75 Days
Rhea waited until the last possible second to go door-to-door and collect supplies for the coalition. She was due at the monthly meeting in three hours and was tempted to just go to Target and buy all the things they’d mentioned, but she worried the clothes would not look used enough.
She briefly researched how to make new clothes look worn but decided she was being ridiculous and mustered all her bravery to venture out into the neighborhood.
As she hiked up her steep street and knocked on the first door, she felt terrified of meeting strangers but also excited to learn what went on inside all the houses she had driven past for years.
It turned out her neighbors were perfectly nice, and most of them were close to her age.
They all gave her at least one of the items on her list, and most of them asked to exchange numbers so they could keep in touch.
The woman who lived next door was a rock-climbing instructor and invited Rhea to come to her climbing gym for a free session.
Rhea’s ego fed her images of sculpted climbing arms and the look on people’s faces when she told them she was a rock climber.
She wished she had gathered the courage to meet her neighbors years ago.
“Wow, it’s so cool you’re doing this. I wish I volunteered more,” the man at the end of the block said.
He gave her a large bag of clothes and a smaller bag of canned food.
She walked back to her Prius and loaded all that good karma into her trunk.
She could not remember a time when she’d felt prouder of herself.
She pulled up to what she decided should be the last house, since her car was almost full and the meeting started in thirty minutes.
She imagined herself strutting into the meeting after taking many trips to her car to unload all of her bounty; surely, she had broken some kind of record in supply gathering.
“Let’s not make this meeting about me,” she would have to say. “Let’s focus on what really matters: changing the world.”
She knocked on the door of the last house, and a woman opened it. She looked older than Rhea. Her hair was perfectly coifed, and she was well-dressed, Rhea correctly guessed, in black The Row slacks with a white Nili Lotan blouse.
Rhea explained her heroic mission in the neighborhood, and the woman said, “Oh, yeah, of course, come on in, lemme grab some stuff.”
Rhea entered the house, and the woman told her to have a seat on the couch. The woman disappeared, and Rhea sat near a six-year-old boy playing with clay on the floor.
“Hello, what’s your name?” the boy asked.
“I’m Rhea. What’s your name?”
“Henry…I’m making a volcano.”
“I can see that. It’s very cool.”
The woman reentered, and Rhea learned her name was Theresa. She worked from home as a web designer, and Henry was her only child.
“Want some strawberry-cashew milk?” Theresa asked.
“Oh, no, thank you,” Rhea said.
“You sure? It’s organic and raw.”
Rhea did not know if that meant she should say yes but decided to do so and not be rude.
Theresa pulled a glass pitcher of pink, milky liquid out of the refrigerator and poured glasses for herself, Rhea, and Henry.
Rhea sipped the creamy beverage while Theresa bagged up canned goods and old toiletries.
“Can I take your glass?” Rhea looked up and saw Henry standing in front of her.
He carried their glasses to the sink, climbed up a stool, and began washing them. Theresa noticed Rhea staring at Henry.
“How did you get him to do that?” Rhea asked.
“Oh, he’s been washing dishes since he was two.
I used to put a bucket on the ground with soapy water, and we made a game out of it.
When Henry grows up, I want him to think of cooking and cleaning as part of life, like showering or getting dressed; it makes entering adulthood way less challenging.
Kids are capable of a lot more than people think. Do you have kids?”
“No…” Rhea considered ending it there, but Theresa was so warm and forthcoming, she decided to follow her lead. “I want them, but I…haven’t been able to find the right person yet.”
“Oh, you don’t need the right person. You can do it on your own. I did. Henry doesn’t have a father.”
Rhea looked over to see if Henry had heard this over the sound of the faucet; if he had, he did not seem offended.
“Like, he never had a father?” Rhea asked.
“Nope, I went to a sperm bank. Got tired of waiting for the right person. And honestly, if I’d known how easy it was gonna be, I would’ve done it years ago.”
“Wow…that’s…so inspiring.”
Theresa handed her a brown paper bag of goods, and Rhea headed toward the door.
“If you ever wanna talk about it more, lemme know—if you want advice or anything. I know how hard it is to be, ya know, in your shoes.”
They exchanged empathetic looks and phone numbers.
Rhea walked to her car, and as she drove away, her ego fed her images of Rhea Darby rock-climbing with a sperm-bank infant on her back.
She had, of course, heard of women inseminating themselves, but she had never sat in their immaculate living room and seen how well it had worked out.
—
At the coalition meeting, she was unfortunately not awarded a trophy for Best Gatherer of Supplies, but she did get to meet more nice people in her community, and—maybe for the first time in her life—she felt like a genuinely good person, which was surprisingly even better than receiving a trophy.
The leaders of the coalition were talking about the staggering number of humans experiencing homelessness in L.A.
County, and Rhea tried to focus, but her thoughts kept returning to Theresa.
Growing up with an overworked, stressed single mom, Rhea had never considered raising a kid on her own, but Rhea was not Sarah Darby…
but was she Theresa? Theresa seemed like Superwoman.
She made it all look so easy, but Rhea was not the Superwoman type.
She felt like there were two kinds of people in the world: those who made their own organic raw strawberry-cashew milk and those who did not know what that was.
“…the numbers are so high, the mayor has declared a state of emergency. Meanwhile, the Supreme Court cleared the way for cities to enforce bans on people sleeping in public places…,” a coalition leader said.
Rhea wondered if she was energetic and organized enough to raise a child on her own…but maybe life would be manageable if she trained it to do her dishes and clean her house.
“…Tens of thousands of people die every year due to the dangerous conditions on the streets…. The cost of living is rising; wages are not keeping up, and our fellow humans who are left on the streets are far more susceptible to chronic health issues, mental health issues, and disease….”
These homelessness statistics were not helping. The more she heard about the hardships of being human, the more Danny’s speech rang through her head. Could she actually bring an innocent child here all by herself?
Meeting Theresa just put the power of conception into Rhea’s hands; it revoked her victim status entirely.
You don’t need the right person. You can do it on your own.
But did she need a child badly enough to raise it on her own?
Would she only accept a child that came with a husband and an enviable holiday photo of her happy family wearing matching reindeer pajamas?
—
Rhea sat outside in a yard lit up by string lights that she’d hung herself.
Dinner was homemade lentil Bolognese, courtesy of her new cookbook, and a glass of cabernet.
Her depression had lifted, and alcohol was no longer off-limits.
Her phone buzzed, and her first thought was of Danny.
She wondered how many years would have to go by for her not to think of Danny when the outside world tried to contact her.
It was the Ada-Tiny-Rhea-Zoe chain.
Ada: Guys! Tiny and I were just talking about getting a house in Big Bear for a week over Xmas
Ada: Ree Kee! We really want you to come. But don’t want you to feel obligated. We’re gonna bring nannies and make sure we get at least one adults only dinner. Please only come if this sounds fun!
Tiny: Let’s get fuckin’ hammered! Pump and dump!!!!
Zoe: I’m in! But can we leave the nannies and kids at home? Lol I guess that makes me a Scrooge
Rhea thought about staying in a cozy house in Big Bear with her best friends over the holiday.
They would buy a tree in town and decorate it with the kiddos.
They would make gingerbread cookies and hot cocoa.
They would wrap the presents while the kids were asleep and get to watch their astonished faces in the morning.
She usually reserved Christmas for wallowing in grief about her mom, but maybe she could use a refreshing change in her routine.
Rhea: I’m in! But can I reserve the right to lock myself in my room if I need an emotional break from all the kids and family stuff?
Ada: Definitely!
Tiny: Yesssss-sssss-ss absolutely!
Zoe: Can I lock myself in with you? Lol
Zoe: Two kids are a lot harder than one y’all!
Tiny: Good to know. I’m gonna cut Jason’s balls off
Rhea: There’s gotta be an easier way
Tiny: Too late!
Rhea laughed out loud.
“Hi, Rhea,” her rock-climbing neighbor called over the fence.
Rhea could see her looking up from tending a succulent garden and waving through the fence slats with a gloved hand.
“Hi!” Rhea waved back.
She was greatly comforted by this new feeling of knowing her neighbors.
Just because she was single did not mean she had to feel isolated.
Maybe she wouldn’t need to move into a retirement home after all.
Maybe, in her later years, her neighbors would look out for her and Heimlich all of her lodged chocolate-covered almonds.
She had assumed community came preassembled, but it turned out to be something she had to build herself.
Unfortunately, she could not remember the woman’s name.
She thought of Danny, who was brave enough to get “Greta” out of Wild Eyes. Rhea cleared her throat.
“Hey, can you tell me your name one more time?” Rhea called over the fence.
“Andrea!”
“Andrea! Got it. Locking it in.”
Andrea laughed, and Rhea felt silly. Did she really think someone would be offended if she asked them to repeat their name?
Rhea went back inside and did the dishes.
She was feeling hopeful about Christmas, but also guilty, like she was betraying her mother.
She felt obligated to spend that day and the days leading up to it mourning the relationship.
Every Christmas since she was twenty, she’d continued her ritual of writing her mother a letter and burning it in her kitchen sink.
She wondered if her mother would be waiting for the letter and disappointed when it did not arrive.
Rhea was still nursing such a powerful desire to speak to her mother, she decided heaven did not have calendars or holidays, and writing the letter a month early would not offend Sarah Darby. Rhea got a notebook and a pen and sat down at her table to write:
Dear Mom,
Why did you want to have a child? Or did you even want to? I know I wasn’t planned, but you had other options. Why didn’t you take them?
I’ve been thinking a lot about my reasons for wanting a child…. I would have someone to love. They would be there for me when I get older. I would feel a small sense of immortality. I would get to celebrate holidays with them and share baby pictures on the text chain.
Are my reasons for wanting a child entirely selfish? Or is there a deeper reason? Are there feelings a parent has for a child that are pure and sacred? Feelings that cannot be experienced elsewhere?
A few months before you died, you told me a story.
When I was little, you stayed up all night with me.
I had a very high fever, but you were scared to take me to the hospital because we were so broke, so you just held me all night.
You told me it was the first time you ever felt like you could touch God.
You said your love for me was deeper than anything you had ever experienced, and you found yourself praying for the first time in your life and asking God to spare me.
You said, “My heart became a shooting star. It blasted up to heaven and begged God to bring your fever down…and it worked.”
I will remember those words forever.
If I never have a child, will I never feel that kind of love?
And is that a selfish question?
But maybe I have felt that transcendent love you described.
Because I was the other person in that story.
I was the little girl being held all night with such a high fever, held by someone who sometimes made me feel like the most important person in the whole world.
Maybe it goes both ways, and one does not need to have children to know that feeling.
Maybe I have felt that same love for you, my funny, complicated, beautiful mother.
And because of you, I got to be born. I got to be alive.
There are times when being alive feels so unbearably hard, times when I wish I had not been born.
But there are other moments, breathtakingly marvelous moments full of laughter and magic.
I never would have gotten to experience any of them if you had not given birth to me.
So, how could the desire to bring someone into this occasionally wonderful world be entirely selfish?
I used to be so certain about everything. I used to know exactly what I wanted, but now I am lost. Please tell me what to do, Mom. Send me a hummingbird.