Iggy
Doesn’t it just seem like little girls get handed this bill of goods about what life is going to be like if they only do this,
or do that? There’s the whole fairy tale, right? You spend your entire life in a state of expectation. And then what comes—the truth of it all—bears very little resemblance to the fantasy.
Like, it’s not even close.
I’m thinking this as I stare at the downy crown of Noah’s head. He’s four months today. And he’s just drifted off after nursing,
his head heavy in the crook of my arm, a little drop of milk trailing from the corner of his pouty pink mouth. The nursery
is dim, and quiet, the only sound the wind pushing at the windows. Brock and I chose, after careful deliberation and hours
cruising around online, a jungle theme—a kind of gentle, cheerful baby jungle with smiling monkeys, and big-eyed giraffes,
tumbling tigers, and pleasingly roundish elephants. In the peaceful stillness, the happy animals watch us.
Noah is what the nurses called an angel baby—one who latched on right away, who was easily comforted, who seemed awake and
alert, observant, while others were squalling, protesting their entrance in this cold, cruel world.
“This one’s special,” the night nurse in the hospital told me.
She’d lifted him from his bassinet and placed him in my arms. He immediately started to suckle ferociously, looking at me with these super-intense blue eyes. “He’s a star.”
Probably, she said that to all the drug-addled, stunned mothers in her care. But it seemed true to me, still does.
Twinkle, twinkle little star, I whisper to him each night when I put him to bed.
“And you’re a natural mother,” the nurse said when she observed our easy connection. “That’s not true of everyone.”
I’m not. I studied, determined to do better than my own mother.
I wipe the milk from Noah’s mouth. And he’s out, even snoring a soft little baby snore. I should get up from this chair and
put him down in his crib; I’m late. But one of the things they don’t tell you about your baby is that you’ll be hypnotized
by your love for him. Really, it’s a spell they cast. Sure, you’re exhausted, overwhelmed, stressed and out of your league
in every way. And sometimes I just lie in Brock’s arms and cry, so swept away by emotion I can barely express myself. But
mostly I’m just awed by this tsunami of love that matches no other I’ve ever experienced.
It makes me wonder about my own mother, who was not what the night nurse would have called a “natural mother.” Everything
about my mother—who she was with me, her choices, the things she did and said—makes even less sense to me now that I have
my own child.
Finally, I rise carefully, and place Noah on his back in his empty crib. His onesie is covered in little stars and his chubby
legs fall open. I spend another untold amount of time watching his curling fingers, the way the light dances in the scant
hair on his head, the fullness of those big baby cheeks. I think he looks like Brock. But Brock insists he looks like me,
around the eyes especially.
In our bedroom, I pull on the flowered dress that I ordered online with a prayer that it would fit.
At the moment, I am not small enough for my pre-baby clothes, and all my maternity things look like muumuus.
Soft and crepey, the new dress is perfect, skimming my fleshier areas and highlighting my boobs, which, if I must say so myself, look spectacular.
The soft pink brings out the high color in my cheeks.
I even managed to go to the salon yesterday, with Noah in the BabyBjorn.
All the ladies at the salon gathered and cooed; the little ham, he lapped it up, smiling and gurgling.
And he loved the blow dryer; it put him right to sleep.
I’m not one of those Instagrammable post-pregnancy people, killing myself to “get my body back.” To be honest, my body was
never that great to begin with and it’s always been good enough for Brock. So, I’m just walking with the baby in the mornings
and eating healthy and hoping for the best at the moment.
I pull a brush through my honey hair and put a light pink gloss on my lips. I think of Ana, impossibly svelte and always chic.
Her skin is a flawless peaches and cream; her long glossy black hair gleams almost purple when it reflects light. Vera is
older than us, but in an aspirational way, like she’s ahead. Her life is seemingly perfect with ultrarich Brad and that insanely big house that looks like it belongs on someone’s vision
board. Those thick auburn tresses are always blown out to perfection, nails a simple gel French. I saw a dress she wore to
a girls’ night out last year on Nordstrom’s website. It cost a thousand dollars. Though those kids do seem like a handful. And Brad? Well, he’s Brad. We like to call him “the ghost.” He’s rarely
there, and when he is, he’s on his way somewhere else.
Payton will also be at brunch. Payton, who, before her thirty-third birthday, is the first Black partner at her law firm.
Tiny but mighty, a stick of TNT in a perfectly tailored designer suit.
And Esme, CEO of a gaming company, dresses like a very wealthy teenage boy in hoodies and baggy jeans, expensive sneakers.
She wears her hair in a platinum buzz cut, has a line of gold hoops along her right ear.
A tattoo on the inside of her left forearm reads: Carpe Diem.
Her wife, Claudia, won’t be joining today.
Apparently, she’s off to Asia for her work in a finance firm.
These are all women of a certain type. High achieving and exacting, powerful in their different ways. I fell into this friend
group because Ana and I have been friends since college, where we were roommates and inseparable until I left in junior year.
Which I don’t like to think about, how I never finished my degree. So, I guess I’m Ana’s friend and I’m connected to the rest
through her. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself, that they all have accomplishments and successes. I have something they don’t,
except for Vera maybe. True love. A child. I am—after years of therapy—happy.
Before I make it to the top of the staircase, my phone pings. There’s a message from a number but no name.
I can’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking about it.
I thumb out my answer quickly. Don’t text me again.
I don’t like to be harsh. But I can’t handle this right now. What happened, happened. It’s done. I’m good at putting things
in a box and locking them up. I’m like my mother that way. I don’t dwell on the past. I have a brunch to attend.
Another text: I’m all alone out here.
I don’t answer, delete the chain. Brock is on my phone all the time, and I’m on his. We don’t have secrets. Or we didn’t.
Downstairs, my husband is lying on our plush sectional couch, the game volume low on the enormous television we bought for
ourselves when I got pregnant. We spent the latter half of my pregnancy when things were dicey, and the first months of Noah’s
life, watching movies, bingeing shows, cheering for our various sports teams. Honestly, it was paradise. I’m not ready to
rejoin the world yet, not really.
“Whoa,” Brock says, getting up. “You look—amazing.”
He put on weight during my pregnancy, too. Of course, it looks good on him.
He takes me into his arms, kisses me deep.
He’s beefier, broader through the shoulders.
His arms feel bigger, stronger. I run my hand through his dark hair in its usually wild tousle, touch the three-day stubble on his jaw.
He pulls away, looks down at his baggy jeans and worn flannel shirt.
He’s hot, my hubby, even on a Sunday morning in.
Brock pats his stomach, looking at his reflection in the big bay window. “I better get myself back in shape if I’m going to
be in your league.”
“You’re in a league of your own,” I tell him, giving him a peck on the cheek.
Suddenly, I’m thinking of canceling plans I really didn’t want to accept in the first place.
I take another quick glance at my phone. Nothing. That text. It rattled me. I just want to stay here where it’s safe.
I was a little surprised to get Vera’s invitation. Hey, Iggy, hope you’re well. Join us for brunch on Sunday? Ana’s been taking her breakup with Paul pretty hard, and we’re
planning an “ex-orcism.”
I had to look it up. Apparently, it’s a thing you do now. After you break up with someone, get together with friends and digitally
remove the ex from your lives. Block. Delete. Unfollow. Fuck off—according to Ana.
I tried to tell Ana about Paul, the things I knew about him. But she didn’t believe me. In fact, Ana and I didn’t talk for a while
after that little chat. Which was hurtful. But maybe not surprising. Ana does what she wants, doesn’t like to be told otherwise.
I know it’s hard with the baby so small, Vera’s message went on. But Ana would love to see you. And so sorry, but no kids. Do you think you can sneak away for a couple of hours?
No kids? Wouldn’t most gatherings of women allow for a friend’s newborn? But of course, no kids. So that all the attention
can be on Ana and her drama du jour.
My husband leans in for another kiss, and then his hands are roaming my body. Heat comes up fast. Our sex life, after a couple months’ hiatus, has ramped up again, hotter than ever. It’s different—more reverent, deeper. Like we’re awed by what our bodies—especially mine—can do.
“Stop,” I say, pulling away reluctantly. “I’m late already. Are you sure you’re okay?”
He lifts his palms. “What is this, the 1950s? I am a woke husband and dad. I got this. We’ll watch the game. Play with some
soft blocks. Boys’ day in.”
I could just put my sweats back on and stay. There are a thousand excuses I could give. The baby was fussy. Or Brock got called
into work. No one would judge me.
Not true.
Ana would. Those icy eyes, the way they bore in and see everything.
Brock helps me with my coat in the foyer, where I almost lose my resolve again. He must see it. He puts a hand to my cheek,
brow wrinkling with concern.
“What is it? Are you okay?”
I nod and smile. It’s not about Noah being safe; Brock is the best dad in the world.
It’s about me. It’s not safe out there.
“Maybe I’m not ready.”
He runs a hand down the back of my head, hand gentle and warm, kisses my forehead.
“It’ll be good for you. To see your friends. To have a couple of hours of girl time. We’re fine here. I promise. I’ll call
if things get hairy.”
“I know,” I say weakly.
“Talk to me,” he says, frowning now.
There are so many things I wish I could tell him; it’s all right there, ready to spill. Then in my bag, the phone pings again.
I ignore it and try for a smile. “No, you’re right. Some girl time is just what I need.”
We start walking toward the door. “Oh, the cookies,” I say.
“I’ll get them.”
He jogs back to the kitchen, then follows me out the door with the tray of gluten-free, dairy-free, carob-chip cookies I stayed
up late to make. Vera said not to bring anything, but I can’t go empty-handed.
Outside, the air is cool and clean, the day overcast and windy. I feel a rush of energy, of confidence. It does feel good to be out, to be dressed. Brunch will be a nice distraction.
I wave to my sexy husband, then back out of the drive. The electric car is so quiet, like it’s not even running. The house
and our pretty neighborhood grow smaller in the rearview mirror.
At the stop sign just a few doors down on my street, I glance at the phone again.
The text there reads: I’m sorry.
I delete it, push my feelings down deep. I can forget things, people.
Brock’s right. The brunch will be good for me. Won’t it? Isn’t this what they tell you you’re supposed to want? To get your body back, your life back, yourself
back? Time away just for you? Except the reality is, I don’t want to go back anywhere.
The Iggy I was before Noah, before Brock? It’s like those memories are in black-and-white, something distant and less. Motherhood
has made me stronger, more able. And that person—who I was in college, and after I left. That person doesn’t even exist anymore.
It’s like I’ve exorcised her. She’s gone.
The only person in my life who still remembers her is Ana.
I’m still at the stop sign, no one else behind me to honk and bring me back to myself.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a parked car. An older black BMW with a dent in the side. Inside a figure sits in the driver’s
seat, stock-still. The windows are tinted, so I can’t tell, but I feel like he’s staring at me. Watching. My heart starts
to thud.
I drive away, keeping watch in the rearview mirror.
After a moment, the car pulls out and follows me.
The man at the wheel is older, with a full graying beard. He’s wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap. I don’t recognize him.
Who is he? Why is he following me? I speed up a little, heart racing.
But after a while the car makes another turn and is gone. I let go of a laugh that sounds more like a cough. I’m paranoid.
Still shaking, adrenaline pulsing, I keep checking my mirrors all the way to Vera’s.
I can’t shake the feeling, an anxious unease.
Is somebody watching me?
My phone pings again. I’m scared.
So am I.
I keep driving.