“Okay,” Elle says, “I’m setting a timer for five minutes. Let’s do this.”
We all bend down over our cards. I try not to drip water on mine. This is important. They’ll probably keep these for the rest of their lives. (Or, at least, I would.)
I rack my brain for an idea. Then I remember when my nephew Max was born. He was a fussy baby, and when I came out to visit Dave and Clara, they were desperate for any break they could get. So I used to strap him to my chest in their baby carrier and walk him around the hiking trail near their house. Some days we’d do it for hours, just me and him. I loved the feeling of him tucked against my chest, his tiny feet dangling on either side of me.
I take care to make my terrible handwriting legible.
Hike with them close to your chests on a beautiful trail on a beautiful day.
When everyone is finished, we take turns reading them aloud.
Elle suggests feeding the babies her and Gloria’s mother’s recipe for arroz con leche. A pink-haired woman in a linen jumpsuit suggests making copper molds of their hands and feet and turning them into a mobile to hang over the crib. (She offers to do it herself; unsurprisingly, she’s an artist.)
I read mine aloud and successfully avoid choking up, even though the game is making me emotional.
Molly goes last. I expect her to say something glib or sarcastic, since mushy topics repel her. Maybe something like “Make breast milk cheese and bring it to a cookout for your neighbors,” or “Remember: don’t shake the babies—too hard.”
She clears her throat, and her voice is softer than usual. “So, when I was a baby, and really until I was nearly grown up, my mom would sing me lullabies while I was falling asleep. And it was so soothing that to this day I still have a lullaby playlist I listen to when I have insomnia. So my suggestion is to sing your babies to sleep together.” She pauses and twists her lips. “Yeah. So that’s my, um. Yeah.”
Gloria puts a hand over her heart. “Molly! That is so sweet.”
And it is. It really is.
I can’t help but think of tough, flinty Molly curled up in bed with her earbuds, drifting off to a lullaby.
Or better, Molly cradling a baby of her own, singing her child to sleep.
It makes me regret that it will never be me singing with her.
CHAPTER 17 Molly
One of the problems with almost never being earnest in public is that you fail to develop a graceful way to be sincere.
Other people seem to be able to express poignant sentiments without awkwardness. They can say, for example, “Wow, what a cute baby,” or “That piece of music was very moving,” and not want to throw themselves off a cliff. But people like me—people who are more comfortable treating life like everything’s a low-key punch line—become flustered when forced to acknowledge we experience human emotions. We don’t have the muscles to pivot back to normalcy. Instead, we dangle in the excruciating vulnerability.
Like I am now, after admitting my addiction to lullabies. My heart is racing, and my cheeks are so hot it feels like I’m having an allergic reaction.
Gloria’s friend Mona puts a hand on my arm. “That was such a beautiful story. It makes me want to call my mom and tell her how much I love her.”
Oh, God, make it stop.
“Yeah,” I sputter. “Thanks.”
No one else speaks, but everyone is looking at me.
I put my phone up in front of my bright red, miserable face. “I’ll text you my playlist, Glor,” I say.
A text comes in while I’m fumbling with the app.
Seth: Can you send me the playlist too?
I look up at him over the edge of the phone and he’s smiling at me, like he’s sending me emotional support with his eyes.
Ugh, I hate how well he knows me.
Molly: Why, are you pregnant?
Seth: Yes.
I pop the URL into the text thread.
Molly: Here ya go. Mazel tov
“Who’s ready for cake?” Elle asks.
Not I. I’m baby-showered out. I wish I had an excuse to leave.
Seth stands up. “I actually can’t stay,” he says apologetically. “I’ve got to get to the airport. I’m just going to change and then call a car.”
Don’t let him get away, a desperate voice in my brain wails.
I jump up. “Wait. Don’t do that. It’s so … expensive. I’ll drive you.”
Once again everyone looks at me. It is a rare Angeleno who impulsively volunteers to brave LAX traffic. To do so when one is on the Eastside, an hour away at this time of day, is unheard of.
But part of me already misses him. Regrets we didn’t get a chance to catch up. Regrets blowing him off in a fit of panic however many months ago.
“I’m meeting friends for an early dinner in Venice, so I need to head that way soon anyway,” I lie.
