Chapter 45
I get a “good behavior” pass, thanks to a run of excellent biometric readings.
“Don’t call it that,” Wyatt says, when I tell him Dr. Rice signed off on me having dinner with the girls, to celebrate Maeve’s birthday. I’m leaving in an hour. “It makes it sound like you’re in prison or something.”
He’s on edge. Someone was injured at work, and there’s talk of a lawsuit against both the construction company and Wyatt’s firm.
“Fine. I get to leave the house for dinner, at a restaurant, which is something I’m dying to do because I’m not allowed to go anywhere anymore, and I’m excited.” I sound like a petulant teenager, but I can’t help it. I’m on edge too, except I’m keeping the reasons why to myself.
Wyatt raises an eyebrow but doesn’t bite. Nor does he remind me I’m in this position because I carved into my own arm on Christmas morning. But that was weeks ago, my arm has healed, and we’ve all in theory moved on. “Where y’all going for dinner?”
“The Olde Pink House.”
“Nice. What are you going to get?” Wyatt asks. Shelby and her late husband were married at the restaurant, and Wyatt takes his mom to the Olde Pink House each year on her wedding anniversary.
“Do you even have to ask?” I mean to sound playful, as my order never changes, but it comes out tinged with irritation.
“Let me guess. This is a tricky one,” Wyatt replies, tapping his fingers against the countertop, his face screwed up in deep concentration. I laugh, grateful to him for lightening the mood. My shoulders relax.
“Fried green tomatoes…” I nod. “She-crab soup…” Another nod, the crab, cream, and sherry bisque my favorite thing on the menu. My stomach rumbles. “Macaroni and cheese?”
“Nailed it,” I reply. “You know me well.”
“Sure do.” Wyatt leans across the counter to kiss me on the lips. Then he notices my left hand. “What happened there?”
The bandage on my thumb covers what’s left of that fingernail.
This one was clipped the farthest down, and the slice in my nail bed keeps opening up and bleeding.
I’ve trimmed the nails on my right hand to better match the left, and they’re much shorter than I’m used to.
My fingertips are supersensitive, the delicate skin no longer protected.
“Oh, a minor conservator accident,” I say. “Nicked it with the scalpel when I was trying to sample paint.”
“Ouchie,” Wyatt replies. He shakes out his hand as though feeling pain in his own thumb.
“It’s fine. The bandage is keeping it clean.” I casually slide my hand from the countertop, out of view.
“Who knew art conservation was such a high-risk line of work?” There’s a teasing smile on his face. “You should ask Raoul for a raise. Danger pay.”
I laugh, but it’s hollow. Wyatt doesn’t notice.
—
The colonial mansion on Abercorn Street is one of Savannah’s remaining historic buildings, dating back to 1771.
As most eighteenth-century mansions have been converted to residences, the Olde Pink House is a unique reminder of the before times.
Named as such because of its exterior, made of plaster turned pastel pink due to humidity-induced bleeding of the red clay bricks underneath, the restaurant has a menu that has remained essentially unchanged over the years.
It’s been a lovely evening so far. I’ve missed spending time with my friends and am grateful for conversation unrelated to my pregnancy or MotherWise.
Happy that Maeve is the center of attention tonight.
I’m coming back to our table after using the restroom, excited about dessert.
Pecan pie. It has a cinnamon-pecan crust and dark chocolate and is served warm with vanilla ice cream.
The dark chocolate will give me a boost of caffeine, and I feel moderately rebellious for ordering it.
Especially because pecans do contain zinc, but apparently (according to my EduNet search) not enough to trigger my sensitivity.
I see the pie’s already arrived, then notice Maeve and Kat huddled close, side by side.
It seems a serious conversation, based on body language and facial expressions—not a smile to be seen.
I stop walking. Should I give them a few more moments?
Maybe they’re having a heart-to-heart, Kat confessing to Maeve that she was upset by her reaction to her pregnancy news.
If so, I’m glad—it’s awkward having unsaid things and hurt feelings between friends.
But then Kat glances up, notices me watching them. She abruptly stops talking. Maeve looks my way too, and smiles, but something’s off. Kat fiddles with her silverware, looking at neither Maeve nor me. Something flits across Maeve’s face, and I think…I know that look. I’ve seen that look.
Maeve is an excellent clinician, and an expert at maintaining neutrality when in therapist mode. However, she’s an imperfect human like the rest of us and at times can’t keep what she’s thinking from clouding her expression.
Once, a couple of years ago, when Maeve and I were out for dinner after a breath work class while Kat was at a school fundraiser, I noticed how quiet she was.
When I asked if she was okay, she said “not really” and then shared a story about a client interaction.
She remained appropriately professional, giving no details about the woman, but did tell me one specific thing about their session.
This woman had asked Maeve if she had any children. When Maeve replied, No, I don’t, the woman then asked if she wanted to be a mother. Maeve was vague in her response, explaining that they weren’t there to discuss her personal life.
That means no, the woman said. So, you don’t want to be a mother?
Not particularly, Maeve replied, trying to shift focus back to her client, who was desperate for a baby and had been trying to conceive for years.
The woman went off on Maeve. Accusing her of pretending to understand the agony of being childless, when how could she? And you would get pregnant in a flash! the client said. It’s always like that—the wrong people get the best luck. What a waste.
This upset Maeve, even as she understood the venom came from a place of sadness (and wasn’t about Maeve at all). She told me she felt guilty because part of what the woman said was true: Maeve could get pregnant.
It had happened in graduate school. Long before she started her infertility-focused practice, before she met Jenn. Obviously there was no baby in the end, Maeve added, and I didn’t ask what that meant. I never knew if it was her choice or not. But I remember the look on her face as she said it.
It was the same look she had now.
“She feels guilty, Mathilde.”
My breath hitches when I hear my mother’s voice, to my left. The fried green tomatoes, she-crab soup, and macaroni and cheese threaten to come back up, right on the floor of this lovely restaurant.
“Be quiet,” I whisper, not turning toward her voice. I don’t want to see her.
“You know they’re talking about you, honey. About what happened at Christmas. No one trusts your judgment. But they don’t understand what you’re trying to do, Mathilde! What you’re trying to uncover.”
Kat and Maeve look my way. The guilt on Maeve’s face is gone (did I imagine it?). Kat smiles and points to her dessert, doing an in-the-chair dance with her shoulders and arms. She loves the Pink House’s fresh fruit pie with custard.
“They’re talking about you, and they’re going to tell Wyatt they’re worried. You know they will. And once they do, you know that—”
“Stop it,” I say, with more volume this time. I set hands to my ears, pressing hard to block out the sound of my mother’s voice.
Kat tilts her head, a frown coming to her face. “You okay?” she mouths. Maeve pushes her chair back to stand. If they weren’t talking about me before, they will be now. I drop my hands from my ears, flushing with embarrassment.
Maeve comes toward me, urgency in her steps. Her giant glittery purple “It’s my birthday!” button, which Kat gave her as a lark and Maeve proudly pinned to her shirt, glimmers in the dim light. She reaches for my arm, makes eye contact.
“You okay?” she asks, her tone hushed.
“Be careful, Mathilde,” my mother says. “You can’t be kept from the painting. Not when you’re this close.”
“The slightest of wobbles, but I’m fine. Maybe it was the she-crab soup? The sherry mostly cooks off, but I’m a lightweight now.” I roll my eyes, smile for good measure.
Maeve nods but remains all business. No returned smile. “Maybe we should get the bill?”
“Yes, go home. Go home right now, Mathilde.”
Shut up, I reply in my mind, but to Maeve I say, “Absolutely not. I have pecan pie waiting for me. You should never keep a pregnant woman from her dessert, Maeve. Look at Kat.”
We both look Kat’s way—she’s dipping her fork tines into the pie’s custard, then licking it off. Technically not starting without us. Maeve laughs. Slings an arm around me as we walk back to the table. I can’t tell if it’s simply friendly or because she’s still concerned I’m not well.
I glance over my shoulder. With relief I see my mother isn’t there. I can’t hear her either. A waitress comes up behind us, carrying the plate with Maeve’s dessert. The flameless candle she’ll “blow out” after we sing “Happy Birthday” is glowing bright.
Maeve sees the candle and groans, knowing what’s next. “You know, the best birthday gift would be for you not to sing, Tilly.”
“It’s bad luck not to sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ ” I say.
“That’s not a thing,” Maeve replies, laughing harder.
“Well, I won’t risk it.” I launch into “Happy Birthday” with Kat, the waitress, and a few fellow diners at other tables. Maeve makes a wish and blows out the candle.
My mother, who has appeared across the table from me, watches too, clapping along with the rest of us. Her head is severely tilted, her ear almost touching her shoulder now. It’s awful to look at; I can’t avert my gaze.
Please go away, I think.
“It’s too late for that, Mathilde.”
Without warning my mother’s head suddenly tips, detaching from her neck. Her head lands on the table with a hard thud, rolls, and comes to a stop in front of my pecan pie.
—
“I thought I saw a rat. I’m so sorry for scaring everyone,” I say, justifying my piercing scream upon seeing my mother’s head roll across our dinner table.
But I can tell no one believes me. Rats are well controlled in the city, and a restaurant like the Olde Pink House does not have rodents running about.
In retrospect, I should have said I saw a ghost (closer to the truth, anyway)—there are many rumored to reside in this restaurant.
Laughed the moment off, blamed the sherry once again.
Regardless, no one believes me about the rat, and everyone is “concerned.”
As my mother predicted, Kat tells Nick what happened. Nick tells Wyatt. Needless to say, my “good behavior” pass is revoked.