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Paloma placed the potatoes on the chopping block and began to slice. She’d sliced thinner since getting married. She’d gotten quicker and more precise. What else about her had changed?
“My mom will send us money. She’s said so. We wouldn’t have to worry.”
Paloma pictured the slight, emotive woman and did not doubt that she would be enthusiastic about supporting them if they had a baby, but she could never accept such support. She did want a family—it was what she had realized, eventually, while she and Ken were dating. It was a beautiful image—her, Ken, and a child in Prague together. It felt, she realized, like arriving.
“I want a baby.” She continued to slice the potato. Ken crossed the kitchen and put an arm on her lower back, his enthusiasm coursing through his palm and into her with a buzzing heat. “But I want to keep my job.”
“Okay.” Ken immediately started rushing around the apartment, clearing beer bottles, washing dishes, as if, now that it had been summoned, an infant might arrive at any moment.
In fact, Paloma did get pregnant right away. She found out just days before her new position through the university began.
“Absolutely fucking wonderful!” Ken cheered, and she had to agree. Pregnancy suited Paloma, and she walked through Prague glowing with the knowledge of her own fecundity. She felt fuller, smoother, more vibrant. Everything she did—preparing meals, meeting students, selecting a new winter coat, burned with thrilling purpose. Though the city grew more marred by graffiti, she understood now that everything—the vandalism, the American entrepreneurs, all of it—fit into the picture of history. There were no mistakes. It all just was.
Paloma ignored her knowledge that Jane was sending money, though it was obvious whenever a new check arrived; Ken’s optimism was at its highest, and she would always find some new extravagance in the apartment—a new guitar one time, another, an expensive bottle of wine. If she didn’t acknowledge the gifts, she told herself, she was under no obligation to feel indebted by them.
As the weather turned colder, the air again grew thick with coal smoke, and ash fell down to the streets alongside the snow. She had never found it pleasant, but with her pregnancy, Paloma found her body reacting to the smog even more violently, and she retched when it reached her nostrils. She ran from the fakulty to the metro, hand over her nose and mouth, trying not to breathe the dirty air. Once safely underground, she released her hand and took several cool, sweet breaths. The baby kicked inside her—the first time—and she gasped a small “Ohhh!”
Just as they had when Ken slid down the median (which had metal spikes now—the joy of it had become too tempting for a critical mass), the other people on the escalator ignored her.
Then one day, soon after—it was Thanksgiving in the States, she realized on her race to the metro—her bag knocked the back of her knee, causing her to slip on the slick sidewalk, and she tumbled to the cobblestones. She looked around, expecting the same stoic ambivalence, and was surprised to find several passersby bending over her with concern. They helped her to her feet and upon noticing her belly, which had started to round, spoke in Czech so frantic that even her years of immersion left her grasping for meaning. Paloma found herself being led to a hospital and laid back on a table.
“I feel fine,” Paloma told the doctor in Czech. “Dobre.” He looked impressively like the Czech composer their neighbor was so fond of—wide forehead, furrowed brow, and a long mustache in the shape of an inverted V.
He frowned and motioned for her to put her legs in the cold stirrups at the foot of the bed. After a thorough examination, satisfied that Paloma and the baby were well, he dismissed her with a warning. “Bud’ opatrný,” he intoned in a low voice, and she understood this perfectly. “Be careful.” She rode back to Žižkov determined not to tell Ken about the incident.
She had no choice when she saw his look of alarm. “Where were you?” he asked. “I was worried.”
“I was at the hospital.” She told him the story.
“I knew the coal was bad. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.” Ken shook his head, angry with himself. “Coal haunts me across the world.”
“It wasn’t the coal. It was the wet street.”
“But you were running because of the coal,” he said. “We should get out of here. I don’t want you and the baby breathing this air. It’s not good for either of you, and now this.”
But Prague was where she’d learned to be free. Prague was where she was going to arrive. She looked out at the smog clinging to the television tower. Was this arriving? Hiding for months, waiting for sun and clean air? She thought of her students, of her obligation to them, and had to admit that as her position changed and the revolution grew more distant, her work had grown more and more demanding and her students less and less heroic. It was possible for the first time in years to imagine leaving.
“Where would we go?” she asked, and, as if he were ready to sweep her away with him at that moment, Ken’s eyes danced, and their blue grew brilliant.
Paloma was struck by jealousy. Cassidy would arrive without even trying. But Paloma’s envy dissipated quickly as she remembered her daughter would arrive here, with her, and there would be a baby. It was more wonderful than Paloma ever could have imagined.
Cassidy
I’m a mess, Cassidy messaged Noeli from the living room couch. Paloma had left for May’s purification ritual, which would involve sage, which was contraindicated for pregnancy, but not before making Cassidy a spinach smoothie and holding her palm on Cassidy’s belly for what felt like several long minutes.
Simon is calling my mom “Mom” and it’s highlighting everything else stifling about here. Even he’s stifling now. Ugh.
Noeli responded: Do you think you’ll come back?
Cassidy imagined the temperature in California. Noeli was probably in a T-shirt. Which one would it be—“Harm Reduction Now” or the Selena tee she’d stolen from her mom?
I just signed those sublet papers, Cassidy said. She wanted to be in West Virginia. She felt like she should be in West Virginia. But she also didn’t feel like she physically could be in West Virginia if she was going to have this baby. If she stayed right now, she knew she would be stuck, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to be stuck. She’d be with Simon and she’d feel squirmy every time he touched her. It would be easier to say she was leaving than to stay and explain that she didn’t want to be with him. She could either be a mom or be in Buckhannon, but she couldn’t do both.
You could always stay with me for a bit while you get on your feet.
Really? Cassidy asked. She hadn’t been angling for a pity invite and now she felt awkward. It was so appealing though, the idea of Noeli taking her in like a little pet and guiding her back into being a fully functional adult in the real world of California. Would your mom be okay with it? And your grandma? she asked.
Abuela loves literally everyone except my asshole dad, and my mom would seriously be over the moon to have a baby in the house. She’s been telling me she wants grandkids since I turned eighteen.
Cassidy laughed. Really though? she typed. Like really, the reality of it? I live in your house, and in a few months there’s a baby there? She typed furiously. Because “on my feet” might take a while. I’m going to have a BABY, remember? Just making sure you’re actually thinking this through and not just being nice.
Yes. The formality of Noeli’s reply felt strange and serious. She hadn’t said yep or yup or yeah. Yes, and with the period after it, even, was a different animal. We’ll figure it out. You can always do Instacart if you don’t want to drive rideshare again.
Oh right. She wouldn’t have an income if she didn’t want to do sex work while pregnant. She groaned, considering it, but she knew it would be better than lolling around here, dependent on Simon’s crushing generosity. Wow. Okay. Thank you. You’re incredible. I have to figure some shit out here. I’
ll talk to you soon, she sent.
The four-hundred-something in her bank account went to a new plane ticket. The soonest flight she could get was a week away, which meant she had a week to help her mom pack up her dad’s things. She had a week to tell Paloma and Simon she was leaving. She had a week to get okay again about leaving.
Paloma returned early the next morning and Cassidy met her at the door, more nervous to tell her she was leaving than she had been to tell her she was pregnant.
“Good morning!” Paloma said. “Let’s have some tea. Oh, I’d better see which herbs are safe for early pregnancy. How about another smoothie?” The cold hovered around Paloma, clinging to her jean jacket and the Nordic wool socks she wore under her Birkenstocks.
“Mom, I can’t stay. I’m so sorry.” This was the closest she’d felt to her mom in years, since she was a little girl, and she was ruining it.
Paloma’s face fell. “What do you mean?” she asked, and folded her arms across her chest, considering her daughter.
“I’m overwhelmed here. Everything feels like it’s pressing down on me.” Cassidy paused. How could she explain it without hurting her mom’s feelings? She looked at Paloma and could not remember what she’d looked like when she was younger. Her baby, she realized, would only remember her as older, too, would never know she’d wanted to stay but couldn’t without crushing Simon. Parents gave up so much for children, she suddenly realized. And what did children really know of it? What did they owe their parents? Would her baby owe her anything for giving it life? Did she owe staying to her own mom?
“I see.” Paloma walked right past Cassidy, her Birkenstocks still on, up the stairs to her room. Cassidy stayed put, fighting the urge to follow her and apologize. She didn’t owe her staying, she told herself. Her mom wasn’t even staying. On camera, she’d gotten good at telling herself she didn’t owe people more than what they gave her. Still, the guilt sat in her abdomen right above the embryo.
Paloma returned a few minutes later, composed again. “I can help you with Daddy’s stuff,” Cassidy offered. “And figure out how to get the house listed and everything.” She forced herself not to look around, not to think about the mornings she and her dad had spent on the porch reading poetry or about the endless year of seventh grade, when Cassidy would sit with Paloma at the table working on math homework. She tried not to think about the piece of scrap wood attached between the two levels of floor from when Ken had given her wood and nails to occupy her, and she’d nailed it to the floor. Ken had laughed and said it could stay. She tried not to think about her old cat, Elsa, who had hidden in the crawl space under the stairs to have her kittens, or how she had sat in there for weeks feeding the tiny mewling mouths with an eye dropper when Elsa had wandered off after. Each space seemed to call to her, asking her to remember.
Paloma nodded. “It’s fine. There’s no rush. I’ll take care of it.”
Paloma
Paloma dreamed of her grandchild dancing in the woods. She woke and remembered Ken in Prague, dreaming of himself as a child running through the same forest.
“I’m tracking an animal, but I can’t quite catch up to it.” He’d held Paloma’s hands as he spoke.
“West Virginia,” she said, understanding. “I know your mother wants us there.”
“We can live off the land. I’ll build our baby a tree house. We’ll get goats, chickens, have a garden.”
Paloma sighed. Ken had pushed the issue relentlessly since her fall and his gusto was growing on her. Trees, wilderness, self-sufficiency, community. It all sounded beautiful. “Okay.”
Ken threw open a notebook, retrieved the pen from his shirt pocket. The ink had bled through, leaving a deep stain at his breast. He started writing.
The next day he took Paloma by the hand and led her to the glass phone booth down the street. He punched the numbers from his calling card onto oval buttons and smiled at Paloma, pressed against him in the booth. Their breath formed condensation on the walls, and she wished she could take off her shawl, but there was no room to move.
“Mmmm, hello?” his mother answered. Her voice reached Paloma as if from another world.
Ken cradled the receiver in the crook of his neck, and told Jane everything. Outside, the coal smog hung low. In here, Paloma smelled only the sweet scent of pilsner clinging to Ken’s suede jacket.
“Oh, darling,” Jane said through the static. “Come on home. Both of you.”
She’d resented Jane then, though she’d been grateful for her welcome. Her words had felt presumptuous, as if Paloma, too, had been off on a silly adventure.
Had Paloma failed to take Cassidy’s life in California seriously? She had pushed her daughter away again. Paloma rubbed the bridge of her nose and willed the image—the joyful child among the trees—to dissipate.
Cassidy
Cassidy put off telling Simon until it was too late. She’d wanted to do it in person, but every time she imagined her friend’s broken face, the way his lips would turn down under his beard, how his eyes would pool with tears, her determination vanished, and now she was on her way to the airport while Simon was going about his day, clueless.
Finally, as signs for Pittsburgh began to appear more frequently along the highway, she clenched her jaw and checked for service. She had some. Hey, so . . .
Before she could finish composing a text, several appeared from Simon—ones she’d been out of range to receive before.
I know you aren’t getting messages but I need to put this somewhere.
My heart is exploding, Cass. I wish you could understand how happy I am, how long I’ve wanted this.
This feels like a dream come true.
We’re going to be a real family, a good family. We’re going to love this baby so hard.
I promise I’ll always take care of you.
They went on. Cassidy squeezed her eyes shut. She had to tell him.
I can’t stay, Simon. I’m so, so sorry. You are so important to me, but I’m going back to CA. I’m so sorry.
Her phone rang immediately, and she cringed as she answered. “Hey.” Paloma glanced at her from the rearview mirror and Cassidy looked away.
“Cass, what’s wrong?”
She kept her voice low, shielding her mouth with her hand. “It’s too much. West Virginia, with my dad and everything. I need some space and time to process.”
Simon was quiet, then finally said, “I’ll come with you. It makes sense it’s too hard to be here. Give me a week or so to—”
“Simon, no.” Cassidy cut him off. “I don’t want . . .” She heard him inhale sharply. “I don’t want you to leave your CSA work. Seriously. Stay.”
“But—”
“Listen, we’re at the airport. I have to go.” Cassidy hung up before he could answer.
Her phone rang. She ignored it.
Paloma pulled to the terminal curb and got out to help Cassidy with her things.
“I’m fine, Mom,” Cassidy said, trying to shake the pit in her stomach from her conversation with Simon.
“You don’t need to be bending and lifting.” As Paloma clicked open the trunk and Cassidy watched her from the sidewalk, embarrassed, Jane managed to open the heavy car door and pull herself up from her seat using the handle above her. She stood between the car and the curb, shaking, unable to lift her foot to step up. Cassidy rushed to her and held her hands, and Jane carefully hoisted herself to join them on the sidewalk.
“That took some serious core work, Grandma Jane,” Cassidy said, and they both laughed. Cassidy tried not to think about the havoc a baby belly would wreak on her abs. When she got back to sex work, she’d be a MILF, no longer “barely legal.”
As they stood together with the trunk still open, the eyes of airport security an invisible timer on their goodbyes, Cassidy struggled to maintain the nonchalant demeanor she’d been careful to preserve.
Paloma eased Cassidy’s arm into her duffel straps. How many times had she helped Cassidy slide into a backpack when she was little? You never knew when you’d have more parenting to do. Cassidy’s throat tightened, but she willed herself to subdue her tears until she got to her gate. Paloma hugged her.
“I’ll come out when the baby arrives,” Paloma said into Cassidy’s neck. Her voice was low and warm, reassuring. Cassidy nodded. “I’m not going to sell the farm yet,” Paloma said. “We’ll wait until everything is a little more settled.”
Cassidy nodded more vigorously. “Thank you,” she whispered. Around them, cars pulled to the curb, released their passengers, and drove away.
Cassidy turned to Grandma Jane, who reached up to grasp her granddaughter’s face in her hands as she always did at greetings and departures. “Ooh, I miss you when you’re not here, darling, but I know you have to go,” she said.
“I don’t have to, Grandma Jane. I don’t have to.” Cassidy’s brow furrowed in panic as she looked at her grandmother’s smooth pale cheeks.
The last little while, the sense of settling into a routine, taking care of meals, sleep, errands, had deluded Cassidy into a sense that they were back to being a daily presence in each other’s lives. It would always be trips now, always be visits. Their time together would always be numbered in days, would always be tainted by the date on the return ticket.
“You have to,” Jane insisted.
“But what if you don’t remember?” Cassidy squeaked.
Jane wrapped her arms around Cassidy and rocked her, and Cassidy smelled her Avon perfume. All around, planes took off and landed, people coming and going, beginnings and endings.
“I could never forget, Cassidy,” she hummed in her ear. “I could never, ever forget.”
Jane
If Cassidy wanted to leave West Virginia, Jane wanted her to go. As Paloma pulled away from the airport curb, Jane thought about another trip home—one she’d taken years ago.