Chapter 8
During my short walk from the train station home, I mentally compartmentalize my day to create space for my family once I walk through the door.
I wonder how Clementine fared at school with her history presentation, if Wyatt was able to secure permits for his latest project, how Shelby’s maintenance neurotherapy session went today.
Turning onto Oglethorpe Avenue I see the iron gates of the Colonial Park Cemetery up ahead. I’m almost home.
Our town house is half of what used to be one of Savannah’s grand estate homes.
Most homes have been refurbished to manage the climate migration pressures, which have forced us closer together.
While the interiors are extensively renovated to suit families’ needs, the homes’ exteriors remain traditional.
The wrought iron railings frame staircases and second-floor Juliet balconies; wooden shutters and vine-covered bricks provide ambience; ivy climbs on gates and lampposts; and most every front door is painted red, a nod to the Civil War days when red-door homes signified a safe haven.
I’m ducking under the draping Spanish moss of our oak, starting up our front steps, when I see it. Innocently sitting outside my red front door.
The air leaves my lungs in one great whoosh right as our neighbor’s door opens. She pops her head out, noticing me. “Oh, hi, Tilly! I had a delivery notification and…Oh, there it is.”
Becca Woodward steps toward me. She’s wearing a beige linen jumpsuit, which looks chic on her. Her long dark hair is swept into a smooth ponytail, seemingly untouched by Savannah’s near-constant humidity. I think of my unruly curls, gathered in a messy bun.
“They must have confused our doors.” Becca smiles, having no idea what’s happening inside my body. No clue about the searing pain in my gut brought on by seeing that box outside my door.
“Congratulations, Becca.” I plaster a smile on my face even though I want to cry. “Are the boys excited?”
“They sure are! But we all hope it’s a girl this time. Lucky number five, maybe?” She crosses her fingers, then picks up the box from outside my door. My uterus contracts with a cramp.
The box now in Becca’s hands is the size of three shoeboxes, the cheery yellow logo bright against the white background.
Nourishbox, the logo reads, with the slogan “Nurtured by Nature.” I know one of these boxes will show up weekly until Becca is six months postpartum.
I’ll have to find a way not to feel like I’ve been stabbed in my stomach each time it does.
The program’s name is written on the tape sealing the seams in a continuous loop, taunting me.
MotherWiseMotherWiseMotherWiseMotherWiseMotherWiseMotherWise…
Becca shifts the box to get a better grip, and something shiny slips out from her T-shirt’s neckline. I glance at it, and she notices.
“Almost time for another ring,” she says, her tone bright. Another sharp cramp in my abdomen. I can only wave in response to her “see you later, Tilly” as she takes her NourishBox inside, leaving me alone on our shared front stoop.
Of course Becca is cheerful. She’s doing what every woman is supposed to do—boost the population, one baby at a time—while being nicely compensated for her efforts.
I know her fifth necklace ring, each representing a living child, won’t arrive for a few months yet—midway through her third trimester.
The gold rings are worn by mothers, silver “legacy” rings by grandmothers.
It’s a foundational element of the MotherWise program, the rings both practical and symbolic: the jewelry is tied to program incentives but is also a societal signal of success.
Each gold ring comes with a minuscule tracking device, scanned when you walk into a store, and provides family discounts on everything from groceries to baby clothes.
The more rings, the higher the savings. Though the pilot program was still months away when I became pregnant with Clementine, MotherWise allowed new mothers who were a year or less postpartum to sign up retroactively.
Which I did, eager for the savings and the quite pretty jewelry that was becoming commonplace on new mothers.
Poppy’s ring was delivered two weeks after she died.
I never corrected the painful error, never told Wyatt—or anyone else—about it.
I waited with bated breath for someone to show up at our door, owning the mistake.
I’m very sorry, Mrs. Crewson, but MotherWise needs to reclaim the ring, as there is no longer a pregnancy.
But no one arrived, and the ring became proof Poppy had been real—MotherWise would never have sent it otherwise!
I was desperate in those earliest stages of grief for something to acknowledge her.
At first I only wore it around the house, when I was alone.
The two rings dainty, pretty, and golden against my neck.
As the months, then years, passed, I wore it more often.
Though rarely in public. No one ever came back for that ring, and it seemed an administrative error that got lost in the shuffle of the program’s multiphase rollout.
Now I have a fierce, familiar urge to race to my bedroom, to the dresser drawer where I’ve hidden the second gold ring in a jewelry box tucked inside a pair of balled-up wool socks I’ll never need in Savannah.
“Patience, my darling.”
My mother’s voice, as clear as if she’s right behind me. My fingers fly to my neck, to Clementine’s ring, nestled in the hollow of my throat. Safe, legitimate, a grounding talisman.
“Mom?” I whisper, before whipping around. But I’m alone. The moss sways with a sudden gust of too-warm breeze, and I shiver despite the oppressive heat.
I still, my heart racing.
My watch buzzes an alert.
The moss stills too, the breeze gone as quickly as it came.
Shaking hand on the doorknob now, stepping inside the house before quickly shutting the door behind me. Locking it, for good measure.
My mother’s voice continues echoing in my ears, like sound waves bouncing off a rocky cliff face. The echo persists, even after I’ve greeted my family, while I prepare dinner, as I’m reading with Clementine before bed.
“Patience, my darling…patience, my darling…patience, my darling…”