Tim Murphy - Christodora

Milly stayed up reading dumb mysteries at her dad’s that night till three A.M. Finally she took half a pill to get to sleep. She woke up, feeling crappy, to the sound of the day nurse coming.

Back downtown, she showered and tried to put together something upbeat to wear. It was so rare when she cared that she hadn’t bought new clothes in about four years, but this particular morning, her choices seemed truly grim. She finally put on some jeans that once fit her like a glove but now actually were a bit slack around the waist, plus a red-and-yellow Mondrian-type blouse, the brightest thing she had, and some midnight-blue leather boots she once thought of as her “fun shoes.” She applied some eyeliner and lipstick for the first time since maybe her mother’s funeral and tried to do something presentable with her hair and a hairband.

Then she started walking toward the brunch spot, feeling increasingly nauseated. Truly nauseated. She thought it was the lack of sleep and the pill. It was an eighty-one-degree early April day and she started sweating, feeling the blouse stick to her back. She never walked across the neighborhood during Sunday brunch hours anymore. There was too much life, too much romance, too many couples, too much Sunday-morning post-sex dewiness and arm clutching going on, too many babies, and way, way too many loud teens talking that outer-space hip-hop talk that was completely indecipherable to her. At a certain corner she just stopped and put a hand to her forehead, and a gentleman behind her slammed into her and scowled at her irritably before hurrying on his way. She had pills in her bag but she’d be damned if she was going to take one.

She was barely lucid by the time she crossed the street and, through the big, old-timey front glass window of the restaurant, she saw them. The four of them. Christian, his hair half gray now, appearing to try to talk down the manager. And her, in her big dark L.A. sunglasses, soothing one of the babies in her arms as it— she , meaning the baby — wailed.

Milly put both hands to her lips. She hunched her shoulders very small. Then, slowly, she started backing up, then quickly turned, walking rigid and compact in the hopes that if she made herself very, very small, she could get away.

“Milly!”

It sounded like her, but Milly kept walking. Just get home, she told herself. Get back home.

“Milly! I saw you! Where are you going?”

Drew was going to catch right up to her; she wasn’t letting her off the hook. Milly just stopped in place without turning. And then suddenly there she was in front of Milly, out of breath. Milly hadn’t seen her in a few years. Sure, she had aged. She had some lines around the eyes that seemed deeper than the last time Milly saw her. And Milly noticed that Drew had a stain on the chest of her Pucci-type silk blouse, probably where one of the babies had been drooling on her. But otherwise she looked great. She looked like she still managed to do yoga every day, even if she didn’t. She had huge Dior sunglasses propped up on her head, and her toenails were painted a deep, velvety red against her raffia wedge sandals.

Drew took Milly by both arms. “Where are you going?” she asked, laughing, confused. “You saw us in the window, right? I mean,” and she laughed again, then pulled Milly close and kissed her. “Hello! It’s so good to see you!”

Milly just stared at her, blank, at a loss for what to say. Over Drew’s shoulder, Milly could see Christian stepping out of the restaurant with one of the wailing girls in his arms, walking her back and forth, trying to calm her.

“I suddenly felt so ill walking over here,” Milly finally said, “I thought I’d just better get home and text you I couldn’t come.”

Drew’s brow furrowed. “What?” she asked.

“I didn’t want to give one of the girls a bug. I haven’t felt well all weekend.”

“But we’re together now,” Drew said. “Don’t worry about the girls. Just come sit with us at least a half an hour and have a juice. I want you to see them. I’ve waited so long for you to see them.”

The brunchy-shoppy types were rushing past them, to and fro, through the bright, fake world of Sunday morning. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Milly said. Then, shocked to hear herself, she said: “I’ve really struggled with your having decided to do this in the first place.”

Drew started back. “Do what?” she asked. “You mean have kids?”

“You can’t undo it now,” Milly said.

Drew opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing. She took a step back from Milly and just looked at her, as though something was slowly dawning on her. “Oh my God,” she finally said. “Christian was right.”

This caught Milly off guard. “What do you mean, Christian was right?” she asked. “About what?”

Drew continued to look at Milly, as though she were staring deeper and deeper into her soul. Milly didn’t like what she was feeling. She kept searching Drew’s face for clues to the Drew she had known. But all she could see was a glossy, superior stranger — the kind of woman, the kind of entitled mother, taking up too much space, whom she would resent if she passed on the street.

Drew’s face softened and she took Milly’s hand. “Come inside and sit with us, Millipede,” she said softly. “Please.”

It made Milly profoundly uncomfortable to be pleaded with like that. “I really don’t feel well. I haven’t — I haven’t been feeling well.”

“I know,” Drew said, still holding her hand. “Please come and sit with us.”

Milly let Drew lead her forward. They were still holding hands. They walked a few paces, but a tidal wave of ooze was engulfing Milly. She stopped on the sidewalk and wept. She found her way into Drew’s arms and wept on the shoulder of her silk blouse.

“It’s all gone wrong,” Milly said.

“Oh, sweetie,” Drew said over and over, stroking her hair. Milly could hear street conversations swirling around them, then that pocket of silence as passersby realized something was amiss. It was one thing for a woman to cry on the street late on a drunken Saturday night, Milly knew, but she wasn’t supposed to cry on a bright and cheery Sunday morning.

“Is she okay?” Milly heard a woman’s voice.

“It’s okay,” Drew said. “I’m with her.”

Milly kept on crying. She was horrified at herself, but she also didn’t really care anymore.

Finally, Milly laughed. “Okay, all done!” she said.

“Come sit with us, Mills. Have something to eat. Have you eaten yet?”

Milly shook her head no. Drew led her into the restaurant. There was such a high-pitched, desperate din in the crowded room: mimosa-swilling youth and frantic waiters, everyone’s shouts clanging off the pressed-tin ceiling and brasserie mirrors that lined the walls. Like a little girl, Milly let Drew pull her across the room toward the table where Christian was daubing mushy food into the tiny, pursed mouths of two baby girls, one of them wailing away, who sat side by side in high chairs wearing tiny calico pinafore dresses that Milly guessed cost $300 each.

“I caught her!” Drew exclaimed triumphantly.

Christian stood up and took Milly in a long, tight hug. “You are a sight for sore eyes,” he said. “And never, never again do we go this long apart. Deal?”

Milly laughed, self-conscious about looking like a holy freak from her crying jag. “You’ve obviously been busy,” she said, gesturing at the little wriggly calico bundles, one’s hair tuft slightly darker than the other’s.

Christian picked up the one who was wailing. “This,” he said, handing her to Milly, “is Erika. And Erika, this is your Auntie Milly.”

“Auntie Milly, oh, no!” Milly exclaimed, trying to settle the baby in her arms comfortably. “That’s a spinster if ever there was one.”