Chapter 1
Clementine presses the “Family Car” button at the train station.
I hope it arrives quickly. My stomach is off and I want to get home.
I use the hand not holding our groceries to wipe at the back of my neck.
It comes away slick with sweat. The air is blow-dryer hot, but at least there’s shelter from the oaks that line the train’s outdoor platform. A tiny relief.
“Wow, it’s been a while since that happened!” I give her a big smile. Match her enthusiasm. The way we are told to do with our children.
I take a moment to appreciate how such a small thing can feel so big to a child and am grateful for Clementine’s easy happiness. The train doors slide open and we step inside the car. The chilly air is scented with a fresh citrus combination—lemon, orange, grapefruit—and I breathe it in, refreshed.
“Welcome to train one, Mathilde Crewson and Clementine Crewson. We hope you enjoy your ride!” The automated voice is pleasant, soothing as it welcomes us aboard, even as it pronounces my name all wrong—Mat-hildEE instead of MAH-tealed.
I’m used to it, which is why I’ve gone by “Tilly” since I was ten years old.
My mom was the only person who made my name sound beautiful, so I was Mathilde at home and Tilly everywhere else.
However, my birth certificate and health records—which the train’s automated system draws from—don’t acknowledge nicknames, so Mat-hildEE it is.
There are a few other parents on the train with us, their children sitting beside them and swinging their legs back and forth, back and forth.
Rubber-heeled shoes tap against steel panels under the seats to release the little-kid energy.
The rhythm of it is almost meditative, and my shoulders relax.
“Mom, it’s Sunny Sam! I haven’t seen this one.
” The screen across from our seats shows an animated sunshine—Sunny Sam—waltzing down a cobblestone path.
The sun then picks up an upside-down fluffy gray cloud with a sad face and pops it back into the sky.
Clementine tells me the cloud (Clara is her name) keeps flowers and trees healthy with her raindrops and protects us from too much sun.
Another mother catches my eye as Clementine chatters away, and we exchange a smile.
I think about what the Adult Car—reserved for those sixteen and older—behind us is playing.
News, likely, discussing population numbers, new flood-warning systems, or cost-of-living concerns.
Topics better suited for those no longer thrilled by traveling on Train 1.
My watch sets off another set of vibrations, but I’m trying to stay present and so don’t look at it. I’m listening to Clementine deliver facts about Sam and Clara when a sudden bloom of wetness fills my underwear, ripping my focus away.
—
Back at home, I stare at the blood on the toilet paper.
Now I understand why my watch was so incessantly trying to alert me.
The damn wearable, which is insurance-industry endorsed and worn by everyone over the age of five, knows my cycle better than I do, constantly tracking my basal temperature, my heart rate, my hormone levels, my moods.
Sending my biometric information to the cloud, the data ripe for analysis as needed, by either medical professionals or insurance adjusters.
Shaking with the disappointment, I breathe in time to my watch’s vibrations. Then I wipe again, and again, until only miniature dots of blood show themselves on the tissue.
Poppy, if born on her due date, would be six today. One year younger than Clementine.
It’s particularly cruel that Poppy and I were to share a birthday, with the way everything turned out.
Flushing the toilet, I avoid looking into the bowl at the pink-hued water and open the cabinet under the sink. Straining, I dig through its depths until my fingers find what I’m looking for. The one “just in case” tampon I stashed under here.
In the oval mirror above the sink, my dark hair curls softly to my shoulders, my mother’s own face reflecting back at me. It’s both a comfort and a curse to be her doppelg?nger.
I think about the half-full box of tampons (minus the one under the sink) that I threw out on trash day a week ago, in a particularly hopeful moment.
Maybe if I get them out of the house, the universe will see how serious I am this month?
Wyatt handles the garbage and recycling, so I discarded the box at the lab to avoid a “waste not, want not” conversation.
“If we can’t use something, someone else can,” he’s often reminding Clementine.
As a reuse architect, he practices what he preaches both at work and at home.
But I didn’t want that box in the house, despite knowing I would soon need it.
Why would this month be any different from the last twelve, or the twelve before that?
There’s a knock at the door and I jump.
“Dinner’s ready, Tilly,” Wyatt says. His voice is low, deep, full of the southern drawl that still melts my insides.
I raced up to our bathroom as soon as Clementine and I got home, Wyatt’s train still some minutes behind ours.
There hasn’t been an opportunity for an in-person greeting yet with my husband, which is good.
Even though he never makes me feel broken, somehow always says the right thing, and has the best damn shoulder for crying on, I need a few more minutes to myself.
“Almost done,” I reply. Wyatt knows tomorrow is test day—it’s in his calendar too.
But after all these years, he never asks me outright about any of it.
He relies on the information delivered to our joint calendar, telling us when to have intercourse, scheduled like any other appointment.
I don’t want him to see the tampon on the countertop. To understand what it means—not yet.
“Clem’s barely holding it together,” he adds, chuckling on the other side of the door. “She’s already put the candles on the cake.”
Happy birthday, Tilly. Today I turn thirty-nine. Everything is supposed to be different than it is. Poppy and I were supposed to be celebrating together. “Out in a jiffy,” I say through the still-closed door, and Wyatt retreats.
I know Clementine will be helping Shelby set the table for my birthday dinner.
Maybe pruning sprigs of herbs from our indoor vertical garden for the broiling chicken.
Stanley, my mother-in-law Shelby’s rescue dog, is likely whining, overexcited about the chicken. Clementine usually sneaks him a bite.
Setting the unopened tampon to the side, I press my palms into the countertop and turn on the tap—which runs for only five seconds to conserve water—and wait for the predictable tears to come. But they don’t, which makes me even sadder.