Chapter 27
The treatment continues to be slow, the way this type of conservation can be. I’m fighting restless impatience, removing a narrow line of soot, when my watch buzzes.
I groan—I have too much to do, but I can’t blow the meeting off.
Besides, a break will be good for me and the plum; I’ve been at it for some hours now.
Though the nausea has finally disappeared now that I’ve reached the second trimester, I still fatigue easily.
It’s frustrating, when the fog of exhaustion settles over me, but I’m trying to listen to my body more.
To “honor the work it’s doing,” as this week’s MotherWise e-zine suggested.
As I lock the front door, nervous butterflies fill my stomach.
Like I’m going on a first date, or heading into a job interview for a much-wanted position.
Kat told me her MotherHelper group was her lifeline with her last pregnancy, and the women still get together once a week.
Because this is her fifth pregnancy, she isn’t required to attend every meeting.
Today she’s volunteering at a school event, so I’m on my own.
I trend introverted, and making new friends hasn’t always been easy for me.
Unfamiliar groups like this one can be downright anxiety inducing.
I sit on my front steps and do some breath work, reminding myself, the way Maeve would if she were here, that stretching boundaries is good for me. My watch pings a gold star notification, followed by a second reminder about the meetup. I sigh, longing to stay home with the Leclerc instead.
At MotherWise, collaboration is our doctrine!
Both mom and baby thrive when surrounded by a community of caring, like-minded people, from health professionals to educators to peers.
Your MotherHelper group is comprised of other pregnant women who live and work in your neighborhood.
We encourage you to attend the weekly sessions to get to know these women better and to create a wider support network during your pregnancy and beyond. It’s MotherWise’s great hope that—
“Hi there, are you Tilly?”
My eyes shift from the handout I’m reading to the woman standing in front of me.
She looks to be in her early thirties, with a short bob to her chin and a small gold stud in her nose.
Wearing a pair of sage-colored natural-fiber overalls, a fitted white T-shirt underneath, she looks comfortable while still being stylish.
I glance down at my simple navy T-shirt dress, see a dollop of dried yogurt from breakfast.
I stand to shake her hand, and she envelops me in a hug. She smells like vanilla and peeled mandarin oranges. My arms hang at my sides because she’s taken me by surprise, and I don’t have time to embrace her back before she lets go.
“I’m Margie,” she says. “Margie Tupholme. I live over on York.” About a block from me, which I tell her.
“Oh, I know.” Margie smiles. “I’m the lead for this group, so I have everyone’s address and other personal details. Welcome, Tilly!” I wonder what other “personal details” she has on me. I see her necklace now, which came out from under her shirt when we hugged. Two gold rings.
Her eyes go to my necklace, easily visible due to my dress’s scoop neck. One gold ring.
“So, your second baby, huh?”
I nod, smile politely. Margie lets out a contented sigh.
“Ah, the second one. It’s dreamy to bring a sibling into the world for your first, but wow, the workload more than doubles.”
“Hmm-hmm. I’ve heard that.” From everyone.
Including Kat, just yesterday when she came to my place for my MotherWise-approved, at-home breath work class.
I miss going with Maeve and moving about as I wish, but I’m hoping to be off home rest soon enough.
I hate hearing about the double-workload thing.
For one, it’s boring and predictable information that isn’t helpful.
But also? I should already know this. The plum should be—is—my third pregnancy.
“This is your third?” I ask Margie, my tone pleasant and conversational.
“Sure is! I still can’t believe I’m going to be a mom to three under three soon.”
I hope my smile looks genuine. “So, Margie. What exactly happens at these meetups?”
We’re in a room in the local community center near Oglethorpe Square, which also houses a library, a day care facility, a swimming pool, and a small grocery store on the bottom level.
Each neighborhood has a center like this one, meant to serve the local residents.
It’s walkable and well used “from cradle to grave,” as they say.
As this room is a multipurpose one, there’s nothing descriptive on the walls except one large screen, used to display media for whatever event is taking place.
Soft, natural light streams in from the ample windows on one side, and the chairs are cushioned and comfortable.
There are snacks out, and I notice the NourishBox-branded packaging tucked off to the side.
Margie starts setting up the drinks station. There’s a large jug labeled Peppermint Tea, with Local Honey ready to be poured, which I offer to do. We have five minutes until the meeting begins.
“Each week is a bit different. But mostly we chat, ask questions, seek support on anything we’re struggling with. Every few weeks we have an expert in, too, which is great,” Margie replies. I nod, continue pouring the cold, fragrant tea into cups.
“It’s meant to be social and fun, but there is an educational element too,” Margie continues. “At least part of each meeting is focused specifically on the week of pregnancy we’re in, and milestones.”
“We’re all in the same week?” I’m surprised. “How many of us are there?”
“Well, within two weeks, yes. And there’s five of us regulars, plus a few semi-regular drop-ins. I think you’re friends with one of them. Katrina Rojas, right?” Margie asks, and I nod. “Love her. She’s always got great advice.”
I smile, thinking of my friend. “That’s Kat for sure.”
“So out of the five here weekly, three are moms-to-be, like you and me, and one is a surrogate who attends with the intended mother.” She lays out a handful of ginger and lemon lollipops meant to aid morning sickness. I have another moment of gratitude that mine has passed.
“It’s a nice-size group,” Margie says. “Small enough to get to know each other well, big enough to see how common the joys and issues are.”
“Sounds great.”
“It is great. This is the most important time in a woman’s life, don’t you think?”
I think of the Leclerc, waiting at home for me, and don’t respond.
“So you work at GIA?” Margie asks, as though reading my mind. “I have a cousin there, in the Atlanta division. Not sure if you know her? Jamie Giller?”
I shake my head. “I don’t. It’s a pretty big place, when you add in all the satellite labs. What about you?”
“I’m home with the kids.” Margie smiles. “Best job there is.”
I nod, then blush, as though continuing to work outside the home is an embarrassment. Staying home—if possible—is the societal preference.
“Oh, there’s Evelyn! She lives down the street from you.
This is her second baby, too.” Margie waves to a woman walking into the room.
She’s tall, which helps mask her belly. You can’t even tell she’s pregnant in her white linen shorts and black tank top, wedge espadrilles on her feet.
I recognize her from the neighborhood, though we’ve never officially met.
“Come meet Tilly, Eve,” Margie says. “She’s joining us this week.”
Once the group begins, I realize these women already know one another well, and I’m ever more the new kid who doesn’t know where she fits in. I’m wishing I signed up for MotherWise earlier (I can almost hear Wyatt and Kat’s “told you so” in unison).
Turns out all four of the women—including the surrogate, who has three kids of her own—are stay-at-home moms, or planning to be.
I’m somewhat surprised the intended mother is at home, with no children in her care yet.
This baby will be her first, her necklace only a bare gold chain, and she tells me she left her job as a solicitor to focus on impending motherhood.
I long to ask her what her days look like, at home without work or kids, but can’t see how to do it without coming across as judgmental.
I don’t tell anyone about Poppy, and the group assumes this is my second pregnancy.
As we go around the room, sharing personal details, my mind wanders from the women to the painting in my studio. The Mother is as impatient to be uncovered as I am to do the work—I can sense it, the distraction of an open file, the need for resolution.
My tattoo begins to ache, and I touch it with gentle fingers. This time I feel nothing under my fingertips, which is a relief.
“Mine stung for about three days,” Evelyn, seated to my right, whispers. Her eyes stay on Margie, who is at the front of the room talking about how at this stage of development the fetus can suck his or her thumb. “Ice helped.”
“Good to know,” I murmur back. “Thanks.”
—
I try the ice later, which numbs the spot but doesn’t dispel the yawning, persistent ache that stretches down into my palm, pinpoint hot in my thumb. The median palmar nerve.
It’s one of the main nerves in your arm, Ruth-Anne said. Runs from the forearm to the hand and provides sensation to the palm and up the thumb.
Before I know it, I’m heading up the stairs to my studio. Unlocking the door, my mind dreamlike (it’s fatigue, Tilly—you should take a rest). Pulling off the cover, I carefully set a finger against the spot where the tendril was. The slightest depression left behind, waiting to be restored.
I can’t afford to rush this. I take a deep breath and close my eyes briefly, using the quiet moment to think through adhesive options. Distracting my mind so I don’t think about why I need to secure the surrounding paint, to prevent further damage.
Deciding on a cellulose-based adhesive—gentle, organic, reversible, and the type you might use for something fragile (alive, I think, the word landing like it was planted in my mind)—I mentally work through the next few steps.
First, the adhesive. From the shelf near my desk I pull down the one I want, mixing it with distilled water.
Next, the application tools. I choose a fine-bristled brush, narrow enough to apply the adhesive to the minuscule indent left behind.
My hands tremble slightly. The ache near my tattoo increases. “Focus, Tilly.”
Now apply the adhesive. I gently brush the aqueous substance onto the edges of the depression. My Luminara glasses are switched on and I perch over the canvas. Slowly, methodically, I stabilize the layer of paint. Then I lean back, checking over my work with a critical eye. It’s seamless.
Only later will I realize that as soon as the depression was restored, the ache in my arm disappeared.