudly. Ruth had remained beside her through all of it, holding a plastic cup Celia no longer wanted and saying, “Yes, all right,” with …
On June twenty-sixth Adrian arrived with a reservation, a weather report and the anxious expression of a man who’d had time to reconsider all his decisions. “It’s close,” he said while Celia locked Ruth’s front door. “In the hotel by the marina. There’s a place to sit beside the dance floor. We can stay half …
Five months later, on June twelfth, Celia stood in Ruth’s bedroom in a green dress and wondered whether it was possible to be thirty weeks pregnant and still look as though she’d come on a date. “Turn around,” Ruth said. Celia turned. The dress fell softly from beneath her breasts, skimmed her stomach and ended …
The apartment had no kitchen cabinet doors, a bathroom window painted shut, and the first room Celia had wanted for herself in seven years. “Those will be back on,” the owner said, following her gaze to the cabinets. “Everything will. I can’t hand it over until July first. The people doing the repairs have given …
By Monday morning Celia had decided Adrian Sato was probably a teacher, or an architect who had forgotten to dress like one. Something that accounted for his interest in how things worked and his lack of interest in keeping his clothes clean. Then a long black car pulled into the depot yard, and he stepped …
