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  “Lárgate de aquí y reza! Reza!” she screamed, moving toward the doorway. “Reza! Reza!” She seemed to grow as she shouted, transforming from her four-foot-eleven to at least the size of the man who was now cowering before her.

  Manny put his hands in the air and backed up, but Abuela kept tottering toward him, shaking the shoe in the air and growing taller with each step. He kept stumbling backward, finally tripping on the welcome mat, his eyes wide with terror. Abuela slammed the door in his face and turned the dead bolt, then without a word, she left the kitchen. Her chair squeaked as she sat back down, and soon the familiar sound of her game shows made their way through Cassidy’s racing thoughts.

  “What did she say to him?” she asked Noeli. She was still shaken. She had been too stupid, too trusting. It didn’t matter if Manny was harmless. He could have not been.

  “Basically ‘Get the fuck out of here. You better pray,’” Noeli said, and she, Cassidy, and Rosa broke into laughter, the intensity of the situation exploding into absurdity. Of all the things to scare a sizable man away, it had been the wrath of a minuscule grandmother. When Cassidy turned toward the living room—she wanted to thank Abuela—the old woman was already enveloped in her afghan, her large eyes closed.

  Cassidy

  “How is baby shit so expensive?” Cassidy groaned.

  She stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Noeli, looking up at a hundred-foot wall of strollers in the big baby store in Redlands, twenty minutes east of Fontana. Around them, stylish pregnant women with perfect baby bumps pointed to boxes for husbands, many of them decked out in scrubs, to lift into their carts.

  “It would have been nice if your sugar daddy hadn’t been a creep, but hey, at least this thing is fun.” Noeli pointed the registry scanner at a wall of breastfeeding supplies. “Nipple shields! You definitely need some nipple shields.” Beep. She scanned the barcode.

  “Stop!” Cassidy said. “How do I delete something?!”

  “You’ll have to do it online later, I think.”

  “Great.” Cassidy laughed.

  “But nipple shields!”

  “If I need nipple shields, whatever they are, I’ll buy them myself. And by the way, pointing that laser at everything boob-related is pretty phallic.” Cassidy raised her eyebrows.

  “Hey, I’m gay. Gotta get my dick somewhere.” Noeli held the scanner at her fly and pointed it at a box of breast pads. Beep.

  Cassidy wrested the device from Noeli’s hands.

  “It’s so weird that boobs—like, sexy boobs, are also for feeding little humans. Maybe it’s good I’m single for this whole thing. I can’t imagine someone watching me get huge, push a child out of my vagina, feed it from my boobs, and then want to have sex with me after.” Cassidy shuddered.

  Noeli picked up a jar of nipple butter and studied the ingredients. “I kind of think that’s what makes bodies sexy.”

  “You have a lactation fetish? I’ve met some of your friends online.”

  “No, asshole.” Noeli smirked. “Change, vulnerability, fertility. The whole reason boobs are sexy is because we want someone to feed our spawn. Big hips show you can push out a kid—”

  “That’s actually a myth,” Cassidy interrupted. “I was reading something that said narrow pelvises haven’t been a thing since people stopped getting rickets and doctors just say it to—”

  “Right, but we evolved to have curvy hips as a signal about fertility. I guess personally I think about how bodies change and age and are capable of these amazing things. Getting to touch someone’s body is so personal. It’s what gets me worked up. The same skin they live in, and they’re letting me feel it in such an intimate way.”

  “Wow,” Cassidy said. “I never thought of it like that.”

  They walked slowly around the store, selecting glass bottles, a C-shaped nursing pillow, and an organic crib mattress. Everything was pastel pink, blue, or yellow. The eyes of cutesy bears, bunnies, and ducks watched them from onesies and walkers.

  “How do you even pick?” Cassidy stopped at the giant wall of cribs.

  “Which one is cheapest?” Noeli asked.

  “Which one is safest?” Cassidy retorted.

  “They all have to meet the standards, right?” Noeli asked. “The CPSCABCDEFG?”

  “Awwww, were you reading about crib safety?”

  Noeli blushed.

  “You do care! She has a heart, ladies and gentlemen.”

  “It’s true,” Noeli conceded. “So, which one is the cheapest?” They found one and scanned it.

  “I’m done for today,” Cassidy said. “Can we go?”

  They left the store and walked out to the parking lot the baby store shared with T.J. Maxx, Ross, Old Navy, and several other chains. “Redlands is actually kind of cool,” Noeli said. Cassidy looked around the shopping complex skeptically. They found the Accord and instead of getting onto the freeway, Noeli drove them to a little downtown. There was a coffee shop, a children’s bookstore, a comics shop, and several mom-and-pop restaurants.

  In the center of the main street, a brick plaza held a huge Christmas tree, wrapped with lights waiting for the sun to set so they could twinkle.

  “I wonder if it’s like that everywhere,” Cassidy said. The radio was barely audible, but she could hear carols crackling under the low static.

  “Like what?” Noeli asked.

  “I don’t know. Like maybe every place can feel like you’re in the worst part of the universe’s cycles and like a sense of home is an arm’s length away.” Noeli listened. “Like here, it’s so pretty, a lot of it, but it’s distance, like physical distance—spending an hour in traffic to get anywhere, that makes me feel so separate from everything.” Noeli nodded. “In Buckhannon, it’s this sense that it’s not where I’m supposed to be. If I’m there, there’s still somewhere to go. I don’t feel settled.”

  Noeli smiled empathetically, plugged the iPod back in, and turned up the volume. “Come on! Barn burner!” she said, skipping over No Doubt, blink-182, and the Jackson 5. “Yes!” She stopped on a song by Bleachers—“I Miss Those Days”—and turned up the volume.

  “Ah! You downloaded some!” Cassidy said.

  “I had to. They’re so good!” Noeli turned the volume up more, until the windows hummed and rattled in their slots in the car doors. Cassidy sank lower in the seat and nodded along to the song, squinting against the warm, bright sun.

  They drove through a residential area south of downtown and Cassidy watched as cute craftsmen and spacious Victorians rolled by, their yards filled with cacti and lavender, their porches adorned with rocking chairs and lined with Christmas lights. A woman in a fleece vest walked a Great Dane. Another, in a shirt that said Radlands, pushed a double stroller. They passed several Little Free Libraries and a large outdoor amphitheater where two young children laughed as they clambered over the chairs. Maybe a place like this wouldn’t feel like the worst, Cassidy thought. This felt like a place where someone could feel settled. As soon as she’d thought it, Noeli turned the car around in the parking lot of a tiny grocery store with green umbrellas out front. Cassidy turned to watch two old men who stood by the entrance laughing and talking as Noeli exited and headed back toward the freeway. The mountains loomed tall, sharp, and brown to the north, marking the fault line.

  Paloma

  Paloma scrolled through Cassidy’s baby registry. Anticipating this child’s arrival, while knowing they would live so far from her, reminded Paloma of her efforts to get pregnant following her miscarriage. Every picture of a rounded belly, every onesie brought with it a stabbing pain.

  After losing that first baby, Paloma had grown absorbed in becoming pregnant again. A baby, one she could hold, would erase all of it. She’d begun charting her cycle, measuring her temperature, and studying other more personal details that she’d never thought about let alone written down.

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sp; It had worked. Paloma was pregnant again two months later. Again, Ken was overjoyed and she felt triumphant. And then, a month later, she was no longer pregnant.

  Would there ever be a baby? There had to be a baby. If there wasn’t going to be a baby, she should still be in Prague.

  “Acupuncture,” Ken suggested one night in the drafty wooden house. Paloma’s Czech shawl was draped over her shoulders as she fried potatoes for latkes. She hadn’t made them for Hanukkah, but now she regretted it. She was feeling the slightest bit nostalgic for Long Island, for her mother, for sour cream and applesauce and oil. “Bob said you should try acupuncture. He said he’d do a session for us for free. You know Bob’s wife is Jewish, too.”

  “Taste this,” Paloma said, blotting a greasy potato pancake between some paper towels and then flipping it onto Ken’s plate with a spatula.

  “Mmm,” he moaned. “Amazing.”

  Paloma agreed to the acupuncture. She felt nothing as the needles slid into her skin except a dull, heavy hum at each point. Her period arrived on schedule three weeks later.

  Next was a homeopathic treatment administered by Ken’s friend Jean, who told them at length about the distance training she’d done by mail. As Paloma felt the sugar dissolve under her tongue, she felt hopeful, but as her blood came the next month, she cursed her naiveté. There was nothing in the tablets. How did she expect them to do anything?

  Bob’s wife, May, pressed crystals into her palms and whispered the purpose of each stone meaningfully.

  “Amethyst to come to terms with the babies who did not choose to join us earthside,” she said. “Moonstone for fertility. Jade for cleansing. Jasper for everything. The supreme nurturer.” Each stone’s color was striking, surreal. Their jagged edges and smooth surfaces made their power seem possible.

  Blood. Paloma remembered May’s words. The babies who did not choose to join us earthside. Why had they all chosen to leave her?

  Paloma became more determined. She’d left Prague to have a baby here. She was going to have a baby here.

  She visited the health food store on College Avenue, its wooden door closing behind her as she stepped onto the hardwood floors and introduced herself. “Paloma! You must be Ken’s wife,” the woman behind the counter said. Her copper-red hair was cut in a short bob, and dainty round glasses balanced on her button nose. Though she wore slacks and a simple flowered shirt, she reminded Paloma of someone from an earlier time, a Beatrix Potter character, or Little Miss Muffet. “Margaret.” She extended a hand.

  “I’m interested in macrobiotics,” Paloma told her, and Margaret directed her to a shelf. Situated among hand-thrown pottery, jars of incense, and assorted supplements were several books on nutrition. Paloma picked up The Book of Macrobiotics by Michio Kushi.

  Paloma paid for the book and thanked Margaret, then sat in the Bonneville with the engine running to stay warm while she read the whole thing. When she’d finished, she smiled, set the book down on the empty seat beside her, and started back to the house. Ken was on board. He forwent his bloody steaks for pickles and sauerkraut. Instead of beer, he sipped herbal teas alongside Paloma. At dinner, they stared into each other’s eyes and tried not to laugh as they made sure to chew their food thoroughly. A day on the calendar came and went. Paloma held her breath.

  She began to feel superstitious about the rickety house, haunted by the memories of her loss, and so they moved out of the shack and squeezed into the farmhouse with Jane. Six weeks, seven, ten, and then twenty. She barely breathed at all during the twenty-first week, but it, too, passed. The baby moved inside her. Twenty-two weeks. Thirty. Forty.

  And then she was in Paloma’s arms, real for the first time. Paloma hadn’t allowed her to be real until she could hold her, but here Paloma was, holding her. Now she was putting the baby to her breast, watching her suckle with lips like a fish. Now she was feeling her fine, downy hair.

  Ken, his own hair mostly gray by now, wept as his wife placed his daughter in his arms. He held her just as he had held the one they’d lost—tight to his chest. “Thank you, Paloma,” he said. “Thank you.”

  Visitors arrived. Not just Jane, as Paloma had expected, but Bob, May, Jean, and Margaret. It was not only Cassidy who had been born.

  Paloma tried to get pregnant again. She charted her cycle and returned to macrobiotics. Cassidy nursed, rolled over, crawled. The three of them took long walks around the farm, Paloma balancing Cassidy on her hip. On one walk, Ken stopped, looking around in sudden recognition. “This is the old orchard. Mom said there haven’t been apples in years.” Paloma looked up. All around them, golden fruit hung like lanterns. Ken laughed and picked one, holding it out to Paloma, then selected one for himself. They walked together, the leaves crunching beneath their boots and the apples crunching between their teeth. It was so much sweeter than store-bought fruit. It was a good omen, Paloma mused, an unexplained renewal of fecundity. A few steps ahead, Ken finished his apple and tossed the core to the forest floor. Paloma took another bite, adjusting Cassidy, who was slipping. This time, she was met not by wine-sweetness, but a mealy decay. The inside of her fruit was rotten. Horrified, she spit out what was in her mouth and threw the rest to the ground. “Mama?” Cassidy asked.

  “Yucky,” Paloma said.

  The state moped, grumpy about the dismal start of WVU’s football season. Hope buzzed as the Mountaineers rallied, winning four games in a row. Blue and gold shone on every passing shirt and people smiled in the grocery store once again. Paloma missed her period. Though she’d never cared about football, she found herself holding her breath, caught up in the spirit of optimism.

  WVU lost the Carquest Bowl, 21–24, and Paloma lost this baby, too. What cruel trick of fate would connect her luck to the football team’s?

  The last loss had been one of the worst. “Why you come to school with me?” Cassidy asked, and Paloma smiled at the similarities between Czech-English and toddler English. She removed her Birkenstocks and placed them next to Cassidy’s pink patent Stride Rites in the cubby marked with her name. Paloma’s wool socks kept her feet warm and she wiggled her toes, enjoying the feeling of envelopment and comfort as she stepped onto the colorful circle rug. She was five weeks pregnant.

  “I’m a special guest today!”

  Cassidy looked skeptical.

  The teacher rang a small chime, calling the children to the rug for circle time. “Ms. Paloma, Cassidy’s mommy, is here today to tell us about Hanukkah.”

  The preschoolers watched closely as their teacher stood and moved to the side, making room for Paloma to sit before them on the small chair. Several picked their noses. Paloma placed a menorah, candles, a wooden dreidel, and a small bag of gelt at her feet. Cassidy rose up on her knees for a better view of her mother.

  “Hello!” Paloma said. “Has anybody heard of Hanukkah?”

  The children squirmed and shifted but didn’t raise their hands. Cassidy, too, was quiet.

  “Hanukkah is a holiday celebrated in the wintertime by people who are Jewish,” Paloma said. “There are Jewish people all over the world.” She shared the story—how the Maccabees had taken their temple back from the king, who had tried to take it from them, and how the oil, which should have lasted for only one night, instead had lasted for eight. At this, many of the children gasped, and Paloma smiled. It was such a good age, three, wonder and amazement growing each day. Cassidy crawled around her classmates and snuggled next to Paloma’s knees.

  A little boy in the front stood and took a step toward them. Paloma smiled and met his gaze. “Did you have a question, sweetheart?” His large brown eyes met hers. Instead of answering, he reached out a hand. Paloma thought the boy was going to hug her. It really was a wonderful age. Instead of embracing her, though, the child began rubbing her head, more searchingly than affectionately. Confused, Paloma allowed him to do this for a moment, letting his tiny fingers tangle her hair.
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br />   Finally the little boy spoke. “Where are your horns?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your horns,” he said a little louder. “My daddy said that Jews have horns.”

  “You can tell your daddy that we do not.” Paloma stood, taking his hand in her own and removing it from her head. She would always have horns here. Paloma took Cassidy’s hand. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”

  “But it’s circle time.”

  “I know, baby.” Paloma fought back tears.

  “But after circle time is snack.”

  “I’ll get you a snack.”

  Reluctantly, Cassidy stood and followed her mother. Paloma led Cassidy to the cubby for their shoes. She took her daughter’s puffy purple coat down from the hook by the door and helped her zip up before slipping on her own leather jacket. She would pack Cassidy’s coat away in the spring, and the next time the snow fell it would be too tight for her little body. Parenting held the kind of ever-present nostalgia she had hoped for in Prague. Every milestone, every season was both beginning and ending, and Paloma felt constantly aware of each moment’s impermanence. Now that she had it, it felt like grasping.

  They walked to the car, holding hands, and as Paloma lifted Cassidy into her car seat, she was shocked, as she occasionally was, by her daughter’s heft. She was so . . . tangible. She took up so much space in the world already. She would fill this place—it couldn’t contain her. Paloma buckled Cassidy in and kissed her on the head.

  As Cassidy sang the chorus of “Jingle Bells” over and over, Paloma drove north on Route 20, but instead of continuing toward the farm, she turned west on Corridor H toward 79. In spite of the long battle against it, the Department of Highways would soon build the remainder of the Corridor.

  Paloma had known it was inevitable, though she had signed all of Jean’s petitions. When the people in charge decided to do something, they found a way to do it. Paloma thought suddenly of Jan, her colleague in Prague, and of her students there. They had resisted, and they had changed the world. But not here, Paloma thought. It would take more heroes than they had in West Virginia.