Lynn Strong - Hold Still

“Come on.” She’s still holding the Woolf until she realizes she doesn’t have the money to pay for it. She has a credit card her mom gave her for emergencies and she fingers it inside her wallet, deciding if this counts. “We have to go.”

He seems surprised that she’s still standing there. He piles four books into his arms and stands. “I need all of these.”

Ellie still has the credit card between her fingers and thinks a minute that she should get them all for him, that maybe he’ll like her if she does. “No,” she says.

She puts down the Woolf. She’ll come back and get it with the money she’s meant to get from Jeff and Annie. She kneels close to Jack. “Pick one, okay?”

He clutches the stack to his chest and glares at her. His shoes don’t match. They’re those rubber clog things with little buttons stuck into them. One of them is green and one of them is blue.

“No,” he says.

It’s quiet at first, like he’s trying it out. Ellie stands up and tries to take the books from Jack.

“No,” he says again.

“Please, Jack,” she says. This isn’t right, she thinks. She shouldn’t plead with him. She reaches for the books again and he runs from her, squeals. “Noooo!” he yells as he bolts for the front door. They’re in a massive concrete shopping center and just outside is a broad expanse of parking lot, beyond which is a major road. Ellie’s quick behind him and grabs him up into her arms right before he’s out the door, but Jack is yelling now and she’s not sure what to do. He’s strong and heavier than he looked running in front of her; she’s afraid suddenly she’ll drop him on the tile floor. People stare from all sides of the store and Ellie almost starts to cry, she’s so afraid of what might happen. “Please,” she whispers now, as if the people will stop staring. Jack screams and she keeps hold of him so he doesn’t make it out the door. “Please,” she says again. He’s lost a clog in their scuffle and all the books have fallen. “We’ll get the books,” says Ellie. “Please.”

The buzzer buzzes and Maya starts and almost drops her wine glass. She’s been crying. Caitlin hands her a paper towel and holds Maya’s arm up by her shoulder, briefly, before turning to buzz in whoever has arrived. Maya’s heart beats too quickly. She clutches her glass, which she has refilled once while telling Caitlin what her daughter’s done. “Sorry,” she says. She shakes her head and fixes her eyes on Caitlin’s green toenails.

Caitlin’s been an intent, quiet listener. She shakes her head and grabs hold of Maya once more before she reaches for the door. “It’s fine, Maya,” she says. “You know that.”

Maya hardly has time to mourn the loss of this closeness before the first of the other guests arrive. It’s a man and woman. Bryant, Caitlin calls him. She hugs him big, then is very delicate with the woman, kissing her, her hand up on her shoulder, then helping her take off her coat. The man — Maya guesses very quickly that they’re married, there are simple gold bands on both, he’s slow to get even a few steps from the woman — watches, ready, it seems, to swoop in if Caitlin fails at retrieving her coat. And underneath the coat is what he also must be so diligently protecting; large stretches of brown cotton are wrapped tightly over the woman’s shoulders and around her waist. Maya glimpses just a patch of newborn baby head peeking out from against the woman’s chest.

Caitlin breathes in the minute that she catches sight of the tiny child. She holds her fingers to her lips, then reaches for the baby without touching her. She puts her arms around the woman, careful to stay clear of the tiny head. “Lana,” she says to the woman. She leans in once more very close to the baby, then smiles back up toward her friend. She whispers, “You made this.”

She leads her to Maya. “Alana.” She nods toward Maya. “Maya.” Alana smiles. “And Vivian,” she says, nodding toward the newborn head. Alana’s very tall and her eyes are round and large and dark and her nose has a bump up top, then curves in. She has a wide mouth and long hair, thick and wavy, that reaches below the child on either side.

“No one looks like this after having a baby,” Caitlin says. She’s back at the stove and transferring the kale to a serving plate, stirring the quinoa. She waves the spoon at Alana as if measuring her, then steps toward her once more and holds her face, kissing her once and then a second time on each cheek.

Alana’s husband is close behind her and offers up his hand to Maya. “We’ve heard so much,” he says and smiles. Up close Maya sees how much older he is than his wife: fifty, at least, to her maybe twenty-five. The girl seems suddenly impossibly young to have a person to take care of. The man rests the hand he has not offered to Maya on the small of his wife’s back. “Bryant,” he says.

Caitlin’s back’s to them. “He teaches too,” she says.

Maya finds her wine again. She takes very small sips, feeling the first rush of warmth of excess spread through her as she does. But she feels too unmoored by the prospect of having nothing to do with her hands to put the glass down. “What do you teach?” she says.

“Writing.” He nods toward Alana. “Both of us.”

“They’re both novelists,” Caitlin interjects, taking hold of Alana’s arm and smiling up at her. The girl looks down and brushes her nose along her baby’s head.

“How old?” says Maya, facing Alana. And then she’s still a moment, hoping it’s clear she meant the child.

“Seven and a half weeks,” Alana says.

“My God,” Maya says. “Just cooked.” She tries to smile at the girl.

Maya eyes Caitlin again and wonders if this is all a party to prepare everyone for Caitlin’s own revelation. She wonders what part Maya might be allowed to play. Perhaps, if there is no father, she could play the role of partner. She imagines the possibility of getting to make all those choices all over, to do it equipped with the knowledge she has now, twice over. She could scour the apartment, change the diapers. She could hold the baby very tight up on her chest and let it sleep.

The door opens behind them. “Someone let me in.” The voice is familiar. Maya turns. She almost drops her wine glass: Charles. Caitlin seems to hesitate before deciding how to greet him. She reaches her hand up to his shoulder, but he loops his arm around her waist and hugs her close.

“Hi,” Caitlin says, a little breathless, Charles’s arms still around her waist.

Maya averts her eyes, her whole head turning toward the window, as Charles frees himself from Caitlin and catches sight of her.

“Hi.” his voice is very close, and when she looks back he’s right in front of her. Alana and Bryant have slipped past her to the bed.

Charles looks back at Caitlin. “You didn’t tell me. .”

Caitlin shrugs, blushing slightly. “It’s not your party.”

They’re friends, Maya sees, of course. They’re close. Perhaps what might be inside of Caitlin belongs to Charles. He stands a minute, quiet. He finally leans in close to her, his arms stick straight, and brushes her cheek with his.

“It’s really wonderful to see you,” he says. He smells exactly like he tasted when they kissed.

“You too,” Maya says.

Charles’s eyes stay on her a moment longer.

“Hey, you.” It’s Alana behind her. “Come meet her.”

Charles looks at Maya one last time.

“Baby,” whispers Charles, taking three big steps, then leaning in to see the child. He’s awkward with Bryant. He shakes his hand brusquely, his eyes already stuck on the infant. He sidles up close to Alana on the bed and peers in at the baby. “She’s wonderful,” he says.