The Push

I double-checked the sign on the window—it closed at six o’clock on Wednesdays, which I vaguely recollected. But the lights were on. I put my hands up to the glass to block the glare from the streetlamp and get a better look. The store had forty, maybe fifty people inside. All women. Coats were spread on a couple of old church benches and there was a table of serve-yourself wine at the side with a cupcake tower sponsored by the bakery next door. Nobody seemed to be taking tickets or names. I expected to see signs about an author appearance or a table piled with books for a signing. Everyone looked younger than I was, many in the same boots she’d been wearing—yours was a high-rent neighborhood where all the boutiques carried the same things. The two women standing next to the window had fresh new babies wrapped to their chests in swathes of striped fabric. They swayed from side to side as they chatted, in exactly the same rhythm, and I remembered that feeling, that tick of metronome that never quite leaves your hips when the weight of your baby is against you.

She was near the back, smoothing her thick, dark hair as someone put a hand on her shoulder to say hello. They hugged, her blushed cheek pressed against her tall, blond friend. She had a bright face, huge dark eyes wreathed with heavy mascara, and her mouth was locked in a smile. She seemed to remember what she’d brought for the blond woman—she reached in her purse quickly and pulled out something gray and knitted, and the friend pressed it against her chest in thanks. Another woman joined and handed them each a glass of wine.

The room began to fill and soon I couldn’t see her from outside anymore. My heart sank. I needed more. I should have been terrified to walk through that door—surely she must have seen a picture of me at some point and knew what I looked like—but I went inside and added my coat to the heap. I recognized the staff person closing the till and leaned in to speak quietly to her.

“Do you know where the host of this party is?”

“It’s not really a party. It’s a moms’ group. Just a drop-in thing. Sometimes they have speakers come or brands give them free stuff. We just lend our space and hope to get a few sales out of it.”

“So everyone here is a mom?”

“I guess they don’t have to be, but not sure why else they’d come.” She shrugged and excused herself to the back with a tray of cash. I looked around and suddenly heard the symphony of mom problems around me—sleep training, starting solids, sleepers with zippers instead of snaps, preschool waiting lists. I poured wine into a small plastic cup and meandered to the opposite side of the room, to a spot where I could still see her. I looked at my phone, hoping nobody would speak to me, and glanced up to watch her every few seconds. She seemed to be telling a story, using her free hand to make tiny, panicked flutters, like butterfly wings. The two other women nodded and laughed. One of the others leaned in and rolled her eyes as she spoke and they laughed again. She touched people a lot, I noticed. Their arms, their hands, their waists. She was affectionate, I could tell. I thought of your bare feet under the sheets, always trying to find mine at night, always trying to rub against my calves, to feel my warmth, and of the way I pulled away across the bed. Farther and farther and farther away.

“Your first time?”

Someone with a very high ponytail and bright red lipstick popped up in front of me holding a postcard that said Mom’s Night Out with a collection of small business logos.

“Yes, actually. Thanks.”

“Great! I can introduce you to some people. How’d you hear about us?”

She put her arm at the small of my back and led me toward the middle of the room, not interested in the answer.

“Sydney, she’s new,” she said loudly, and pointed to me urgently above the crowd as though I needed a tag stapled to my ear so they could keep track of me. Sydney’s eyes lifted and she squeezed through the crowd to come over and introduce herself.

“And you’re . . . ?”

“Cecilia.” It was the only name that came to me. I looked over their heads toward the back, where she had been, but I couldn’t see her—she wasn’t with the other two women anymore. I scanned the room and started to feel sick.

“Well, welcome, Cecilia! Congrats for getting yourself out of the house tonight! How old is your little one?”

“Thanks—you know what, I just wanted to stop by and get some information. I’ll try to stay next time.” I lifted my phone, as though someone had been texting me, as though I were a person who was needed. “I’ve got to run.”

“Of course. Come back again.” She took a sip of her wine and turned around to squeal hello to someone else.

My coat was still at the top of the pile but I dug through them anyway, buying time, looking over my shoulder to find her in the thick crowd. I had to go—I had been there long enough. I pulled my hood up and went outside where the snow flurries whipped around the street. I sat on a bench across from the bookstore and put my head between my knees.

She was a mother. You had found a better mother for our daughter. The kind of woman you always wanted.



65



The second time I was nervous.

I’d bought the long, brown wig at a theater supply store. You would have described it as mousy, but mousy was the look I was going for. My heart raced as I tucked my blond hair into the silk cap. I wasn’t sure I looked different enough, but I couldn’t think of what else to do. I practiced a happier smile in the mirror, and then hung my head. You fool. You absolute fool. For wearing the wig, for thinking I’d get away with it, for believing you had answered me truthfully when I asked if she had a child—any one of those. All of those.