Page 6 of The Other Mother
The women start gathering their things. Business cards are exchanged, phone numbers shared. The blonde woman, Audrey, approaches me as I'm putting on my jacket.
"Hey, if you ever want to grab coffee or let the babieshave a playdate, here's my number." She hands me a card that smells like expensive perfume.
"Thanks. That would be nice."
As Audrey walks away, another woman approaches. She's maybe forty, with kind eyes and laugh lines that suggest she smiled a lot before motherhood wore her down.
"First time?" she asks.
I nod.
"I'm Vanessa.”
“Is she ok?” I ask, looking at the pale woman still sitting in her chair like she has nowhere else to go.
“Don’t mind her. That’s Mara Vasquez,” Vanessa says. “She just started coming back a few weeks ago."
I give her an understanding nod.
Vanessa lowers her voice. "She lost a baby. She doesn't talk about it." She hefts her diaper bag higher on her shoulder. "She gives me the creeps sometimes, but I think she means well."
I look back at Mara. She's still staring at me.
"Anyway," Vanessa says quickly, "see you next week?"
But as she walks away, I wonder if her baby really does look like her, or if she's just better at pretending than I am.
I'm the last one to leave except for Mara, who seems to have no intention of moving. Jessica is stacking chairs and humming something that might be a lullaby.
"Claire? How did today feel for you?"
I consider telling her the truth. That listening toother women talk about their children made me feel more disconnected from Eva, not less. That their stories of eventual bonding sound like fairy tales I'll never be part of.
"It was helpful," I say instead.
"I'm glad. See you next week?"
I nod and walk out into the desert heat, leaving Mara behind in her chair like a ghost haunting the beige room.
The sun is already brutal at eleven AM, turning the asphalt into a shimmering lake of false promises. I'm fumbling for my keys when I hear footsteps behind me.
I turn around. Mara is standing maybe three feet away, too close for comfort. Up close I can see that her eyes are bloodshot, like she's been crying or hasn't slept in weeks.
"That baby," she says, her voice low and urgent. "That's not your baby."
My keys slip from my hand and clatter to the ground. "Excuse me?"
She doesn't step back. If anything, she moves closer. "You feel it, don't you? That something's wrong. That she's not yours."
I stare at her, my mouth opening and closing like a fish. How could she possibly know? How could this stranger see what I've been trying so hard to hide?
Before I can find words, Mara turns and walks away without another sound. She moves quickly, purposefully, like she's delivered the message she came to deliver.
I stand there in the parking lot holding my keys,watching her get into a beat-up Honda Civic that's seen better days. She doesn't look back as she drives away.
My hands are shaking as I buckle Eva into her car seat. She's still sleeping, her face peaceful and perfect and completely unaware that her mother is falling apart in the Desert Springs Wellness Center parking lot.
I study her features in the rearview mirror as we drive home. The dark hair that's getting thicker instead of falling out like the pediatrician said it would. The eyes that seem too knowing for a six-week-old. The way she sleeps so deeply, so still, like she's conserving energy for something.
